#i cannot believe people do this shit without any guilt whatsoever

[beanutputterandjelly]

Scams on Tumblr, what to watch out for.

Just a PSA. If you have someone going in your inbox asking for money, it's 99.9% a scam (yes I mean the ones claiming to be families in Gaza needing funds to escape). Do NOT answer those asks or give them money, don't expose them to more people who'd fall for it as well, don't do a THING with it.

Paypal does NOT provide service to Palestinians, there's been a campaign for it to be provided for Palestinians since OCTOBER. If someone in your inbox is asking you for money at all much less linking to a PAYPAL. It's a scam. Don't give it the time of day. I've gotten asks upon ASKS of nothing but people giving these stories and linking donation sites, a LOT of it being the same exact message like 5 times.

Examples of what to look out for :

Not every Palestinian is scamming when they ask for help. But a lot of stupid people will use your empathy for their personal profit and there's a good chance the things they're using aren't their own photos or stories, please do not fall for this. If you'd like to help please check verified accounts and donation sites, I really suggest checking the ones listed here. These people are quite literally stealing the IDENTITIES of actual Palestinian families to swindle money out of you.

I'm so tired of the scummy people on here using such a horrific and insane situation for their own monetary gain, it is the SICKEST thing someone can do. This needs to be called out more.

And I know some people will go limb for limb defending these bots and I understand since the circumstances are heartbreaking. But this is quite literally extortion. You are being extorted if you fall for this without verifying if it's real. And it's.. more often than not, not real.

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

My father is truly a piece of shit the more I learn about how most people grew up.

From 11am-4pm every single day from age 9-18, regardless of what the weather or temperature was, I was barred from using any electronic devices whatsoever in any capacity, by my father. No music. No texting or calling friends. No playing games. No searching the internet.

If I used the electronics "too much" before 11am and after 4pm but no later than 10pm when it was bedtime, I was limited to using ONE DEVICE for 1 HOUR A DAY!!!! Nothing else. I couldn't even watch TV or search the internet if I'd played on my DS for 1 hour that day.

He never believed me when I said I was being beaten and mocked by bullies on the bus and in school. He took me to their houses and spoke to their parents, who denied anything, as did their children, and my father believed THEM instead of me. Now I have major trust issues, anxiety, depression, PTSD, you name it, and I cannot pass a school of any sort or a schoolbus without having a full on anxiety attack. I could not even walk my old neighborhood without rocks being thrown at me, and I'd come home from various places with scratches, scars, bloody marks, food and gunk in my hair, and bruises, and my father still told me to just make friends with the bullies.

My father also forced me to kiss him when I was little, and I felt HORRIBLY sensitive to mouths and their bacteria (I'm autistic). It got to the point where I had to get a counselor involved to convince my father to stop guilting me into kissing him.

Additionally, my father is an ableist piece of garbage who does not give and never has, a flying fuck about my chronic pain. He convinced me for YEARS and still tries to, that doctors can't do anything for me, they're shams and they'll take my money for nothing, and I'm making up my chronic pain. If I just exercised during every moment possible of free time, ate nothing but plain fruits and vegetables without seasoning, and lost a ton of weight to the point I'm underweight and thin as a supermodel, my pain would just go away magically and I'd become magically able bodied again!!!

CPS got involved a few times growing up because of my father and myself.

And that's not even the very SURFACE of the shit he's pulled on me, and still pulls to this day where I am 24 years old.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

You know, for someone who doesn't believe in Nothing. You really make it a big deal to make it known. It's really ironic how you're fighting against someone you don't believe in. I get it you don't believe in God, but trust me you are going to find out real soon what that disbelief is going to do to you.

LOL.

doesn't believe in Nothing

So... you recognize that I do believe in actual things.

Okay...

It's really ironic how you're fighting against someone you don't believe in.

Are you sure you're on the right blog? Are you lost? Here's the Explore page. Maybe that can help you.

Are you saying that I don't believe that...

Xianity; Islam; churches; religious tax examption; blasphemy laws; honor killings; inherited guilt; shunning; religious trauma; unearned shame; Sharia; pedophile priests; superstition; faith healing; religious fundamentalism; religious hypocrisy; creationists; science-denial; people who think it's "good" to teach children they will be burned for eternity and suffer eternal torment, people who think it's virtuous to teach kids that an invisible judge, who they can never escape, judges everything they do even their thoughts, but won't intervene even when they cry out for help, such as when their pedophile pastor is raping them (cause, you know, "free will"); immoral people who think they can imagine forgiveness from above, rather than by seeking it from the one they wronged; people so damaged and broken they think they're "nothing without" their imaginary god; people who are actually looking forward to the destruction of the world; people who can't find or create any meaning in life themselves and have to have it dictated from above; people who think that the forged, plagiarized, oral legends of people who weren't there exceed the tireless, honest, human pursuit of knowledge, even while they enjoy the benefits of the latter; immoral people, who don’t believe in thousands of gods, who think eternal torture is justified for disbelief in one particular god; people who think themselves special enough to have a “personal relationship” with the (unnecessary) “creator” of a universe consisting of billions of galaxies of billions of stars, and then call others “arrogant” not to believing the same...

.... exist?

Cause I don't recall ever posting anything like that. I feel like I've been posting the exact opposite.

Sweetie, I know they exist. And if I didn't believe they exist, you have certainly convinced me, as you demonstrate many of the above in spades.

==

You could have just said “I believe, unquestioningly, the con artist who reads to me cherry picked tales from my favorite book of magic that I’ve never actually read” and left it at that.

It's not "ironic." It's just that you're so trapped in your tiny little confirmation bubble that you've gotten your panties in a tizzy about a strawman, because you have no idea whatsoever what a non-believer thinks. Since you cannot bring yourself to step down off your pedestal to bother asking.

Non-believers don't give a shit about your immoral, plagiarized, composite blood-god. Your god is safely trapped inside the pages of the book of horrific fairytales and barbarous fables that invented it.

They care about your beliefs, and your believers, and what your believers perpetrate in the name of your beliefs. All the destruction, all the despair, all the suffering, all the atrocities, all the lives ruined in the name of an imaginary goblin in the sky who isn't there.

Human lives destroyed over literally nothing.

And all you have is the vacuous equivalent of "haha, you're mad at Santa!"

No, sweetie. Your priests and pastors are lying to you about non-believers as well as your god. You're misled, ignorant or dishonest.

trust me you are going to find out real soon what that disbelief is going to do to you.

Well, finally!

Your "savior" (purportedly) said he'd be back within the lifetime of those he preached to before they were all dead. Which was a lie. So believers have been saying "any day now" for like 2000 years.

Non-believers have been saying for centuries that all you'd have to do is get your god to show up and say "hi," just once in order to convince us that it existed, and resolve the worldwide disaster that is religious faith - where "faith" means every god exists - once and for all.

How will we know which one it is? Will it be livestreamed? Liveblogged on Twitter? Come on, you don't get to tell us about the party and then not give us the deets.

==

"Hey, since you don't believe in my Invisible Pink Unicorn, how about if I warn you that my Invisible Pink Unicorn will gore you through with her alicorn?" I mean, really?

Is this the love and kindness of your religion? Is this what it does to you? Is this how mentally destructive and morally poisonous this deranged belief is? Did that make you feel good, to threaten a total stranger? Make you feel like a good Xian?

Your own religion says that I disbelieve because it is part of your god’s will. 

2 Thessalonians 2:11-12

And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie:

That they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.

Who are you to question the will of your god in any matter? To meddle in his design?

Is this you honoring your commitments?

1 Peter 3:15

But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear:

Is this your meekness? Threatening instead of fulfilling your obligation as a “true” Xian?

Why would I listen to someone who puts themselves so far above their own god? How can anyone even conclude you believe in this god yourself, when you deny and mock it openly?

If your fellow believers are all like you, if this is how venomous your superstitious belief system is, I'll go without, thank you very much. No wonder your religion is on the decline. Your customer service is atrocious.

And anyway, all you've actually done is telegraph that you can't prove your claim, and you have nothing better to offer than ominous, yet vague, non-specific and therefore worthless threats. You know, because an all-loving god is something that anyone should fear.

Such a smoke and mirrors performance is really all there is to your belief. It has literally no substance, which is even the defence of the believer, that their god is intangible, immaterial, undetectable, etc, etc, in ways that mean it's not real. Things that are true don't need to resort to such pathetically obvious tactics.

Which lines up neatly with the pretty but banal and intellectually empty platitudes that adorn your blog, saying nothing of consequence or merit. Whimsical musings about the chimera in whose pyre you’ve immolated your personhood.

And I get that it’s not your fault. You’re as much a victim of your absurd, immoral and demented superstitions as everyone else who has suffered from the influence of these delusions. You were lied to, psychologically traumatized, manipulated and indoctrinated too. So, I have some sympathy here. You’re trapped living a half-life of suffering and fear and debasement. But that doesn’t free you from the responsibility of the poison you spread, any more than the fact that most child abusers have themselves been abused excuses them.

It is the same thing, after all. You’re an abuse victim, advocating for the abuse of others. We can be sympathetic, but still not put up with it, let alone condone nor help you abuse others. (Which is a trait of your god.)

What it does mean, though, is that not only do I still not have any good reason to believe you, but you have no good reason to believe it yourself. You're telling me that the only thing in your arsenal is the most vaguely worded, non-specific, untestable, unverifiable threat. You know, because convincing people by threatening them is always a great way to go. Rather than being able to reasonably demonstrate the reality of your belief. That this is the best you've got. Which is nothing.

And anyway, you’ll stand one day, face to face with Anubis, as the Weighing of the Heart is performed, to send you to Aaru or be devoured by Ammit. The balance of Ma’at has the last word.

So, to restate my opening premise...

LOL.

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (5/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 10K — canon had to catch up, and stuff had to happen, and happily ever after requires some adjectives AN: Guys! This is a completed story! One I had absolutely no intention whatsoever of writing. For that am even more grateful than usual that you all clicked and read and said very nice things. It’s always an absolute joy to write about these two idiots falling in love. I hope your holidays were fantastic, and January is very kind to you, and I am taking suggestions as to what I should write in 2021. (Or: if I should just post a bunch of fic I’ve already written, there’s so much fic already written)

Ao3 links in the reblog, because Tumblr’s tagging system is something of a colossal joke. 

————

She’s got no idea where Killian went.

Especially impressive since they haven’t left the house yet, but the house is also fairly massive and there are a lot of people and some of them have magic, and most of them have weapons, and one of Emma’s knees cracks when she crouches in front of Hope.

Who is wearing pajamas that match Lucy’s, and holding a stuffed animal whose right arm appears to be holding on by a quite literal thread, and has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

It’s a strangely positive thing.

“You’re going to be ok,” Emma tells her daughter, which she hopes isn’t the lie it feels like. “Everything’s going to be ok. We’re just—we’ll be back soon, alright?” That’s not really a lie, either. Depending on how the next ten minutes or so, go. And part of Emma expects impatience — from the other adults nearby, magical or otherwise, but a quick glance over her shoulder only shows Mary Margaret wiping away tears, and Regina’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth, and the overall tightness of David’s jaw cannot possibly good for any of his teeth.

Taking a deep breath is an exceptional challenge.

“For presents?” Hope asks, and it takes Emma a moment to understand the question. Nodding hurts her neck. And, like, her heart.

No one turns off their Christmas tree in this future, it seems. Colors splash across one of Hope’s cheeks, what feels like several thousand emotions and at least a dozen internal organs twisting in Emma’s center and she barely manages to rasp out, “yeah, of course,” before there’s moisture in her eyes and her vision is going blurry and at the very least it’s comforting to know that one of the steps in her parent’s house creaks too.

“Emma,” Regina murmurs, and she’s nodding again. Hair brushes the hand that’s landed on her shoulder, as warm as ever, but there’s tension in the move as well and Killian’s lips don’t shift when Emma tilts her head up.

Something’s going on. More than the obvious. And she wants to ask, she does — but the worry churning in her gut moves to the center of her throat, and makes it impossible to voice questions or demand anything more than what he’s already given, and they’ve got no idea how to get her back. Except for—

Killian’s eyebrows lift. Ever so slightly, barely enough movement that it should even count, but Emma’s become something of an expert on his face in the last few days, and she can’t blink away the tears fast enough. Mourning something that’s happened and hasn’t, and absolutely needs to.

She can’t ruin this.

Plastering a wholly unnatural smile on her face, Ruby lets out a huff of air as she marches forward and scoops Hope into her arms. “For presents,” she repeats, “Mom wouldn’t miss that, would she?” Emma shakes her head. Seriously, every inch of her aches. With those pesky emotions and magic, and she cannot fathom how she manages to stand back up without falling over, but then there are fingers tangled up with hers and she’s brushing strands of hair away from Hope’s eyes, and leaning forward to kiss the bridge of her nose and—

“I love you.”

Whispers flood her ears, soft enough that for a second Emma truly believes she imagines them, but none of this has been the dream she’d convinced herself it had to be, and the sound isn’t as terrifying as it should be. Is like the excitement borne of picturesque Christmas mornings, and a ridiculous number of cookies, and magically-maintained snowmen.

Killian’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Part two.

“Dor and I’ll stay here,” Ruby says, seemingly unconcerned with whatever’s happening between Emma’s ears, but Killian’s staring again and Emma’s barely breathing and she probably nods if the movement of her hair is any indication.

More instructions are doled out, plans Emma only half listens to while also trying to stay conscious and it’s only after the screen door slams behind them that she realize she doesn’t actually have a weapon. She’s fairly certain she won’t need it.

Because she’s absolutely positive this is going to work.

Well, she hopes at least.

“Don’t let go, ok?” she mumbles, mostly into Killian’s shirt and he kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s trying to reach a quota and that’s only kind of depressing, but then there’s magic stretching around them and inching up the back of Emma’s calves and she hopes she hears what she thinks she hears.

When he mutters “never” in her ear.

If there were any doubts that they were dealing with the disintegrating fabric of reality, they’re all immediately dismissed as soon as Emma opens her eyes. Trees bend in the middle of their trunks, broken branches littering the ground as what feels like genuine electricity crackles in the air, sending sparks that occasionally rain down like they believe they’re drops of water and allowed to do that.

Clouds that look suspiciously familiar, but lack that hint of magically-induced purple, blot out any sort of light in the sky. They’re puffier than they should be — the clouds, and also Emma’s eyes because she might be crying again, and she’s not particularly knowledgeable about meteorology. Still, she’s seen more than one curse broken and this isn’t quite the same. The lack of color dries out her mouth, although that may also be because she suddenly can’t catch her breath.

Magic tugs at her brain and her muscles, rising up in defense and something that isn’t really bravery. More like fear, at what the clouds can do and what they’ve already done, and the soft whoosh of Killian’s sword leaving its scabbard is far more comforting than it should be.

Wearing those pants with the sword belt is something Emma doesn’t want to forget. “Kinda looks like they’re eating everything in their way, doesn’t it?” she breathes. “Like, it’s—pulling everything up out of the ground, wrecking it at the foundation.”

“Not exactly ideal, is it?”

“You’re making jokes.” “If I don’t know, I’m fairly certain I’ll fall over.”

Scoffing, Emma licks her lips, and that doesn’t do anything except momentarily wet her lips, but her heart’s also trying to explode and the pop of Regina’s teleporting ability is loud enough to make both of them flinch.

“Oh shit,” Henry mutters, wielding his own sword. Both of those things are going to take Emma some time to get used to. Which she doesn’t have.

Not when tiny whirlwinds explode around her ankles, caking her jeans with leaves and dirt-filled snow, and she briefly wonders if that’s because of her or just bad timing on their arrival. Feels like an insult all the same.

“So, uh,” David says slowly, “what do we do about this, then?” Rolling her whole head seems like an entirely excessive response, but Emma supposes Regina’s never been one for subtlety and it is still kind of impressive when she does the flame thing. Fire jumps between her fingers, like one of those bouncing balls on sing-along VHS tapes, and really the answer is pretty simple. “Emma needs to leave. Weeks ago, if we’re being frank, but—” “—We’re not being frank, are we, Your Majesty?” Killian interrupts, low and a little more pirate than he’s been since Emma woke up here. Regina tilts her head. Her neck muscles don’t appear to be dealing with the same limitations Emma’s are.

“How do we do that, though?” Ella asks. “We’ve—I mean, we’ve tried just about everything haven’t we? Zelena’s spell didn’t work.” Regina hums. Looks a little smug, but with a hint of worry that’s also oddly comforting in a slightly vindictive way and there’s no warning before Tinker Bell appears in front of them. Smaller than usual, with wings that move as quickly as a hummingbirds and Emma’s eyes widen so quickly they manage to water even more and it’s easier to hear Killian’s soft laugh when he pulls her against his side.

What looks like sparkles, but may actually be pixie dust floats in the air, Regina’s sigh of impatience barely passing her lips before Tinker Bell is a full-sized person again and that full-sized person looks as terrified as the situation demands and— “Wonderland’s gone too,” she announces. “I only just got out.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her face. It will be gross and undoubtedly uncomfortable. “Out. What does—what does that mean, exactly?” “What it sounds like. It was—” Shuddering, Tinker Bell wraps both arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to ensure she doesn’t fall apart either, and guilt appears to be the prevailing emotion threatening to sever Emma’s spleen at the moment. She’s only partially confident as to where her spleen even is. “Those,” Tinker Bell continues, pointing up at the clouds advancing on them, “they’re…cannibalized versions of magic.” “Oh,” Henry says, “gross.” Mary Margaret sniffles before she kisses him on the cheek. He’s holding Ella’s hand very tightly.

“It is,” Tinker Bell agrees, “because it’s all wrong. Broken, even. The opposite of what you’ve created here. Anything unified is gone, shattered from the inside out and—” “—That won’t stop, will it?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. It’s been the same since the start, but it was so easy to fall into this start and live this life and she’s hardly noticed Regina. Lifting her hands towards the clouds like she could fight them, or stop them and her electricity metaphor had been almost accurate before.

Lightning explodes from Regina’s palms, feet a bit wider than usual while a muscle jumps in her temple, and the first brush of Killian’s thumb against Emma’s wrist makes her flinch again.

The clouds pause. For a moment.

Seem to shudder against the force of Regina’s power and strength, but there’s another crack and a branch that slams into the ground with an alarming speed, shaking the ground under yet a different pair of Emma’s boots, and, well—

That’s that, as they say.

Only they don’t ever mention the shadow-type vines that also explode from the ground. And for a breath, Emma’s not there. She’s sitting on different ground, in an entirely different realm, while her sword half hangs from the makeshift belt on her back and lights dance in front of her eyes. Blinking doesn’t do anything. Breathing heavily only makes the sound echo in her ears and air heave out of her lungs, and Emma can’t get her bearings. Is being twisted and torn until she’s certain she’ll be ripped apart. Right there, in the in-between, and—

No.

Giving in isn’t an option. She’s got people to save, and a kid to get back and a life to live. And the hand squeezing hers is tight enough to pull her back from a variety of edges. In any version of reality, she’s sure.

Head falling forward, Emma slams into something solid and that’s probably not another metaphor. Blades flash at the edge of her vision, both David and Henry moving quicker than she’s ever seen, while Mary Margaret slings arrow after arrow at something that isn’t entirely substantial and Killian’s hook moves under Emma’s chin.

At one point she might have thought that was a threat. She’s the world’s biggest idiot, obviously.

“No,” Tinker Bell replies, far later than is conversationally acceptable, honestly. “It won’t. Nothing will last if you don’t go back, Emma. It all hinges on you. That’s why Pan did this in the first place. He knew what you meant, to the whole world.” She groans. Like a goddamn hero.

“That might be a little heavy, Tink,” Killian mutters, and Emma makes another noise. Disbelief and charmed and wholly endeared, plus that other thing that she knows will make all the difference and at least eight of her knuckles crack. When she curls them into his shirt.

Patterned, naturally.

“Are you quoting things?” He nods. “You think it’s very cute.” “I’m not sure you could ever really be cute.”

“Is this honestly happening right now?” Regina snarls, sweat dotting her brow and Emma barely notices. Can’t really pull her eyes away from Killian when he’s smirking at her like that. “Flirting at the end of the world?” “Seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?” Emma challenges. More pixie dust falls on the forest floor, shining brightly for a few prolonged seconds. That’s something of a confidence boost.

For Emma. And her feelings. And her plan, half-cocked as it may be.

“Expand on that for me,” Killian grins.

Keeping her head lifted is one of Emma’s more major successes. At least recently, and while her muscles don’t entirely appreciate it, the jut of her chin makes it easier for Killian’s fingers to ghost over the edge of her mouth and push into her hair and—

“Your eyelashes are unnaturally long,” she says, and the grin widens. “It drives me nuts.” “Does it just?” “Yeah, from like—the get, really. At first I thought it was a fairytale thing, y’know…have to be painfully attractive to be part of the story, but—” “—You end up in the book eventually.”

Heart explosion is not nearly as painful as Emma assumed it would be. If anything, it just makes her feel like she’s floating a bit and her magic gives her a buoyancy that leaves her lighter and softer and she turns into the palm cupping her cheek. “Spoilers,” she chides. “What do you—what do you think happens?” “When you go back, you mean?” Emma nods. Doesn’t really want the answer. Might actually be terrified of the answer, because the timeline is as knotted as it���s ever been and time travel is way more trouble than it’s worth. She’ll probably kick Peter Pan too, just to cover all her bases. “Will you,” she whispers, and holding Killian’s gaze is something of a rather disappointing miracle, “will you all—” “—I don’t think so.” “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

One side of his mouth tilts up, eyeing her with passing amusement and that other emotion and his fingers trail towards the chain hanging around her neck. “Between the vaguely twisted compliments and the actual insults, I’m not entirely sure this is going to work, love.” “What isn’t going to work?” Henry asks sharply, swinging his sword through a shadow.

Grunting, one of Regina’s knees buckles as she continues to fight against the cloud and Ella’s back pressed against hers only just manages to keep her standing. “Get on with it, already,” she hisses. “Or at least try it.”

Nerves explode under Emma’s skin, racing up her arms and threatening to drown out the magic that’s as strong as it’s ever been because the magic is clearly smarter than her, and it’s unreasonable to think she’d be able to deal with that exact shade of blue in Killian’s eyes.

“You make sure I’m alright.”

He blinks. Fair, honestly. Words keep tumbling out of Emma without much thought, but she needs him to know this and this might be the crux of everything else and she’s nodding again. “Over and over,” she continues, “when we’re on the Jolly, and I’m—” “—In the crew’s quarters doing pull-ups.” “You remember that?”

“I’m rather attracted to you, you know that right?”

Laughing with tears in her eyes is as patently absurd as it is nice, and the shadows inch closer. “Could probably do with some reminding every now and then,” Emma admits, “but I, uh—that’s what happened before, too. Sitting outside the Echo Caves and you were supposed to be asleep. Showed up anyway, to make sure I was alright. You always do that.” “Something of a habit.” “So you’ve mentioned.” Humming, there’s not really any way for Killian to get closer to her, but he certainly tries and Emma hopes she doesn’t forget that either. She’s not entirely sure how her memories will deal with everything they’ve been through in the last few weeks. And, like—her life, but that sounds kind of melodramatic. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” Killian says softly, “but it’s—making sure you’re alright is like…making sure we’re following the right course.” “Am I the star in this analogy?” “Several times over,” he replies, “and it’s easy to follow.” “Oh, what was that about backhanded insults?”

Warm air brushes her face when he exhales, nosing at the tear stains her over-abundant emotions have left behind. “I have no idea what will happen,” Killian whispers, as if he’s speaking only for Emma and she supposes that’s at least partially true. “I doubt we’ll disappear, not when it appears time’s much less of a straight line than I originally anticipated, but Her Majesty was right. Nothing’s set in stone, love. That’s half the fun.” “Sounds like a hell of a gamble too.” “Aye, but you’ve also got a pirate who’s rather willing to cheat on your behalf.” “Did you use weighted dice?” He kisses her hair. The edges of her eyes. Down the bridge of her nose and just above her mouth, which is really a very cruel tease, but if they were running out of time earlier, then they’re operating on borrowed minutes now, and Emma’s calves almost audibly object when she pushes up on her toes.

“Just sleight of hand,” he says, “it’s very impressive, I know.” “Something like that, yeah.” “This wasn’t fair to you, Swan. To—to be thrown into this, and I can’t…”

Shaking her head, she’s never actually let go of his shirt, so Emma doesn’t have an excuse for how much her fingers tremble. “No, no, no, if you apologize I will step on your foot, I swear to any God you can come up with.” “Several, actually.” “Nerd,” she insults, and it’s as far away from that as it’s possible for a four-letter word to be. Killian’s eyes have gone glossy. “This wasn’t what he thought it’d be. Pan, I mean. He—he thought he’d take me off the board, keep me locked here because I’d be so tempted to stay and I—” A tree branch falls dangerously close to her right foot. “Well, obviously I was, but…” “But?” Emma presses her lips together. Ignores the ache in her legs and the area directly around her heart, taking more pleasure than she should in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes while her magic practically sings. Soars out of her, until the ends of her hair light and the shadows don’t retreat, but they freeze for a second and that’s all she really needs. “Seeing it all,” Emma starts, “living it, that’s why I can go back. Because I want to live it. No cheating, no advancing to Go. God, fuck—am I really making Monopoly jokes right now?”

He beams. Stares at her like she’s that star, and a few other constellations for good measure. Possibly the Sun too, but Emma’s the one who’s all too willing to orbit around the whole lot of them, and she kisses him before she can think better of it.

“You make sure I’m alright,” she repeats, “ten-thousand times over, until I end up here. And it’s just not better, babe, it’s—it’s a life, a real one. The kind I used to think was some great, big joke, but that house is so big and our kids are so good, and it’s—” Killian wipes away the tears. For the best, really. Since Emma isn’t entirely sure she can unclench her fingers. “I love it,” she breathes, “I love—”

In any other situation, she’d almost resent being interrupted. As it is, being interrupted with the press of Killian’s mouth against hers is one of the better things that’s happened to her. Like, ever. And she’s already pressed up on her toes, so really the whole thing is pretty practical.

Tilting her head, Emma’s grip threatens to rip his shirt and her spine isn’t all that pleased at the arch she’s put it in, but his hand is flat against her back, the kind of steady presence she’s sure she could build everything around. They’ve gotten better at this, she thinks — less frenzied than it was in Neverland, but somehow even better, like they’re sitting on simmer, a low heat that simply exists and isn’t as overwhelming. She’s not sweating, at least. She’s wrapped in cashmere blankets, and comfort and some other word that starts with ‘c’ because Emma’s ability to linger on the alliterative in times of heightened feeling is actually pretty impressive.

At least until Killian’s tongue swipes the seam of her mouth, and they drift a hint closer to frenzied, and somewhere in the realm of desperate and she genuinely does not notice the first band of light.

Or the second, quite frankly.

It isn’t until the colors arch over them, and several people gasp, that Emma realizes they’ve done something fairly tremendous. Beams of glistening magic curl around them, some hanging from the bend of Emma’s elbow and the curve of Killian’s hook, draping either one of their shoulders and falling off the sleeves of their respective leather jackets.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, fully expecting Killian’s smile and hoping for his laugh and she’s done more hoping now than she has in the first twenty-nine years of her life.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Oh you can say it, huh?” “I’m your mom, that’s how it works.” More laughter, as out of place as ever, but the light doesn’t disappear immediately and Killian’s jaw has gone slack. “Has that not happened before, then?” Emma asks him.

“You called me babe.” Regina groans again. Henry snickers, ducking his head into Ella’s shoulder, and Emma’s not sure what her parents do, but her mom is definitely crying and she’s crying and there’s something shimmering on the other side of Tinker Bell.

“Told you it’d work,” she says with a knowing smile. “She just needed to get there. And, y’know, be willing to walk away. Which doesn’t sound as romantic as it is, now that I think about it, but might be kind of in the spirit of Christmas.”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “that’s—” She cuts herself off that time, Killian’s fingers lacing through hers so he can give her hand three quick squeezes and that number was probably random. Maybe. True Love’s goddamn Kiss.

“Falling in love with you probably isn’t very easy, is it?”

The tears fall. Drop from the corners of his eyes onto cheeks, one of which has a scar on it and Emma wants to know how that happened. Wants to learn every single thing about him, and them and collective pronouns don’t quite terrify her anymore.

“Not always,” Killian agrees, another strange way of doing it, “but I do always think it’s worth it. For everything we get.” “This?” He nods. “And then some. Because you’re the single most stubborn lass I know, and Pan’s an absolute fool.” “Call me lass again, and see if I kiss you anymore.” “I’m almost confident on that front.”

Smiling doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t affect the muscles in her face, or the overall state of her heart, and that may have something to do with its exploding tendencies from earlier, but Emma’s eyes keep flickering towards that portal and everything ahead of her, and the wave of determination that crests her consciousness doesn’t take her by surprise.

She’s going to get this all back.

Like a Christmas present, waiting under the tree to be opened, and another promise and Killian squeezes her hand again. Before kissing her once more, in a way that doesn’t feel like a farewell, but has a hint of promise and expectation and Emma hugs Henry. And her parents. Glances at Regina, and goddamn Tinker Bell, and hugging Henry again simply makes sense. “Come save me, huh?” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s the plan,” Emma promises. Twisting her neck, Killian’s not more than an inch behind her, but the shadows threaten again, making it difficult to see him and eventually she’ll argue that’s why she doesn’t entirely notice when his hand moves, darting towards her pocket and back so quickly it’s not much more than a blur, and her lips barely brush his before they’re pulling away from each other.

To get back to each other.

“I’m going to love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” Emma promises, and Killian’s eyes brighten. Brand themselves on all those memories, and even more feelings. “More than I do now, even.” “I look forward to it.”

Bumping her chin against her chest when she nods, Emma’s next inhale is shaky at best, but her steps are sure and she doesn’t feel anything when she falls backwards, or notice the way Regina’s hand shifts ever so slightly.

Her feet slam into the ground. Ground that hasn’t exploded with glowing, vaguely evil plants yet and that’s all it takes to set her plan into motion. He hadn’t remembered, after all. And Emma can only sort of remember now.

Smoke on the water, her thoughts drift through a haze that’s far more metaphorical than she entirely appreciates, and she makes it all of eight larger-than-usual steps before those same feet land on boots and she barely stops herself before she collides with Killian.

A Killian who looks at her like he’s surprised to find her there, but not entirely opposed to it, and whatever thoughts continue to cling to the forefront of Emma’s brain know what else he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, and that’s not bad, might even be good and great and she can’t remember why her lips feel like they’re tingling. That’s—

Strange, that’s strange. As is the number of times she blinks, and his hook flies to her waist. To keep her steady. Or something. Magnets, maybe. “Swan, are you—” “—Fine, fine,” she breathes, only just able to keep from kissing him. Hard. His lips part slightly when she keeps staring at him, eyes tracing across his face like she’s recommitting it to memory, and she supposes she is, and he was coming to find her. All over again. “You’re here though, right? This isn’t…this is real?” Hair threatens to fall into his eyes, head at an angle that Emma is sure simply exists to torment her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I—I don’t know,” she admits, and it only sort of sounds like a lie. Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, really. “Is my mom still ignoring my dad?” “Very much so. You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” “Neal’s not dead, though?” “No,” Killian says, lips forming a perfect circle on the second letter. Emma’s staring at his lips. Again, or always. Or whatever, honestly.

“Ok, ok, that’s—that’s good, well maybe not the ignoring part, but we’ll figure that out and we’re going to figure this out.” “Wasn’t a question.” “No it wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, neck remaining at that angle. “Good. It shouldn’t be.” “Awfully confident of you.” “No, no, I’m only confident in you, love.” Something flutters at the back of Emma’s brain — part memory and even more desire, and this feels like something they’ve done already, but that can’t possibly be true and those particular words in that particular order are as honest as Emma’s heard. She must have fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” Killian continues, hand reaching for hers and she doesn’t pull away. She lets his fingers tangle with hers, and every squeeze against her palm is enough to settle her pulse and her magic, and he doesn’t let go of her until they get back to camp. Neither one of them mention how she doesn’t pull away, either.

They plan. Plot, and discuss and Neal’s something of an issue — as is her mother’s pointed and unnecessary romantic advice, but Emma knows her objections fall on deaf ears, especially when that same mother keeps ignoring her father, and she’s not sure she’s ever known fear like she feels in Dark Hollow.

If asked — and Emma can’t imagine why she would be, but she’s at war with her own thoughts and some sadistic childlike-monster who’s already fucked with her more than he should be capable of — she’d argue it was because of what Killian tells her. When I win your heart plays on loop in Emma’s brain, but it’s also because, somehow, she knows he will and does, and fire bursts out of her in the middle of yet another shadow attack.

“How did you do that?” Neal asks, sounding far more surprised than he should and something in Emma’s center recoils at the tone. “Regina. She’s teaching me magic.” Not entirely a lie, not really. But Killian’s eyes snap towards her, and she’s apparently just as good at ignoring things as her mother. “She’s teaching you magic?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, gripping the coconut in her hand a little tighter. Six months ago, that would have felt like the most absurd sentence in the world. Now it just pisses her off. “I guess she is.”

There’s more, because of course there is. Wendy Darling and Neal are something of old friends, and she’s somehow an even worse liar than Emma, but the truth means Henry’s death and she can’t breathe. Can hardly stand, but is also standing closer to Killian and she keeps calling him Killian. In her head.

His hand squeezes hers; exactly three times.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Killian murmurs. Naturally, it’s not.

Watching Henry hand over his heart is a nightmare Emma will see for the rest of her life, wholly unprepared for the way her kid drops to the ground and the strength of her ensuing magic threatens to blind her.

Regina’s not much better, honestly. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then there’s magic and a wave of her hand, and—“He’s not dead yet,” she tells Emma, like that’s acceptable, but she’s got no idea what else to do and the growing feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

Preservation spells are as freaky their name implies, it turns out.

Henry doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but he also isn’t dead and Emma figures that’s at least one positive. While she’s attacked by a tree, and taunted by Pan and Regina’s admission leaves her reeling just a bit. That is until it turns out Peter Pan is also Gold’s father, and the absurdity of it all makes Emma want to scream and cry and they somehow save Henry’s heart.

In Pandora’s Box.

Really, the rest is a blur — adrenaline mixing with magic and an above-average amount of gasping, and Killian offers Henry the captain’s quarters. Emma doesn’t think before she walks, leading the pair of them towards the door, and there’s a shadow trapped in the sail and they’re on a flying pirate ship, so honestly her knowledge of that pirate ship’s layout should be the least of their worries, but something, something…open book.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asks, finding Emma what feels like a lifetime later. Hours, actually. Most of which she’s spent leaning against the railing, while trying to breathe in as much salt air as possible and Regina’s still in the cabin with Henry.

“Aside from the obvious?” “Whatever’s got you staring so intently at the horizon.” “It’s calming,” Emma reasons, and there’s some truth to that as well. There’s also something in her back pocket, a piece of clothing that miraculously isn’t totally destroyed with mud and the after-effects of fighting for their collective lives.

“It often is, although you’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help but—” “—Do you think you’ll stay in Storybrooke?”

Killian tenses. He’s close enough that Emma can practically feel the way his muscles tighten, but there’s more to it than proximity, and it’s got to be nearly his turn at the helm. Neal can’t stay up there forever.

“If you think that would be a good idea.”

Rolling her eyes makes her head hurt. She might also be dehydrated. The knowledge that there’s a flask of rum stashed somewhere under the cot in Killian’s cabin is one of the few things keeping Emma conscious. Captain’s cabin. Semantics. She has no idea how she knows that. “That’s not really what I asked,” Emma argues. “Do you—is that something you’d like?”

She shouldn’t be as nervous as she is.

The future is suddenly blurry, and not entirely uncertain, but she fought like hell for it and now there’s this growing sense of optimism taking root in her. Like it’s the foundation for everything else, strong and certain and that’s a rather daunting change of pace for her. The certainty, not the adjective choices. Gold made it so David could come home too. They all get to go home. So, Emma doesn’t move very quickly when she turns, just presses her lips together and—

Hopes.

Pixie dust requires a certain amount of belief to work, after all.

“I would,” Killian breathes. He leans forward, or Emma leans forward, and it genuinely does not matter because there are mouths and hands and it’s over before it really begins, the rail of a flying pirate ship threatening to dig into her back. She’s never been more comfortable. “Ok,” Emma says, footsteps coming towards them, “that’s good.”

“You saved him, you know.”

“Motivation’s a funny thing like that.”

“Certainly is,” Killian agrees, “and you had that in spades. I just—” He smirks. The bastard. “Telling you I knew you would makes me a bit of a cad, doesn’t it?” “More than a bit, maybe.” He chuckles, letting his head drop closer to hers. “Why’d you know where the blankets were in that cabin?” “Far too perceptive for your own good.” “I prefer to see it as an acute observation.” “And you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

“Sounds suspiciously like you think I’m pretty.”

“Occasionally,” Emma says, standing on wobbly knees again and they’re dancing without music. “I don’t know, really, but we’ll get there, I think.”

Leaning back, Killian’s eyebrows shift and his thoughts practically come with cymbals, but he doesn’t press her anymore and Emma doesn’t actually believe she fell asleep. Outside the Echo Caves, but all of those thoughts feel like dreams now, and Neal doesn’t ask any questions — which is either a victory or a crushing disappointment, depending on which way you look at it, but Emma can’t bring herself to leave the railing, even when the wind picks up and goosebumps prickle her arms and the something in her back pocket is a tiny slip of paper.

Torn at the edges, like the person who grabbed it was pressed for time and flush with determination and she’s never actually seen his handwriting before. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference. Swooping letters linger on the looseleaf, no matter how many times Emma blinks, the words the same and she tries very hard not to rip it. Holding it as tightly as she is makes that easier said than done.

Still, it doesn’t change.

I love you.

As clear as the tears that return to her eyes will allow, and Emma’s not surprised to find him already looking in her direction. She smiles, and goes below deck.

They don’t make it very long before something else gets fucked up.

They barely make it like—two weeks. Pan isn’t dead, and Henry’s not Henry and the whole thing is a disaster that frequently ends with Emma slumped against the nearest wall she can find, the hand gripping hers squeezing at regular intervals, like Killian is trying to remind her of something, but she might just be hoarding every touch and every feeling and it figures.

Standing at the town line, Emma’s not sure how she’s going to get in that car and drive away from this town and these people and her mother kisses her forehead. Softly and almost reverently, and David’s hand finds the back of her head, holding her as tightly as he had in Neverland and Emma knows he’d like to do that forever, but that won’t be possible in five minutes and she’s not going to remember.

Any of them. At any point.

She’s still not sure why the timing of it all seems so important.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.”

Smiling is the only way she stops herself from kicking him, or possibly kissing him and she’s not prepared for what Killian says next. If she ever gets to remember this, that will seem vaguely ridiculous. All things considered.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.” He means it. Emma knows that, too. As much as she knows she should have said something — a string of words that’s still a little overwhelming, but the sheet of paper basically lives in her jacket pocket now, and for someone who feels as if she keeps bouncing around time, or at least realms, she also continues to run out of it.

“Good,” she says, and one side of his mouth moves. Tugs up while he stares at her, and struggles to step back and everything disappears. Behind a cloud of purple smoke, and a line that’s brushed away as easily as if it had never been there at all, and Emma forgets.

Most of it, at least.

Some guy knocks on her door, knows her name, and immediately tries to kiss her. It’s not the strangest thing Emma’s ever encountered, but that’s because bail bond’s a weird gig, and he keeps showing up. Gives her a note with handwriting that looks suspiciously familiar, and proves even more than that and her hand shakes. While pulling a weather-stained piece of paper from the folds of her wallet, and she’s got no rational reason for keeping it. Not when she’s got no idea why she has it in the first place, but every time she considers throwing it away, something tugs between her ribs and flutters at the back of her brain and the swoop on the top of his ‘o’ is exactly the same.

She doesn’t mention that before she drinks the potion. And she only balks slightly at the word potion , so that’s another victory and— “Killian,” she breathes, memories flying back. Some arrive quicker than others, while a few hang in the shadows and she knows there’s more to the sheet of paper than she’s willing to admit. Magic fights with her, trying to piece together things that don’t entirely make sense, and she can remember things that don’t make sense. Pirate ships, and flashing swords, and a house with enough windows that it likely sets a record.

And a hand slipping a sheet of paper into her back pocket.

“Miss me?”

It’s a joke. A bad one, at that. Especially coupled with a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but Emma finds herself nodding all the same and he doesn’t stumble backwards when she launches herself at him, hugging as tightly as she can.

The paper goes back in her wallet before they leave for Storybrooke.

She’s going to leave. Get back in her car and go back to New York, and raise Henry like a normal kid, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something inherently wrong with that plan, and it doesn’t have anything to do with wicked witches or newborn brothers, but maybe deja vu for something she hasn’t lived yet, and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. When she does the unthinkable.

“Come with us, then.” “You’re not serious,” he challenges.

“Like a heart attack, maybe. I just…none of this is safe, and New York was, I mean…you could be part of—” “False memories, based on magical nonsense.”

Shoulders slumping, Emma can’t come up with an argument to that. Only kind of wants to, but she’s not in the book, and Henry doesn’t want to leave. The dreams she keeps having make sleep something of a pipe dream. And she’s something of a mess, but Killian’s a much better dancer than she expected him to be.

And she’s not surprised to find him rounding the corner of Regina’s dungeon, although it’s nice to be saved, even when she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. But then his arms threaten to crack several of her ribs ten minutes later, and Emma has a few theories about that. None of which she voices, far too busy memorizing the way his thumb feels when it brushes her cheek, and her mother’s not dead.

Doesn’t remember her, but time travel beggars can’t be choosers. Another burst of deja vu rattles through her, and there’s no magic to jump in her veins, but Killian glances her direction all the same and the wand is heavy in her hand. One that’s magical again, a portal home because it is home and you trade your ship for me isn’t much more than a whisper on warmer-than-usual wind. He doesn’t blink when he answers. She’ll think about that for quite some time.

After she stops thinking about how good they are at kissing, because they are exceptional at kissing and it’s very simple. To fall into this head first, the feeling and the emotion and Killian chuckles when Emma’s magic begins to thrum under her skin.

She tells her parents about Neal.

About what he did, and how he did it and their eyes widen so often she wonders if they’ll get stuck like that. Killian’s hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

They announce the change two days later. Prince Neal is Prince Leo and he’s still as cute as ever, with a tendency to spit up on whoever holds him.

“Are you alright?” “You’ve asked me that like ten times.” Nodding, Killian doesn’t move and Emma can’t imagine what kind of damage this is doing to his knees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to stand up either and she’s finally starting to get some feeling back in her toes. Fingers, too. Which makes it easier to drag the tips of them over his cheek, and his eyelids fluttering shut is a jolt of confidence she’s going to cling to. “And yet,” he drawls, “I’m still very curious.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, not for the first time and she knows it won’t be the last. He shifts the blanket draped across her legs, tucking it under her side like—“A mother hen pirate.” “That’s rude, love.” “You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” “I don’t know what that means.” Laughing softly, her lips are still a bit chilly when she presses them to Killian’s skin. Warm, like always. Some joke about her own personal sun, and something else about walls made of ice and she doesn’t think before she mumbles, “you want to lay down, or something?” “Your father might challenge me to a duel.” “Not confident in your own sword skills?” “I’m very confident in my skills, but—” “—C’mon,” Emma interrupts, ignoring Killian’s protest when she pulls her arms out of the mountain of fabric covering her, “you’re warm, anyway.”

She realizes she loves him before she says it.

Well before, honestly. And she wonders why that feels inevitable, almost like it’s already happened, somehow but that’s—well, that’s impossible. She should rid that word from her vocabulary. And the inevitability of telling Killian everything she’s feeling isn’t totally surprising, either. Has been coming on so gradually that don’t you know, Emma, it’s you doesn’t knock her entirely off course. Might right her, actually. Direct her back towards some star or something else nautical and decidedly sentimental, and she cannot rationalize how quiet she is when he falls.

Dies, really.

This alternate version of him that still managed to rescue her, and she couldn’t save him and that’s not right. Two-way streets operate in both directions, but she didn’t tell him and everything feels like it stops. Not long enough. Time refuses to linger the way Emma needs it to, lungs threatening to disintegrate, and this isn’t real, can’t possibly be real and Henry’s pulling on her sleeve, telling her they have to go. He’s right. They’ve got to get out of here. Fix it, and give Emma more time, and she doesn’t spend any of it thinking before she rushes up the loft stairs and clings to him tightly enough that they fall over.

That will feel poetic later.

Standing in the center of Main Street, with a dagger in her hand and magic in the air and it’s familiar all over again, another burst of deja vu, and the exact opposite. Wrong, on a fundamental sort of level that she still can’t ignore and she closes her eyes. Thinks of what could be, or what she hopes will still happen, and then she tilts her head up and meets eyes that are far too blue to be fair and it’s easy to give voice to the words she hadn’t before.

That’s nice, she supposes.

Being as consistently confused by her own thoughts is one of Emma’s biggest pet peeves. “I love you.”

“Getting more and more difficult not to tell him. Isn’t it, dearie?” Sighing, Emma doesn’t bother glancing up from the half-finished dream catcher in her hands and Killian’s not going to be happy that he fell asleep. He likes to think he can protect her better while he’s conscious. As if he could protect her from her own mind.

“Do you even remember it?” Rumplestilskin continues, and it’s not really him. She has to keep reminding herself that. “Can see into your thoughts, y’know. And I don’t think you do.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t, of course. “The Queen did something. Changed something, somehow. Can feel the dregs of her magic, clinging to your memories and—” He leans forward. “—So can you, can’t you? Wonder why those scenes that appear behind your eyes every time you blink, feel so real. All that fairy tale fodder, and another thing you’ll miss out on. Strange how that version of your personal prince charming never mentioned what happens to you, isn’t it? Almost as if he’s keeping secrets. Maybe that’s a sign.” “Shut up.” She doesn’t mean to say anything. Responding only ever eggs the apparition on, and Emma’s head feels as if it will split in two. It might help if it did.

Every one of Rumplestilskin’s teeth is on display when he smiles. Like a goddamn crocodile.

“You could likely get your memories back. If you wanted. All that power surging through your veins. Or maybe,” he continues slowly, “part of what you’re feeling isn’t anything more than fate."

"No, that’s not true."

"Sure of that? Absolutely positive? Anything is possible, after all."

And the idea takes Emma by sudden and overwhelming surprise, part of her hating even the thought, but her feet are already moving and she might be running if the stretch of her legs is any sign, and Merlin doesn’t look up. When she slams open his door.

“You know, don’t you?” “Everything you’ve forgotten?” he asks lightly. “Yes, I do.” “What do I do about it?” “Would you like to do something about it?” “Did Regina do something to my memories?” Emma presses, leaning against the door as soon as it shuts behind her. One of his shoulders lifts. “He—the voice in my head…keeps taunting me about it, and I don’t—is any of that possible? That life?” Finally lifting his gaze, Merlin looks exactly as he did in that movie theater Emma only half believes she actually remembers, and time travel continues to be one of her least favorite things. “Depends,” he replies, “on you, and your next question.”

“I shouldn’t know. Right? Shouldn’t remember, I—he was looking at the house. The one I remember us living in sometimes, and I don’t…it’s impossible. To get back to that.” “He already told you it wasn’t,” Merlin argues.

I’ll never stop fighting for us.

Emma licks her lips. Coming up with anything else to say is difficult, and she’s still holding the goddamn dreamcatcher. That makes it easier. To give into instinct, and she’s broken. At her most basic level. Ripped apart and stitched back with pieces that don’t entirely belong to her, and remembering any of it feels like a cruel trick.

Lifting her arm, the whole thing only takes a few moments. Nothing more than a soft pull, and what feels like a soap bubble popping.

“Feel better?” Merlin asks, gaze dropping back to his table and his task and Emma nearly growls at him.

“What are you talking about?” “That’s what I thought. It won’t all disappear, though. Magic’s got a way of leaving a mark, especially magic like that.”

She leaves before he can make any other cryptic announcements, and Dark Ones don’t really need sleep. Emma sits on the bed for the rest of the night.

Dreams happen occasionally.

In the few days between — after the blade broke apart in her hand, and the decision that she won’t take this lying down, fuck whatever the world says about death and Dark Ones — visions start to creep into Emma’s subconscious. Sometimes they aren’t good, are a startling reminder of how it felt to fall to the ground, and the exact way dew soaked through her jeans, or how cold he was when his hand fell away from hers. And then sometimes they’re…not that.

They’re bright, and laughter rings out in the space Emma can’t quite define. Like it’s somewhere she’s been before, lived in even. Happily so. Scents hang in the air, a mix of salt and sweet and there’s almost always an arm curled around her waist, whispers in her ear and the steady press of kisses along her neck. Soft footsteps echo down carpeted hallways, and there’s garland wrapped around the staircase railing. Lining their ridiculous number of windows, and draped across branches of a tree.

For Christmas.

Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but the snow outside is a good clue and it’s that — the growing desire to make this dream something closer to a reality, and no one questions her decision. To go to the Underworld. The same way she doesn’t second guess her steps as she races towards Killian, blood on his cheeks and nothing at the end of his left arm and he’s heavier than she remembered. Slumped against her chest with his breath in her ear, and it’s not quite the same as the dream, but they’ll get there.

They’ll get there.

Emma repeats the phrase — over and over, stumbling down a path she’s only passably confident will lead them outside, and he squeezes her hand. Three times.

Sometimes they dance.

In the kitchen. In the living room. She’s got this habit of hoarding records, and Killian’s far more interested in antiquing than he’d ever be willing to admit. Emma makes pirate jokes about it.

If only because it inevitably guarantees that spark in his eyes.

The one that makes her shiver, and reminds her of something she can’t quite remember and—she gasps, a hand spinning her on the kitchen floor. Away from the sink of dirty dishes and anything remotely responsible.

“I’m going to get your shirt all wet,” Emma grumbles, but that doesn’t appear to concern him very much. Or at all.

“Good.” “Good?” “Was that confusing?” Killian challenges, metal already working under the hem of her shirt. There are flowers on it.

“You think you’re very funny.” “I think I’ve got fantastic rhythm, and I can hear you thinking from across the room. What’s got your magic so loud?” Without stopping, Emma’s magic responds in kind — a symphony of possibility, and the growing sense of want that sits like a nearly-comfortable weight in the pit of her stomach, and sometimes she tells him. About the dreams, and the scenes that feel like she’s lived them before, and Killian never tells her she’s crazy. Even when Emma wonders if she might be. Instead, there’s simply this look of his own want, crinkling the skin near his eyes and she kisses away the pinch between his brow. Which makes it easier for her to ask— “Why this one?”

“Excuse me?” “This house,” Emma clarifies, and the conversation’s a little late. They’ve been here for years. Watched Henry grow up, and taught him how to use a sword, and watched movies until they could quote them back without a single mistake. So, really she should have figured it out before, but Emma’s had her suspicions. It’s only now that she’s greedy enough to ask about them.

“You know why.” “Would love to hear you say it.” “Pirate,” Killian accuses, without any insult and Emma giggles when he pulls her back to his chest. “And I—well, it’d be nice, don’t you think?” “Yeah, it would,” Emma says. The agreement tumbles out of her with ease, partially because of that aforementioned greed and the memories she can’t shake and Merlin said something to her. About magic’s tendency to leave something behind.

There’s a sheet of paper still hidden in her wallet.

“So,” she continues, “great big house, with lots of rooms and—” “—It’s your choice, Swan.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. A combined team of planning and feeling and—” He dips her, she tries very hard not to giggle again. Fails miserably. “—Self-proclaimed rhythm. We just…this isn’t just about me, this is an us thing.” The music doesn’t stop. They only kind of do, Killian leaning back with a glint in his eyes that’s different than it normally is and Emma’s not sure when she started breathing through her mouth, but it’s drying out her lips and that’s not the first time she’s said that.

She doesn’t think so, at least.

“I’m a rather large fan of that string of words,” Killian says. “And you.” “Seems like a requirement of marriage.” “And parenting?” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

Kissing him is really the only reasonable option. And Emma considers herself fairly reasonable, although her magic nearly makes a light bulb explode a few hours later and it’s difficult to be annoyed by the smug look on Killian’s face when he’s not wearing any clothing.

“What about Regina?”

Half a dozen heads snap towards Emma, some of them sporting bemused expressions, while others wear flat out disbelief and she doesn’t blink. Her fingers tighten, under the table where she’s gripping Killian’s hand and she can’t seem to get comfortable.

There’s way more of her than she’s used to, and the books claim she’s in some stage called nesting. Which Killian uses as an excuse to make Swan jokes at every opportunity. It might be driving her insane.

So, Emma will use that as an excuse. “What do you mean, Your Highness?” Grumpy asks her, and Killian can’t quite mask his laugh. Even with his teeth pressed distractingly into his lower lip.

“I mean,” Emma starts, “that if we’re going to combine all the realms, maybe having Regina in charge might not be the worst idea. She’s got queenly experience.” “Wow,” Regina says slowly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “No it is not!” “Top five, at least.” “You’re ruining this.”

Scrunching her nose is not a normal Regina reaction, but Emma figures it makes sense considering the circumstances and it’s a lot of responsibility. Uniting all the realms is a pretty daunting prospect, that will require enough of her own magic that Killian’s already freaking out just a bit, and somehow Emma can’t bring herself to be frustrated with that. Endeared, maybe.

And absolutely certain this will work.

She doesn’t know why. She looks at the slip of paper in her wallet, like four times a day.

“You’re sure?” Regina asks, Emma nods. “Alright, then I’d uh—it’d be my honor.”

They buy too many gifts. Hope is a baby. One who won’t have any memory of her first Christmas in this absolutely massive house, with a tree that Anton gave them a discount on.

“For milestones,” he reasoned, and Emma resolutely refuses to admit that she cried. But Killian brings it up more than once, and that gets her to roll her eyes and smile against his mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her and Snow White went above and beyond this year. Decorations line Main Street, cookies shared from every business and every person and all those people keep smiling. At her, and them and their kid is way cuter than her brother was.

Emma doesn’t mention that.

Killian does, at least when he whispers it to her while Leo tears apart another paper-covered box, and Hope gurgles in the crook of his arm. And Emma figures this is as good a time as any. To tug the folded envelope out of her pocket, flipping her wrist at the expectant and slightly confused look on Killian’s face. “What’s this?” “A gift,” Emma snarks, barely twisting out of the way to avoid him nipping at her nose. Like some twisted and very attractive Jack Frost. There’s some silver in his hair now.

He uses his hook to open it.

Emma clicks her tongue. So as not to push into his mouth. That might scar the kid.

“I don’t—” Killian says, pulling the scrap of paper out of. He holds it like it’s precious, and it is for Emma, but she also doesn’t entirely understand it and it’s kind of a selfish gift. “This is my hand writing. Why…I don’t remember writing this.” “And I don’t know when I got it. But I have it.” “I can see that.” “No, no, you don’t understand. It’s—I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. Since before New York, at least.” Killian’s eyes flash. To her and possibly through her, and Emma’s shrug is half-hearted at best. “Memories don’t always stick in this town,” he reasons, but it sounds like an excuse. For something she still doesn’t entirely understand.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been there. Was in my wallet, and I had it in Camelot, babe. Used to pull it out sometimes, when you were—” “—Dead?” “God bless us, every one.” His laugh lacks any real amusement. It’s not very festive. “I’m going to ask you something,” Emma says, fully prepared for the way his lips curl.

“Eventually you’ll bypass the proclamations, Your Highness.” “Why do you squeeze my hand? You do it all the time.” “Do I?” Blotches of pink appear on his cheeks and he might want to lie, but his ears can’t and that’s not as weird a sentence as it should be. “Only three times, you realize?” “Don’t insult me like that.” That laugh is better. Purer, more like him and Emma’s magic flickers when he kisses her cheek. He’s constantly kissing her cheek. And her hair. Temple. Anywhere he can reach, like he’s always looking for a reminder and proof, until Emma knows she depends on it just as much as he does.

“Made it easier,” he says, “saying it without actually using words.” “And the words were…” He doesn’t really glare — that’s against the rules at Christmas, Emma’s sure, but his head lolls and his lips quirk and magic jumps. In her. To him. Whatever, really. “I love you,” Killian says, easy as some other cliche and Hope squirms between them. When they start kissing.

To suggest that what happens next happens suddenly, also makes it seem like Emma is paying attention to anything outside the little bubble of family and feeling, and neither one of those things is true. So she can’t say that. Her mother can.

Gasping and yelping, and there’s color everywhere — rivaling the lights that hang all over, because no one does holidays and milestones better than Her Royal Highness Snow White of Storybrooke. Emma curses.

Like a goddamn princess.

Remembering something that hasn’t technically happened yet threatens to make Emma topple over, but she’s really good at standing now and Killian’s arm is around her anyway. That helps. Perpetually.

“What the hell was that?” David demands, with as little grace as any of them can exude.

Emma shakes her head, refusing to blink. Despite the moisture there, and the feelings and she remembers. Has this whole time, kind of. The semantics probably aren’t important, at least not as much as the light is and was and will be.

Perpetually.

She doesn’t answer. Not her dad, anyway.

“I love you,” Emma tells Killian instead, and it takes some time to explain it all later. True Love and its somewhat inconsistent if not equally wonderful tendencies, and while that future in the past may not happen exactly as it had, this is somehow better and Emma was right.

They got here, eventually.

[gwendolynnderolo]

An analysis of Ronan, Adam, and Gansey

So many people are quick to write off characters in The Raven Cycle, seen most often with Gansey but also with Adam and Ronan. People call them selfish, cruel, insensitive, self-centered, and bad friends. What people often don’t understand is that every single one of these characters is written like an actual person, so they’re all complex and multi dimensional people. They’re not all good or all bad, they do good and bad things. More importantly, all three of these characters have traumas that affect every single decision they make throughout the whole book. This is really long so please bear with me.

Ronan

I’m starting with Ronan because I feel like he’s the one who gets the least hate out of the three, and because he has some of the most easily traceable trauma. Gansey describes Ronan as having been much happier and more carefree before Niall died, and that he became a radically different person after Niall’s death. Considering the circumstances of his death, it’s obvious why Ronan was so fundamentally changed by it. As a 15/16 year old, Ronan found his father, who he loved more than anyone in the world, dead in the driveway after being viciously beaten to death with a tire iron. Losing your father and one of the most important people in your life at that age would be enough to seriously mess up most people, but being the one to find the body makes it even worse. Ronan lost his father, his mother, his home, and to some extent his brothers in one fell swoop, leaving him with nothing and no one but Gansey and Monmouth to help him through tremendous grief and trauma. Obviously, Ronan does not have the healthiest coping mechanisms. He clearly has depression and some form of PTSD, which affects his sleep and often leads him to do reckless things such as drinking, street racing, or getting $900 tattoos. These are all forms of self harm that Ronan is inflicting on himself as a form of punishment and a way to cope with his self hatred and trauma. Ronan is nearly killed by one of his dream creatures, which are things that are created by him and manifestations of his own desires in some way, meaning that Ronan is also suicidal, which also contributes to his poor coping mechanisms. Ronan is consistently cruel and insensitive towards his friends, which is another coping mechanism; as he’s trying to push away the people he cares about as a way of punishing himself. In the aftermath of an incredibly life-altering traumatic event, instead of a therapist or any other calming and potentially helpful presence, Ronan has Gansey and Gansey’s quest, which he throws himself into in lieu of dealing with his own issues. Not to mention, there’s definitely plenty of Catholic guilt and internalized homophobia to further contribute to Ronan’s self hatred.

Adam

I feel like people either love Adam or don’t really care about him but I’m going to write a miniature dissertation on him and his trauma anyways. Adam grew up without any affection, validation, or emotional support whatsoever. It’s stated multiple times that Adam’s parents would talk about how much they wished they hadn’t had him in earshot of Adam, which is something no kid should ever have to hear. Adam did not have a single friend until he met Gansey. He spent the first 16 years of his life entirely alone, depending entirely on himself for everything. He’s incredibly ambitious and driven, working three jobs so he can go the best school and go to an Ivy League college. He grew up with nothing, so he’s incredibly protective of everything he has, no matter how small, and resents anyone who wants to change how he operates in any way, even if their intentions are good (Gansey). Adam refuses to accept help from anyone, insisting that things only mean anything if he’s earned them himself. This obviously stems from his entire childhood and adolescence of having to fight for everything, whether it was a job, an education, grades, or food. Adam never had someone in his life who genuinely cared about helping him before he met Gansey, so he views Gansey’s genuine attempts at friendship as pity. Him and Gansey have entirely different backgrounds, sets of skills, and ways of handling things, which often leads to them not understand each other’s intentions. Adam’s fierce protection of his independence often supersedes his relationships, causing him to lash out at anyone who he feels threatens that independence. Adam lives every day of his life wanting things he can’t have and having to work tirelessly to even come close to having those things, things that Gansey and Ronan don’t even have to think about. Adam both admires and resents Gansey and Ronan, two emotions that often clash in a friendship. Adam’s reactions to Gansey’s attempts to help him throughout the series, are not necessarily justified by his trauma, but they’re certainly explained by it.

Gansey

The time has come. Gansey is one of the most fiercely debated characters in the TRC fandom. Multiple times throughout the series, Gansey is incredibly arrogant, self-centered, and insensitive, and many people criticize him for that. I’m here to say: LITERALLY EVERY TEENAGER EVER IS ARROGANT, SELF-CENTERED, AND INSENSITIVE. Gansey is a 16/17 year old kid, and all 16/17 year olds are dicks at some point. This is not excusing anything that Gansey does, but a lot of people tend to forget that these characters are teenagers, and cannot be held to the same standards that adults are held to. Gansey led a fairly sheltered lifestyle in his childhood, and developed his own way of looking at the world and dealing with problems. His only role models were his parents and his older sister, who relied on money to fix all of their problems and coasted through life on status. Gansey has never lived without having enough money to fix everything that comes his way, so that’s what he’s used to and how he handles any issue. It’s often not the best way to handle things, but he genuinely was not taught how to handle problems any other way. Gansey explicitly says in the story that he knows that he is privileged, and he consistently tries to use that privilege to help the people he cares about. His actions often cause harm or upset others, but everything he does comes from a place of wanting to help his friends. He also explicitly says that he feels it’s his responsibility to help his friends because he has this privilege, and that he doesn’t have the right to have to rely on them for anything because he is so privileged. A 16/17 year old boy should never feel like the livelihood of others is his responsibility or that he can’t ask his friends for help because of his background. Gansey has placed this incredible weight on his shoulders because he feels it’s his duty to carry it and he doesn’t even believe that he can ask anyone to share the load. On top of all of this, Gansey lives every day of his life knowing that he could be seconds from death. He died as a child and was brought back, and then he clung to the one thing he believed could save him because he believed he had no other choice. Living in constant awareness of your own fragility and mortality would be enough to set anyone on edge, and Gansey deals with that on top of his responsibilities to his friends. Nearly everything Gansey does in the series is out of love for his friends, and because we see so many of his actions from the point of view of Adam or Ronan, they’re often warped and appear selfishly motivated.

In conclusion

THEY. ARE. TEENAGERS. Every teenager does dumb shit, and hurts other people, intentionally or unintentionally, and is arrogant and selfish and self-centered. None of these characters are perfect, because they’re all people. Also, the book is never told from the point of view of an objective narrator. Every single character is an unreliable narrator because their worldview is warped based on their own personal experiences and biases. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk and message me if you want to scream about TRC together.

[loveamongthesailors]

“ Should the Haruspex attempt to autopsy her body on Day 11, he will make the curious discovery that Aglaya does not appear to have any organs. However, looting her body reveals she is carrying a Revolver. “

trawling some highly enjoyable patho wiki content. Congratulations Aglaya Lilich on becoming a Body without Organs, with a gun! you go girl!

“Aglaya contends with God. Those she touches begin to rebel against the established order of things. At the same time, Aglaya is the voice of the law. She sees the universe as a machine. She maintains that the logic of the universe is above everything—polyhedrons be damned. To her, contending with God, too, is a form of restoring justice and natural law. Those she touches begin to realize that there are limits of what’s possible, and they must be accepted with humility.”

Humility

“I should have written nothing[1] at all, but it is far too late for that. Sin and guilt[2] have entered the world[3]— never mind where from, since in any case it would do no good to close that box — and I am no longer striding the crests of my dreams, filling my lungs with air and expelling it again, now instead I am manipulating the keys of a machine[4] striving to thus let my dreams pour and play out across the space of an information-obsessed plane of existence.

There exists no good reason[5] to occupy this space, especially when I have the heights and depths of life wholly available to me at any moment, and yet something compels me, God help me.[6] I have no hope that I will save anyone this way. Not even myself. I know I will not even reach to prevent the wretched[7] from abusing whatever I create. It is a fact that to take something from oneself and put it out into the world is to let it escape and become everything you didn’t want it to be. They say this is so for God the Father as for every human father. I do not believe in either one, but their stories both hold a strange beauty for me.

One can create a monster[8] or a babe; the difference is purely aesthetic. But it is this question of creation. Many simply put it aside, to their own loss. They still create things but they deny they are doing so. They are befallen by atrophy.[9] Others take on the question of creation by accepting the market assurance that whatever makes money must be good because, so the logic goes, people buy things that are good.[10] They become lost to the world of production. Others, in reaction to this, turn toward smaller and smaller circles to keep their creatures safe from the real world. But these spaces are either infected by the social disease or else suffocate for lack of oxygen.

There are some rare exceptions. No one can say where they come from. They destroy all that has come before. They blow into a dying ember. Without them there would be nothing at all.

Now, we have to say that the whole world without them would be an empty[11] dull[12] pale[13] and suffocating lifeless and deathless nothingness, and that they themselves are also a nothingness, but an ecstatic explosion of creative destructive nothingness. So it will be worth keeping in mind that there is a huge and unspeakable gap between the qualities of different sorts of nothingness. Otherwise everything will be overcome by an immense confusion.[14]

The first aspect which ensures that there is something interesting rather than nothing is the explosive energy of the sun. The second is the implosive energy of the earth. These provide for the habitation of a thin membrane where their intercourse takes place. Here there exists a tension between them. Much life forms by rebelling against being crushed into the bowels of the earth and the depths of the sea, whether this rebellion is volcanic, evaporative, or organic. Life must protect itself from being lost in the emptiness of space or scorched in the heat of the sun, and so it also flows, crumbles, burrows, glides, swims, falls and floats downward. This might be all, were it not for something else. Organization, organism, orgasm.[15]”

-Musings on Nothingness (And Some of It’s Varieties)

“Producing, a product: a producing/product identity. It is this identity that   constitutes a third term in the linear series: an enormous undifferentiated object. Everything stops dead for a moment, everything freezes in place—and then the whole process will begin all over again. From a certain point of view it would be much better if nothing worked, if nothing functioned. Never being born, escaping the wheel of continual birth and rebirth, no mouth to suck with, no anus to shit through. Will the machines run so badly, their component pieces fall apart to such a point that they will return to nothingness and thus allow us to return to nothingness?

It would seem, however, that the flows of energy are still too closely connected, the partial objects still too organic, for this to happen. What would be required is a pure fluid in a free state, flowing without interruption, streaming over the surface of a full body. Desiring-machines make us an organism; but at the very heart of this production, within the very production of this production, the body suffers from being organized in this way, from not having some other sort of organization, or no organization at all. "An incomprehensible, absolutely rigid stasis" in the very midst of process, as a third stage: "No mouth. No tongue. No teeth. No larynx. No esophagus. No belly. No anus."

The automata stop dead and set free the unorganized mass they once served to articulate. The full body without organs is the unproductive, the sterile, the unengendered, the unconsumable. Antonin Artaud discovered this one day, finding himself with no shape or form whatsoever, right there where he was at that moment. The death instinct: that is its name, and death is not without a model. For desire desires death also, because the full body of death is its motor, just as it desires life, because the organs of life are the working machine. We shall not inquire how all this fits together so that the machine will run: the  question itself is the result of a process of abstraction.”

-Anti-Oedipus ch. 1, “THE DESIRING MACHINES”

I can't stitch it together… but I can cut the knot.

We're all just… dancing on our strings. 

Whenever I trace the edges of possibility on a map, I find myself reaching for an eraser not soon after… 

Imagine a sphere. See it in your mind's eye. Now lay it out flat. Why is that so easy, when topology is so hard?

We live under the shadow of a higher power… I just despise it.

Only a fool would cut the Gordian knot. It ought to be… vivissected.

The squeal of the gears can't halt the machine.

Why do they insist on torturing me?

There is an immutable and rational order that fate itself has composed. All things run their inevitable courses, down the topology of the universe, toward the mass of this black gravity.

Let's open it. Carefully. And tally the contents.

       The judgment of God, the system of the judgment of God, the theological system, is precisely the operation of He who makes an organism, an organization of organs called the organism, because He cannot bear the BwO, because He pursues it and rips it apart so He can be first, and have the organism be first. The organism is already that, the judgment of God, from which medical doctors benefit and on which they base their power. The organism is not at all the body, the BwO; rather, it is a stratum on the BwO, in other words, a phenomenon of accu­mulation, coagulation, and sedimentation that, in order to extract useful labor from the BwO, imposes upon it forms, functions, bonds, dominant and hierarchized organizations, organized transcendences.

The strata are bonds, pincers. “Tie me up if you wish.“ We are continually stratified. But who is this we that is not me, for the subject no less than the organism belongs to and depends on a stratum? Now we have the answer: the BwO is that glacial reality where the alluvions, sedimentations, coagulations, foldings, and recoilings that compose an organism—and also a significa­tion aid a subject—occur. For the judgment of God weighs upon and is exercised against the BwO; it is the BwO that undergoes it. It is in the BwO that the organs enter into the relations of composition called the organism.

The BwO howls: “They’ve made me an organism! They’ve wrongfully folded me! They’ve stolen my body!“ The judgment of God uproots it from its immanence and makes it an organism, a signification, a subject. It is the BwO that is stratified. It swings between two poles, the surfaces of stratifi­cation into which it is recoiled, on which it submits to the judgment, and the plane of consistency in which it unfurls and opens to experimentation.

If the BwO is a limit, if one is forever attaining it, it is because behind each stratum, encasted in it, there is always another stratum. For many a stra­tum, and not only an organism, is necessary to make the judgment of God. A perpetual and violent combat between the plane of consistency, which frees the BwO, cutting across and dismantling all of the strata, and the sur­faces of stratification that block it or make it recoil.

- “ Deleuze/Guattari; How Do You Make Yourself a Body Without Organs? “

(every morning i listen to confessional, i don’t give a shit bout the bulk ov it, still i keep it professional. and as penance i tell em to proselytize, say the sun is red, say that i am red, say that all their bases belong to us)

The crack Where is the crack? When did I crack?

Then I’ll stand alone on a planet with Nothing left to remember it And I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try to prevent it I’ll try, I’ll try, but I’ll never stop it, no

Muzzle me, muzzle muzzle me Bind my will and break of me And you try, you try, you try to prevent it You’ll try, you’ll try, but you’ll never stop it, no

because, laugh if you like, what has been called microbes     is god, and do you know what the Americans and the Russians use to make their atoms? They make them with the microbes of god.

- I am not raving. I am not mad. I tell you that they have  reinvented microbes in order to impose a new idea of god.

They have found a new way to bring out god and to capture him in his        microbic noxiousness.

This is to nail him though the heart, in the place where men love him best, under the guise of unhealthy sexuality, in that sinister appearance of morbid cruelty that he adopts whenever he is pleased to tetanize and madden humanity as he is doing now.

He utilizes the spirit of purity and of a consciousness that has remained candid like mine to asphyxiate it with all the false appearances that he spreads universally through space and this is why Artaud le Mômo can be taken for a person suffering from hallucinations.

- What do you mean, Mr. Artaud?

- I mean that I have found the way to put an end to this ape once and for all and that although nobody believes in god any more everybody believes more and more in man.

So it is man whom we must now make up our minds to emasculate.

- How's that?

No matter how one takes you you are mad, ready for the straitjacket.        

- By placing him again, for the last time, on the autopsy table to remake his anatomy. I say, to remake his anatomy. Man is sick because he is badly constructed. We must make up our minds to strip him bare in order to scrape off that animalcule that itches him mortally,

For you can tie me up if you wish, but there is nothing more useless than an organ.

To Have Done With the Judgement of God

[bakugaykatsukii]

I Talk About Bakugou Because I'm Bored

Bakugou. He's best boy. My son.

No, actually, I'mma explain in as few words as possible why I absolutely adore his character.

Oops this got long.

Okay, so it's the first chapter/episode (I'll go off the anime because it's practically identical and more widespread) and it opens with Deku narrating. This is to establish an immediate connection between the audience and the main protagonist; it conveys how important Deku is. Plenty of shows do this so it's not really a big deal, just common practise. HOWEVER, the second character we hear speak is Bakugou, who is insulting Deku.

This is framed in a way that's supposed to make us dislike him, and continues all throughout the first episode. He's presented as a four year old trying to beat up our main character, and then his next scene is being ten years older and Still Trying To Beat Up Our Main Character. This makes him seem rotten to the core, as his character hasn't changed whatsoever in that time, and as an audience we know very little information about him.

On top of that, within this first episode he is deliberately made to have no redeeming qualities, nothing that could make him sympathetic in any way. The Sludge Villain fiasco isn't until ep2, and in this one he literally tells Deku to kill himself, reaching peak middle school bully. He destroys something the Main Protagonist clearly treasures and is privelaged in every conceivable way, even his (later obviously intense) desire to be a hero is simplified to monetary gain, with "I'll be even richer than All Might himself!!!" (or something to that effect). Later on I'd explain such a line to be a result of young Baku trying to quantify his future success, something he never mentions again after the Sludge Villain.

In these first twenty minutes of the anime, he's been absolutely dragged through the mud. Not only is he this arrogant, selfish, mean bully, he's also the sort of bully we can all relate to having, making him even more dislikable! It's so easy for an audience to write him off as irredeemable almost immediately.

But then comes ep2. Seasoned anime watchers likely brush over some small details, but the fact that the Sludge Villain attack happens when Bakugou is 14? Wow. At this point no one likes him, and to many people seeing this happen could come across as a sort of karmic punishment, deserving and therefore less sympathetic. And so Horikoshi succeeds in continuing to make him dislikable but also adding depth to this character who so clearly believed he was invincible.

However, any such depth is pretty much ignored by the audience. I've watched many reactions, and, at this point, due to Bakugou's sub par personality, most people don't care about what happened upon first viewing. To be fair, it's treated as background until Deku steps in and proves himself a hero, at which point he's promised a quirk and That's all anyone can think about.

(also there's some symbolism in this ep because Bakugou and Deku were both attacked by the Sludge Villain and saved by All Might, showing they are actually equals in character and have a lot in common.)

Anyway, so for the first few episodes no one gives two shits about Bakugou because he's meant to be dislikable. He's set up to be as bad as possible without needing to be arrested/never being redeemable. Yet, he's also not clearly set up to be redeemed whatsoever. Let me explain:

Quick break from bnha to head over to atla, Zuko is the perfect redemption arc. And some of that can be attributed to his presentation in the first few episodes: where he's portrayed as antagonistic but still honourable, and has a tragic past. He's the sort of character you know isn't actually bad at heart. But Bakugou hasn't got any tragic back story to speak of, and certainly isn't honourable, so we don't expect a redemption.

That's so interesting to me, because it basically means his character could go in any direction but most shounen fans expect him to be the typical rival. He's mean now and will be mean later, nbd. Will probably betray Deku in order to gain more power. That sort of stuff.

But, as the first season progresses, we're shown that Bakugou (on top of all of his anger issues and cruelty) is also so incredibly determined, to the point where it's harmful. A lot of people, even in season three, expect him to accept the LoV's offer, but as early as ep7 he's shown to be dedicated to being the best on his own. He utterly fails at pretending to be a villain, and doesn't manage to work with his "villain" teammate. When the USJ attack rolls around, he fights alongside Deku.

I feel like I've just word babbled for a while so here's a picture:

Isn't that adorable? Anyway, I continue.

Okay, recap: Bakugou is presented initially as bad and in no way sympathetic, but throughout season one some of his good qualities do get highlighted.

The Sports Festival is probably when I was most on edge about who my favourite character was. Todoroki vs Deku vs Bakugou was a whole internal debate. We all know who eventually won though. Point is, this is the first time Bakugou is supposed to seem likeable.

Like, yes, he helped out at the USJ, but he was still reckless and angry about it. In this arc his flaws stop seeming so antagonistic (even though he's now more at odds with 1-A than he's ever been) and are framed humorously; if you think about it, the only times you're not rooting for Bakugou in this whole arc is when you're laughing at his antics. He stops seeming like a massive unforgivable bully and becomes a secondary threat behind Todoroki, even though he ultimately wins the Festival.

One of the first things he does in the season is tell people messing with their class go away, albeit bluntly, and is then complimented for it by Kirishima, who is the nicest guy in the class! No longer are we supposed to necessarily dislike him, as he's being developed after all of season 1. Him saying "I'm gonna win" as his speach is expected by the audience and laughed at- absolutely nobody watching was scared he'd hurt Deku in some terrible way due to it.

The cavalry battle demonstrates that he can work in a team after some adjustment time, and he gets his own antagonist (Monoma) who we all root against! This makes us closer to his character, as in a way we have a common enemy.

Then obviously the single battles are super interesting, his one against Uraraka especially turning people to his side. Since Aizawa, who as an audience we trust after his actions at the USJ, backs up Bakugou's actions, we accept them as the right thing to have done. Especially since Bakugou later calls Uraraka "not fragile", demonstrating that he can respect people and actually isn't as discriminatory as his earlier actions against Deku might lead one to believe. Everything about this fight is pure gold.

The rest of his fights are also very interesting, so let me go off on a little tangent. He's the only person to 1) be uninjured by the end of the festival (he did win tho so...) and 2) he's the only person to win all of his fights by forcing his opponent into submission. He knocks out Uraraka and Kirishima, goes to knock out Tokoyami but has him give up instead and then knocks out Todoroki! His fights are so much more violent than the others, who are primarily trying to win by pushing their opponent out of the ring or by immobilising them, which could make him come across as more aggressive (which he is). But it actually works for his character considering the way he demonstrates respect is by giving his all, therefore in order to show he cares about these fights he has to go for absolutely decimating the person against him.

Also, interesting side note to all that, out of our main three festival contenders, Bakugou is the only one who actually needs to use the festival for its intended purpose: impressing scouts. Todoroki, as the son of Endeavour, is already known throughout the hero community as a promising young talent, and could even get the No2 hero to coach him if he so wished. Deku even says himself that he doesn't necessarily need to get scouted when All Might is already teaching him. Out of the three Bakugou has the most incentive to actually show off here, no guilt/baggage required.

Anyway blah Stain arc blah. Bakugou picks Jeanist to intern with, which many might think makes him shallow. Their quirks are in no way similar and their images are almost diametrically opposing, and Bakugou only chose him because he's such a highly ranked hero. However, I believe the creators crafted this pairing in order to convey how good of a future hero Bakugou promises to be. BJ, in these episodes, is all talk. He's such a superficial hero that, in order to rectify Bakugou's foul personality, he gives him a haircut. He demonstrates the arrogant nature that Stain hates so much. Meanwhile, Bakugou ignores him and is still arrogant in his own way, obviously, but not for anything other than his own pride. He, when you break it down, spends all of his time working towards a genuinely good goal, just to prove to himself that he's worthy- no desire for fans or fame in there, he wants success but isn't actually looking for any of the perks that come with it. This, imo, makes him better than BJ. Also, Bakugou never actually says he is working with BJ due to his rank and could be doing it because their quirks botha require so much time, practice and effort.

Okay, so, now for the final exams. This is where I decided he was my favourite. He works with Deku etc and proves to the audience that he can work with him and won't necessarily become a villain, plus All Might lets loose a little and proves he too can be violent and mean.

What I really love is about ep24 s2 is actually the bit that makes a lot of people chuckle: where Bakugou bites AM's hand. This kid has been giving his absolute all, putting every ounce of strength into beating his idol, because, lbh, his self worth depends on his success here, until he literally cannot raise his arms to punch anymore. And yet, he still refuses to go down, despite every odd against him. Something about that tenacity is just so incredible to me.

It's almost 1am, let's have another break, shall we?

Idk I thought it was funny when it came onto my dash.

Btw, it's now I wish I knew how to hide most of a post lololol.

Season three is just Baku's season, ngl. Like,,, so many of his Stans got their start here, and it's not hard to tell why. A big reason why Bakugou felt irredeemable was because he had no reason to be so mean, but the narrative makes up for that by then putting him through so many bad experiences.

There's been a million metas on why he's so perfect in this season, and this is already abhorrently long, but ah well.

Okay so he's captured by the League through no fault of his own. As the audience when we find out Bakugou is missing we immediately think he's done the dumb thing and gone off on his own, but it's quickly revealed that he's already been kidnapped. Tokoyami is also taken, cementing that the LoV are looking for kids with some villainous feature, but also showing that their perception of what makes a child villainous is skewed, since we know Tokoyami is good.

At the hideout Baku is entirely restrained and silent, so clearly against his will. If we remember every other time he's been restrained (so goddamn many) we'll think back to the Sludge Villain, finding out Deku had a quirk, after his *win* against Todoroki and his internship with BJ. In this way, it's obvious to tell that this is all a Bad experience for him, as those were all very negative times in his life. There's no way he'll join them.

None of the pros even consider it a possibility. Aizawa defends him against the press (and, once again, we like Aizawa! So we trust him) and none of his classmates think he could be evil, they're all primarily concerned for his safety. Even BJ, who insinuated that Baku could easily become a villain, doesn't appear to believe he'll turn down that path.

Also Baku is pretty cool when he fights of the villain like I'm ngl.

And then, when he sees All Might? And his face screws up? With his lip trembling? It's undercut with a joke but he's so obviously just a scared/relieved kid in that moment and it's gut wrenching to remember that.

It's really getting late and I'm at 11% here so speed round through the provisional licence exam.

He can tell Shindou is two faced

Even though he's blunt he's still got the instincts and smarts of a hero

The class looks up to him

Aizawa has a lot of favouritism for this child, y'all, how did I not notice this?

His failure here is intrinsic to his character growth as it means he hits absolute rock bottom and we can move onto:

Deku Vs Kacchan 2

Where to even start. The guilt and pain he experiences has made me tear up several times just from thinking about them, and that GODDAMN VOICE CRACK AS HE YELLS nope it hurts too bad.

It's sort of the culmination of every emotional issue Bakugou has exhibited throughout the series. He can't find self worth without constant praise and pressures himself to be unimaginably perfect, to a self destructive point. He has no support system in place to help him with these issues. His anger stops being repetitive/funny/annoying and is finally, clearly shown to be more damaging to himself than to anyone else, as he feels the only way he can deal with his stress and hurt is by lashing out at those who try to help him.

In this fight we also learn why Deku, even though he's Baku's victim, still looks up to him so much. And the whole dynamic is so perfect I might cry rn.

I am annoyed, though, that further than that Baku's mental health has been pretty much entirely ignored for 200 manga chapters. Probably my only complaint about him.

.

.

.

At an entirely selfish level, I can relate to Bakugou. Obviously I'm not a teenage boy with explosion powers who bullies people in order to feel any self worth, but the high standards for himself? The pain at any failures? Being told through childhood how great you are only for it to be torn away in your teens? That's all so painfully relatable to me, and so I feel an even deeper connection with his character.

One last picture to finish off:

[daddycardan]

Hi, could you please write some jealous cardan hc. Like somebody was hitting on Jude and he got very mad ;)

omg i’m sorry this took me fucking ages to respond to and it turned out to be incredibly long i got a lil carried away hehe, but here you go my dear cardan being the jealous slut that he naturally is

they’ve been—

well, not together

but they’ve been regularly hooking up during the past few months

sometimes it was messy and rushed, full of harsh words, urging themselves to finish

and other times it was slow and lazy, with long kisses, lingering touches, and soft, drunken whispers

they’ve never actually admitted, but they were kind of together

at least, Cardan liked to think it this way

he liked to think that Jude was his

that she belonged to him

and he hated that Jude so obviously disagreed

because

Jude picked up the habit of making scandalous appearances

at revels, she would wear short dresses that show the whole length of her legs

she would flash side boobs

she would paint her lips blood red, just to attract attention

she would drink and dance and laugh with the wildest group

she would even flirt with them

that shit made Cardan  r a g e

of course, if you asked Jude she would say she was just having a conversation

but Cardan knew better

and the worst part is that he can’t even tell her to stop

because then he would also have to admit that they are together

and that is a no no

so this time Cardan was lounging on his throne in his usual manner, resting his chin in his palm, eyelids slowly lowering as he was about to fall asleep

he was drunk, really drunk

and Jude hasn’t made her appearance yet

this made Cardan wonder what was she doing

is she staying away because she wants to annoy him?

or is she occupied with something or… someone?

or maybe she is just late for some other reason that he was too drunk to figure out?

he leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining a naked Jude sitting on his lap

he had to swallow back a sigh

he was just about to drift off when the constant murmur of the revellers somewhat changed

he opened his eyes again and he immediately noticed Jude, as she was making her way to the tables through the crowd, not even bothering to spare a look at her king

what was she—

Cardan stared at her, wide-eyed, not even believing what he saw

she was wearing nothing but a fine silky fabric wrapped around her body

the whole thing was so thin that her nipples were visible underneath the transparent layers

Cardan instantly felt the effect, mostly on his racing heart and hardening cock

“What the fuck,” he muttered to himself

Jude caught his eyes and her lips curled into a small, wicked smile

she is just playing, Cardan told himself

she just wants to provoke reaction

but when she sat down and started talking to a handsome, blue-skinned faerie boy, Cardan couldn’t think clearly anymore

he tried

he tried really hard not to give her any attention

but he couldn’t stop gawking at them

he noticed that the boy was basically talking to her boobs, not even looking at Jude’s face

he swallowed his anger and jealousy and turned back to his goblet of wine, slowly sipping on it

after ten minutes of sulking and an internal self-pitying monologue, he decided that this just cannot continue anymore

Jude isn’t the only one who can play games

oh no, he will show her

he hopped down from the dais and surrounded by a cloud of courtiers, he joined the twirling dance of the revellers

he hasn’t been with anyone but Jude in the past few months, but now

now, he was intentionally trying to get close to as many people as possible

just to get on Jude’s nerves a little

he was already drunk off his ass, so it didn’t really matter

after fondling at least a dozen boys and girls and making out with just as many, he withdrew from the dancing crowd and sat back on his throne with a satisfied look on his face

his lips were swollen from kissing and his fancy robes of state slightly disarranged

he tried to look for Jude, to see her reaction, to see how jealous he made her

but—

she was gone

and so was the blue boy

Cardan’s heart dropped, heavy ice-cold dread filling his veins

oh, no no no no, not that

he waved his guards away and frantically left the revel through a hidden side door

he rushed towards Jude’s chambers, as fast and quiet as he could

high-pitched laughter rang from somewhere just a few corners away and the realization that it belongs to Jude scared him so much that he almost tripped over in his own robe

he quickly slid behind a marble statue when Jude and the blue boy turned onto the hallway

“You are the most beautiful human being I’ve ever laid my eyes upon,” whispered the boy with a low, dreamy voice

Cardan had to stop himself from scoffing

ridiculous

but when he heard Jude’s giggle

Jude’s giggle

that sound kicked hard in the stomach

Jude never ever giggles

Cardan peered out from behind the statue and could see that the boy is leaning in, presumably with the intention of kissing her

“May I—”

“DON’T TOUCH HER!” he roared and revealing himself, he dashed towards them and shoved the boy away from her

“Cardan, what are you—Have you been following us?” Jude snapped, visibly stunned with surprise. But then surprise vanished and with a dangerous spark in her eyes, she bowed her head with false humility. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, how can I be for your service?”

“Oh, for my service?” Cardan’s voice was full of sour, acidic sarcasm. He could barely keep his temper in check. “Let me think… what about you send this little whore away?”

there was a long silence

the boy blinked at him a few times and when he comprehended, his face twisted into an ugly grimace

“Please forgive us, he didn’t mean—” Jude started pleading to him, but the boy turned on his heels and left, clearly offended

Cardan sighed in relief, but Jude looked furious

for no logical reason, really

like, this little bitch just finally left, she should be glad

“What were you even—AAARGH CARDAN, I could literally strangle you right now!” Jude groaned, clawing her fingers in frustration, staring at Cardan’s throat as though she was seriously considering the idea. “You stupid, stupid creature! Do you have any idea who were you talking to?”

Cardan shrugged

“Some disgusting little slut who was trying to seduce you but fortunately I stopped him before he could do any more harm? Yes, I saved you, your welcome, Jude.”

Jude buried her face in her hands, trying not to lose the remainings of her sanity

“That man was the Ambassador of the Undersea, Orlagh’s ward, from the Court of Pearls. He is the son of one of the most powerful lords of the Undersea.” She exhaled sharply. “You ought to know this, Cardan, for gods’ sake. I was trying to seduce him, to finally get Orlgah’s strategy out of him. Everything was going just perfectly. But thanks to your helpful assistance, now he is never going to talk to us ever again. He might even convince Orlagh to break faith with us and that could lead to open war. Do you understand this?”

Cardan pouted his lips, gaze drifting off, seemingly considering what Jude was saying, but without the slightest sense of guilt whatsoever

“I have a question,” he said finally, suddenly serious

“Yes?” Jude sighed

“Why do you show off your breasts though?”

Jude made a sharp half-laugh half-scoff

“Why do you act like an ignorant jerk though?”

“This is no joke, Jude, it’s really no good when you dress like this.” Cardan sounded like a concerned child, but Jude just sneered at him

“Good to know, next time I’m gonna show up naked.”

Cardan could sense that Jude was just joking, but he was past the point of caring or understanding

“People can’t see you like this,” he insisted, his gaze constantly shifting downwards, without his realizing

“Oh, really? Why?” Jude lifted her chin

“Because… um, because they might find it disturbing,” he blurted. “The Folk doesn’t much like humans. And… their bodies.”

Jude gazed at Cardan with a strange little smile on her face

“Oh, why, for me it looks like some particular Folk is very quite fond of my body.”

“Who could that be?” Cardan wondered

“I don’t know,” Jude stepped closer, so close that he could smell her sweet scent, that he could clearly see the adorable freckles sprayed on the bridge of her nose. “We should find out.”

the look on her face

her dangerous eyes

that little challenging smirk on her lips

that shit is what turns him on

she slowly reached for the edge of the silky, transparent fabric she was wearing, looking him deeply in the eyes

she loosened it enough to fall off, letting the fabric gather on the floor around her ankles

she was standing stark naked in front of him in the middle of the deserted, cold hallway

Cardan felt a jolt of guilty, hot lust spreading through his body as blood rushed into his cock

Jude tilted her head as if she were contemplating something

her palm pressed against his bulge, feeling his hardness

she looked up at his face, a dirty smirk pulling her lips

“You still can’t resist me, do you, little jealous bastard?”

no, he couldn’t

and he couldn’t resist grinning either when they headed to the bedroom

[b0x]

i hate that post that's like “we would've gotten a better trilogy if they'd just let rian johnson write all three films than playing hot potato with jj” like i get the point it's trying to make but you're forgetting that rj was fighting tooth and nail for the tlj r*ylo narrative since day 1 so you do realise we would've just gotten the same trilogy as we got now.......

further Thoughts on the trilogy as a whole and a few troc spoilers under the cut

also you KNOW that even if jj COULD have had a hand in saving it... there’s no saving a screenplay written by the guy who did the justice league films

No Comment. No Thoughts. Head Empty. everything post tfa was doomed from the start

have you SEEN the screenwriters for tfa? THAT’S why that one was so good, THAT’S why tfa succeeded as an excellent reboot of a long-dormant franchise. kasdan and arndt and jj should've been on for ALL THREE, and if they couldn’t, then a hiatus was the way to fucking go. rian never should have Touched it, never should have even Looked in its direction.

tfa had the essence of sw BECAUSE the essence of sw wrote it! tlj and tros isn’t sw!!!! 

they rly just tried to make Anakin..... 2! with kylo... but somehow... even Worse. you can’t make an anakin story Without showing kylo’s motives and morals - oh, except, you Did show his motives and morals, and they were in no way redeeming whatsoever! anakin had a whole ARC of complexity that allows for endless discussion on morality and justifiability that led him to earn his redemption. all kylo had was a blood tie to han and leia, which!!!! if anything!!!!!! made his motives and morals WORSE, knowing that he had the most IDEAL most loving and perfect upbringing and he still chose the dark side. that makes any love received from han or leia or luka or even fucking rey completely insignificant because we ALREADY KNOW what it means to him. all of this shit was so worthless!!!!!!!! fuck!

and i have a lot to say about rian johnson because i Cannot for the life of me believe the guy behind BRICK (2005) was taken on for tlj, WHILE TFA WASN’T EVEN FINISHED YET. i really didn’t think this had to be said but that is just NOT how you make a Trilogy. that is how you make Three Separate Films and guess what! that is exactly what we got! and it honestly saddens me to think that the guy behind the beautiful 6 minute music video ‘oh baby’ by lcd sound system, inspired by some of his greatest work in looper (and even brick!), would then take the absolute worst of his worst and apply that to a star wars franchise that desperately needed his best. and there’s something hilarious about that too, that you have this huge sandbox FULL of belief-suspending ridiculousness and STILL somehow make it fail? make it atrocious? that takes skill. it’s like that one post that was like “you have to ACTUALLY put EFFORT into making something this bad” like it’s no longer silly mistakes or lacklustre energy, this was ACTIVE sabotage.

the fact rian Had the Understanding of the core concepts of star wars right in his hands, but somehow completely missed the entire point of them? if you look at the films he screened to his story group during the development of tlj... this handful of culturally and historically significant war films that just seem like he screened for aesthetic and reference purposes only instead of actually exploring and analysing the importance and criticism of the exonerating war propaganda and racist source materials and using these films to inspire the actual groundwork of some of the root themes of current climates and today’s culture in a sw universe... i bet big bucks on the fact that twelve o clock high was only screened to inspire the air battle on crait (red salt planet) and because of ‘VIII Bomber Command’ because ha ha hee hee tlj is episode VIII and hoo hoo hoo *you’ve been gnomed.mp4* 

the general rule is this: when reading ANY report on tlj and tros and something like “the characters came first” is mentioned, just exit out the window, it’s already a botched article/thinkpiece.

i’m also thinking a lot about how arndt translated his first draft for tfa into a script for eight months and said he needed 18 more, which disney and jj said no to, so he left, and IMMEDIATELY after jj kept saying how relieved he was that the release date was delayed and gave him more time that he also needed. like.. you had your lesson then and there. did they learn from it? *disney forcing rian to write tlj at the same time as tfa was still being made* No!

i am ALSO thinking about how they had considered fincher, brad bird, jon favreau, del toro, even getting development suggestions by spielberg.......... and rian johnson is who they called up for tlj.... my head is... empty.

just give the fucking thing to taika waititi he understands the nuances of the socio-political climates of sw’s narratives built around a guise of a fun sci-fi fantasy adventure-drama. he understands. that’s literally the very definition of his style of writing and directing. Makes You Think Why The Mandalorian Is A Hit.... they already gave him 2 mandalorian episodes just give him the whole franchise i cant take it anymore. 

AND NOW THEY’RE GIVING RIAN JOHNSON A WHOLE NEW TRILOGY? RIAN? RIAN JOHNSON? THEY’RE GIVING HIM A WHOLE NEW TRILOGY AFTER WHAT HAPPENED... HERE. SURE.. OKAY . ALRIGHT. IT’S HONESTLY MIND-BLOWING. THE THOUGHT PROCESS THAT GOES INTO CONSECUTIVE DECISIONS SUCH AS THIS. like i would LOVE to see footage of the board meeting for this. no sarcasm i am GENUINELY curious to hear what was said to greenlight this. i have GOT to know what post tros board meetings about this will be like. 

anyway! op of that post! i will be thinking about you when the new rj trilogy drops!

what’s worse about this whole trilogy is that.. they Had it. they had it in the bag with tfa. they HAD the original idea they HAD the power to make a sw trilogy set to current climates JUST LIKE THE PREVIOUS TRILOGIES DID, cos that’s what sw is all about! what it was ALWAYS about! a space opera reflective of current times and climates. but disney turned it into a Keeping Up With The Skywalkers reality tv show that’s nothing more than a sci-fi fantasy light show and vfx flex to keep the brand alive, and personally, i think that’s ultimately one of the reasons it’s so hated and why it failed (of course rampant misogyny/sexism, racism, homophobia under the guise of geek culture within the sw community and in the production itself is a whole other discussion and is another humongous part of why it’s hated and why it failed)

and it’s why hamill had every right to criticise tlj the way he did with rotj, why boyega and isaac and ridley had Every right to their commentary on their distaste of the second and third instalments. how the only reason they’d rescind what they said was due to their contracts. how their silence was necessary to squeeze every last dollar out of consumers because god forbid a potential boycott due to their own star’s “controversial” (Correct) judgements and disapprovals

they really had it in the bag..

a female protagonist who could be a chosen one regardless of her blood and family ties, a protagonist that reflected the importance and validity of found family, and the idea that Anyone can be a “Skywalker”, a symbol of hope and a fighter for justice and goodness and love in the world, especially in the darkest of times... a young woman being just as powerful, as Chosen, as essential as Luke and Anakin were... a narrative that couldve been commentary on the necessity of women needing to do double the work, make double the effort, to earn the same spot of her counterparts. and with the second and third instalments, especially NOW, with the growth and vocalisation of the MeToo movement, the narrative of strength to speak out against abusers, to fight back and to thrive, a symbol of justice, to teach that men such as kylo who refuse consequence, who actively and soberly choose violence and manipulation for the strengthening of the self, who will ignore and deny all opportunities to better the self, to know their guilt, to make up for their actions, are the ones who are irredeemable. that people like him are not owed any time or understanding or belief in, when that belief perpetuates the violent and oppressive nature they are indefinitely attracted to and make themselves defined by.

a black hero raised by violence and refusing to be defined by it and unlocking the force within as a symbol of that strength within over encompassing goodness, to have a hero that breaks that harmful narrative stereotype that black characters have had for decades and still continue to do so, to have a voice and a hero that fights with love and kindness, that is able to find family and support in a place beyond what he believes he is allowed to have, the significance of a hero being deemed a “traitor”, a term that holds weight in the shame of seeking your own independence and identity, versus the cathartic empowerment of thriving in the independence you make for yourself in the end. a black hero that defeats his oppressors, oppressors that belong to a policing fascist regime, a faction that has always from the very beginning been a depiction of nazis, of authoritarian nationalism. 

a canonical gay latino man freedom fighter, being the best in his career as a literal symbol of hope for the resistance, a literal symbol of the climates for lgbt folk in regards to resisting those same fascist nazi regimes, resisting laws against lgbt existence, lgbt employability, lgbt success. a man who grew into a legacy of heroism, surrounded by it, something that could have been powerful poignant commentary on the necessity to sacrifice lives so others like his didn’t have to, the very narrative to fight for a world that the innocents and the ones he loves could have peace in, could have a future in, could Exist in. poe fights in the skies because he knew damn well the effect of believing in someone that is human, like you, instead of a force that is bigger than anything you could ever know or believe in. poe brings humanity and realism to an otherwise fanatical universe of magic and religion and chaos of endless war that means nothing, that is based on nothing. poe is commentary on fighting a fight that you have no choice but to fight, that you are forced to fight from birth just for the very act of Existing. his humanity and realism is a significant grounding necessity for our two protagonist heroes and it is appalling that he’d just be discarded the way he was, shallowly played off as sideline comic relief, much like lgbt narratives and characters are expressed in pretty much ANY media today, so it comes as no surprise. 

the three most vital narratives that should have been told in this trilogy but no of course not (disney voice) gimme my Fackin MANEY. it’s the silence of marginalised voices cleverly disguised under hollow face-value representation.

honestly, even rey being blood-related to palpatine as his granddaughter was such a strong and perfect set-up for The Narrative That Could’ve Been TM, but instead they had palpatine make it a whole weird pseudo-marriage thing that was just so. backwards and unbelievably shocking that it was in a 2019 era star wars film.

wow marriage story and the rise of skywalker really is the same movie huh

yes we wanted a grey jedi protagonist hero that gets tempted by the dark side but this was the absolute worst way that could’ve been explored. like if they were just gonna recycle old characters and old storylines and make them worse they could’ve at least looked at darth maul or asajj ventress and the nightsisters

and NO WONDER oscar looked so DEFEATED every time finnpoe was mentioned cos he fought for that shit tooth and nail and they? ? ? they gave him a funny ha ha hee hee hoo hoo straight flirt scene? ? with like his ex or something, where they imply they get back together? COMPLETELY destroying the ENTIRE narrative of his character that was so lovingly built and developed in the Official Canon Comic Series About Him ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

NO WORDS. there are NO WORDS. head EMPTY. no not even empty there's NO HEAD at all i am BEHEADED

finn had NOTHING in this film. Nothing. how are you gonna make him a joint-protag with rey and give him Nothing? 

anyone with brain cells knows that what finn truly was trying to tell rey the entire film was that he was force sensitive, i will take this to my grave, and that should’ve built up to this grand reveal where they empower each other and take down palpatine and kylo as one, as the joint-protagonists they were Literally Fucking Written And Built Up To Be. they gave EVERY antagonist to REY. what was the POINT. rey had her significant clash with kylo across two films, hell, even in this one (before the Final one), tros was the penultimate film about her family, her bloodline, so her significant final battle should have been with palpatine a la rotj. the person who DESERVED to clash with and take down kylo once and for all was FINN, even a TODDLER would understand WHY. 

but considering everything, i would take the thing finn was trying to tell her the entire film being that he loves her ANY DAY if it meant whatever the fuck we got instead Never Happened.

finn got made general and not only was it a blink-and-you-miss bit but it adds NOTHING, yes it’s something to celebrate and of Course he deserves it, but it holds zero significance to him as a character. like i mentioned earlier, when han was made general, that never defined him. he was still han solo and it took a Dozen other significant scenarios and twists to make him a significant and vital memorable character. han solo isn’t known for “being a general”. he’s known for being han fucking solo, a critical puzzle piece in the taking down of the empire, a scamp-turned-deeply-loyal friend and lover, a man who not only got his own personal storyline concluded to the level it deserved to be (the repercussions of his bounty hunter life, the importance of the falcon, his relationships with lando, luke, and leia, his triumph over his captors even when it was luke and leia who freed him). 

side note, this was maybe the one thing that tfa screwed up, the entire point and development of the original trilogy, it sort of felt a bit moot with how they put a “twist” on han, leia and luke’s relationship, especially when it came to kylo. but i think there are some forgivable aspects to it for the sake of the new trio, and that’s why those executive decisions kind of Worked! this is, of course, for another discussion bc this is about the new trilogy.

leia IS known for being a general because part of her entire storyline revolves around it and the significance of it!!! which is why finn being made general just feels so... i don’t know! just completely disrespectful, to both him as a character, and to generals who are defined by this position (such as, hello!!!!! poe!!! poe fucking dameron!!!! a man raised by the resistance!!! a man who’s entire life and prior legacy was entirely dedicated to the resistance!!!! him being made general MEANT something). it’s like rubbing salt in the wound of the fact that finn has been discarded as the protagonist he was meant to be, the story, development and conclusion he never got, just to slap general on him and call it a day and then write about his actual development in a novel that 3/4ths of the ppl who watch the films will never read. 

and that's just the core story stuff!!! do NOT get me started on the general lore proposed in this shit. i’m talking about the force ghost nonsense and the convenience of some of the timing choices (rewriting the way death works in sw, claiming that rey “didn’t really die/wasn’t really dead” since she didn’t fade which in itself completely destroys the entire plot they were going for with the resurrection scene, the timing of the fades themselves bullshitted for “dramatic cinematic purposes”), the entire palpatine storyline, the bullshit with snoke and the lack of explanation, all these one-off characters that have the lore capacity of an overwatch character when instead they could have developed the ones that already existed and had the opportunity to be fleshed out and CARED about

the FACT that HUX (hux!!!!!!!!!) had a more interesting storyline in all three films with a total screentime of maybe 10 minutes than these one-offs whose only purpose is to stroke the cock of sw nostalgia seekers and lore aficionados. to make these characters so inaccessible that to fully appreciate them, fans have to dive into hundreds of different novels and comics and games and whatnot. like if you make it so that the Only way someone can experience a character’s full essence is by reading their wiki page then you’ve failed in creating them, in writing them, in including them, in using them, in whatever them. you’ve just failed as a creator.

and the ONLY reason hux got a reaction (a barebones reaction but a reaction nonetheless) out of me was because they essentially just turned him into phasma 2 which is SO telling of the climate of this trilogy.

it’s a recycled trilogy. that’s all it is. it’s a recycled series of films where tfa’s originality was completely entirely scrapped and ignored because rian wanted to write his personal fanfiction more than he wanted to continue the story he was given, and did everything he could to insert that whenever he could, and kennedy, of course, let him, because she realised giving herself indulging content other than fifty shades and radfem articles that she could jerk off to was more important than telling a critical story where its wonder and valuable, influential morals could’ve stayed in this generation’s minds for years to come.

if you want to watch tros just watch the prequel trilogy instead you'll get the same story except actually good.

[picsofsannyas]

OSHO, ARE YOU INFALLIBLE?

OSHO, ARE YOU INFALLIBLE?

Thomas V. Kempis, I am infallibly fallible! First, I am not a perfectionist because to me perfectionism is the root cause of all neurosis. Unless humanity gets rid of the idea of perfection it is never going to be sane. The very idea of perfection has driven the whole of mankind to a state of madness. To think in terms of perfection means you are thinking in terms of ideology, goals, values, shoulds, should-nots. You have a certain pattern to fulfill and if you fall from the pattern you will feel immensely guilty, a sinner. And the pattern is bound to be such that you cannot achieve it. If you can achieve it then it will not be of much value to the ego.

So the intrinsic quality of the perfectionist ideal is that it should be unattainable, only then is it worth attaining. You see the contradiction? And that contradiction creates a schizophrenia: you are trying to do the impossible, which you know perfectly well is not going to happen -- it cannot happen in the very nature of things. If it can happen then it is not much of a perfection; then anybody can do it. Then there is not much ego nourishment in it: your ego cannot chew on it, cannot grow on it. The ego needs the impossible -- and the impossible, by its very nature, is not going to happen. So only two alternatives are left: one is, you start feeling guilty. If you are innocent, simple, intelligent, you will start feeling guilty -- and guilt is a state of sickness.

I am not here to create any guilt in you. My whole effort is to help you to get rid of all guilt. The moment you are free of guilt, rejoicing bursts forth. And guilt is rooted in the idea of perfection.

The second alternative is: if you are cunning then you will become a hypocrite, you will start pretending that you have achieved it. You will deceive others and you will even try to deceive yourself. You will start living in illusions, hallucinations, and that is very unholy, very irreligious, very unwholesome. To pretend, to live a life of pretensions is far worse than the life of a guilty man. The guilty man at least is simple, but the pretender, the hypocrite, the saint, the so-called sage, the mahatma, is a crook. He is basically inhuman -- inhuman to himself because he is repressing; that's the only way to pretend. Whatsoever he finds in himself which goes against perfection has to be repressed. He will be boiling within, he will be full of anger and rage. His anger and rage will come out in thousands of ways; in subtle ways, indirect ways, it will surface. Even people like Jesus -- nice, good -- are full of anger, rage: and they are against such innocent things -- you cannot believe.

Jesus comes followed by his followers -- that bunch of fools they call apostles. He is hungry, that whole bunch is hungry. They come to a fig tree, and the fig tree is not in season. It is not its fault, but Jesus gets so angry that he condemns the fig tree, he curses the fig tree. Now, how is this possible? On the one hand he says, "Love thy enemy as thyself." On the other hand he cannot even forgive a fig tree which has no fruits because it is not the season.

This dichotomy, this schizophrenia has prevailed in humanity for thousands of years.

He says, "God is love," but still God manages a hell. If God is love, the first thing to be destroyed should be hell; hell should be immediately burnt, removed. The very idea of hell is of a very jealous God. But Jesus was born a Jew, lived a Jew, died a Jew; he was not a Christian, he had never heard the word "Christian." And the Jewish idea of God is not a very beautiful idea.

The Talmud says -- the declaration is made in God's own words -- "I am a jealous God, very jealous. I am not nice! I am not your uncle!" This God is bound to create hell. In fact, to live even in heaven with such a God -- who is not your uncle, who is not nice, who is jealous -- will be hell. What kind of paradise will you have attained by living with him? There will be a despotic, dictatorial atmosphere -- no freedom, no love. Jealousy and love cannot exist together. So even the so-called good people have been causes of human misery. It hurts because we have never pondered over these things. We have never tried to excavate our past, and all the root causes of our misery are in our past. And, remember perfectly well, your past is more dominated by Jesus, Mahavira, Confucius, Krishna, Rama, Buddha, than by Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Tamburlaine, Genghis Khan, Nadir Shah. History books talk about these people, but they are not part of your unconscious. They may be part of history, but they don't make up your personality; your personality is formed by so-called good people. Certainly, they had a few good qualities in them, but side by side there was a duality, and the duality arose from the idea of perfection.

Jainas say that Mahavira never perspired. How can a perfect man perspire? I can perspire -- I am not a perfect man! And perspiration in summer is so beautiful that I would rather choose perspiration than perfection! Because a man who does not perspire simply has a plastic body, synthetic, non-breathing, non-porous. The whole body breathes, that's why you perspire; perspiration is a natural process of keeping your body temperature constantly the same. Now, Mahavira must be burning inside like hell! How will he manage to keep his body temperature constant? Without perspiration it cannot be done, it is impossible. Jainas say that when a snake wounded Mahavira's feet, not blood but milk flowed out of the feet. Now, milk is possible only if Mahavira's feet were not feet but breasts -- and a man who has breasts on his feet should be put in a circus! This is their idea of perfection: a perfect man cannot have a dirty thing like blood, a bloody thing like blood, he is full of milk and honey. But just imagine: a man full of milk and honey will stink! Milk will turn into curd and the honey will attract all kinds of mosquitoes and flies; he will be completely covered with flies! I don't like this kind of perfection.

Mahavira is so perfect that he does not urinate, does not defecate; these things are for imperfect human beings. You cannot imagine Mahavira sitting on a toilet seat -- impossible -- but then where does all his shit disappear to? Then he must be the shittiest man in the world.

I have read in the medical journals about a man -- the longest case of constipation: eighteen months. But these medical people are not aware of Mahavira -- this is nothing -- FORTY years! This is the longest period that any man has been able to control his bowels. This is real yoga! The greatest case of constipation in the whole history of man... and I don't think anybody is going to defeat him.

These stupid ideas have been perpetuated just to make humanity suffer. If you have these ideas in your mind then you will feel guilty about everything. Pissing, you are guilty -- what are you doing? Sitting on a toilet, and you are falling into hell! If blood comes out of your body -- a deep humiliation.

Jesus walks on water, tries to revive a dead friend, but cannot himself survive on the cross; tries to cure blind people, deaf people, but cannot make a single stupid man enlightened, cannot help a single fool to come out of his foolishness, cannot save a single human being by hitting him hard on the head and saying, "See, the goose is out!"

Thomas V. Kempis, I am very fallible because I am not a neurotic, I am not psychotic, I am not a perfectionist. And I love my imperfections... I love this world because it is imperfect. It is imperfect, and that's why it is growing; if it was perfect it would have been dead. Growth is possible only if there is imperfection. Perfection means a full stop, perfection means ultimate death; then there is no way to go beyond it.

I would like you to remember again and again, I am imperfect, the whole universe is imperfect, and to love this imperfection, to rejoice in this imperfection is my whole message.

The psychiatrist leaned back and placed the tips of his fingers together while he soothed the deeply-troubled man who stood before him. "Calm yourself, my good fellow," he gently urged. "I have helped a great many others with fixations far more serious than yours. Now, let me see if I understand the problem correctly. You indicate that in moments of great emotional stress you believe that you are a dog. A fox terrier, is that not so?" "Yes, sir," mumbled the patient. "A small fox terrier with black and brown spots. Oh, please tell me you can help me, doctor. If this keeps up much longer, I don't know what I'll do...." The doctor gestured toward the couch. "Now, now," he soothed, "the first thing to do is lie down here, and we'll see if we can't get to the root of your delusion." "Oh, I couldn't do that, doctor," said the patient. "I'm not allowed up on the furniture."

Once you get an idea deep-rooted in you it starts becoming a reality. Perfectionism is a neurotic idea. Infallibility is good for stupid Polack popes but not for intelligent people. An intelligent person will understand that life is an adventure, a constant exploration through trial and error. That's its very joy, its very juice!

I don't want you to be perfect. I want you to be just as perfectly imperfect as possible. Rejoice in your imperfections! Rejoice in your very ordinariness! Beware of so-called "His Holinesses" -- they are all "His Phoninesses." If you like such big words like "His Holiness" then make a title such as "His Very Ordinariness" -- HVO, not HH! I preach ordinariness. I make no claims for any miracles; I am a simple man. And I would like you also to be very simple so that you can get rid of these two polarities: that of guilt and that of hypocrisy. Exactly in the middle is sanity.

St Peter challenged the Archangel Gabriel to a game of golf. St. Peter's first drive resulted in a hole-in-one. Gabriel's first drive produced the same result The same thing happened at the next shot. St. Peter looked at Gabriel thoughtfully and then said, "What do you say we cut out the miracles and play some golf?"

I am not infallible, and I would never like to be infallible either, because that is suicidal. I would like to commit as many mistakes as possible and I would like to go on committing mistakes to the very end of my last breath, because that means life. If you are capable of committing mistakes even at the very last breath you have conquered death.

A Zen Master was dying... and I have a deep love for the Zen approach for the simple reason that they also rejoice in ordinariness. That's the beauty of Zen: no religion has been able to rise to such heights of ordinariness.

The Master was very old, nearabout eighty. He gathered his disciples and said, "Now this is my last day. I don't think I will be able to see the sunset, and the sun is setting on the horizon. I have called you all to suggest some new way to die." They were a little puzzled. They said, "What do you mean by 'new way'?" He said, "People have died in bed, people have died in the bathroom, people have died this way and that. All those things have been done before, and I always like to do things in a new way, in my own way. Can you suggest something? Have you ever heard of somebody dying in a standing posture?" There was silence. One man said, "Yes, I have heard about a Zen Master who died standing." He said, "Then that is dropped! Have you heard of anybody dying standing upside-down, on his head, doing a SIRSHASAN, a headstand?" Everybody said, "We have not heard of such a thing, we have not even imagined such a thing, that anybody would die standing on his head!" So he said, "That will do!" The old man stood on his head, and it is said that there were all the visible signs that he was dead. But there was a difficulty; the difficulty was that the Zen disciples were in a very puzzling situation: what to do with this old man now? They had never heard of any ritual for somebody dying standing on his head. What had to be done? They knew perfectly well what had to be done when somebody died in bed, but what to do with this man? And he was standing there dead on his head! Somebody suggested: "We should run.... His old sister lives just close by; she is a nun. She may be able to do something or suggest something. And she is even crazier than this old man!" So they ran. The sister came and shouted at her brother and said, "Look, your whole life you have been a trouble! At least die peacefully, don't make much fuss about it! And why are you driving these poor disciples crazy? Get up and lie down on the bed!" The old man laughed, got up and lay down on the bed, and he said, "Who has brought this crazy sister of mine here? She won't even let me die in an improper way!" But he said, "Okay, you be happy. This is your last desire, and I have never followed any advice of yours. At least this much I can do before I depart." But the woman did not stay there to see him depart. She said, "You just lie down there. I am going. And die on the bed in a proper way. No more trouble." And she left, and the old man died in the bed in a proper way.

This is how life should be lived. I am not a saint, I am not a sage. All those hocus-pocus words don't mean anything to me. I am certainly a little bit crazy, but it is because of my craziness that you can rely on me! Never rely on saints, never rely on sages -- they will drive you nuts!

It was teatime in the pad, and the air hung heavy in thick blue folds as the beat bunch and their tourist friends lit up. Suddenly, a loud voice in the hall demanded that they open the door in the name of legality. The smokers frantically gathered their still-smoking weeds and stuffed them in the cuckoo clock. The police entered, searched diligently, found nothing and left. The bunch breathed a sigh of relief and made for the cuckoo clock just as the clock's hands announced 3 a.m. The little door popped open, the bird poked his head out and said, "Hey, man, what time is it?"

Osho.

The Goose is out.

Ch 5

[skinfeeler]

I watched Joker (2019) at the cinema last night. It induced in me a lot of thoughts about the film, but also about the nature of criticism and art in general. Because I respect people’s time and general sensibility, I’m putting the rest of this post under a cut. Content warnings surrounding discussion of (sexual) violence, and obviously a number of spoilers.

I left the room feeling uncertain how to interpret what I had just watched, and for this reason (and others) quite uncomfortable. As a narrative the film seemed disjointed and overly metaphorical, certainly as a movement of set-up, crescendo, climax, and denouement the film made no sense because the film for the most part utterly denied itself a clear and uninterrupted line in events. This was because of certain scenes in the film that can with certainty be said to not possibly have happened in the way they did on the screen, even with suspension of disbelief intact, but also in general the solipsism of the film— Arthur Fleck seemed like the only character in the film with everyone at most taking a rather symbolic, flat, role (Thomas Wayne) or only purposefully serving as a source of narrative unreliability and confusion (Penny Fleck). Most characters, however, were simply part of an unindividuated antagonistic bloc whose sole purpose seemed to truncate both its own humanity and Arthur's— perhaps this is what we could call 'society', or something.

It took me a moment of talking to friends to find a method through which this film perhaps not quite become intelligible, but at the very least that I could get something out of it. This method is one of doing away with the narrative and instead, trying to view it as a character study.

Certain parts of the film become immediately more palatable when viewed this way, or at least, easier to parse as meaning anything at all. For example, we don't have to accept the pop criticism analysis of that his relationship with his neighbor is something Arthur hallucinated and then realised he hallucinated. Instead, we can take each of the scenes in which she is present as something that tells us something about Arthur even if not extant in the ‘real narrative’— while he is truly and actually maligned by society, it can't be said that Arthur himself is particularly sensitive to the complicated humanity of those around him. For example, when it comes to Penny, he seems to have absolutely no regard for the simultaneous plight and guilt surrounding her character, that of a woman who, yes, let him be abused by her boyfriend but who herself was also being abused by him and presumably had her own troubled past.

Likewise, we can state that if his neighbor were to be present in the scenes in which she couldn't possibly have been (since it would defy all plausability of that relationship developing in that way), Arthur would actually have seen her as how she acted in those scenes: A symbol, at most. An anchor. Something without particular agency or drives or motives of her own, which she only reclaims in the final scene that she's in, where she is concerned with the safety of her daughter and Arthur leaving her apartment. The disparity between her as a an agent and the scenes in which her presence was imaginary (as opposed to unreal) tells us something about Arthur, even if it tells us nothing about the narrative.

When it comes to Penny, perhaps it doesn't matter so much to Arthur whether she had her own complicated reality of pain and powerlessness. In the moment where Arthur killed her, he was simply reclaiming a kind of power he never had. Arthur has no social means to power, so he resorts to presocial means, or really just only ever one, which is murder. And not just any kind of murder, not the kind of violence of slowly strangling someone, or beating someone into a pulp until they pass away as a combination of factors such as lung failure, neural trauma, and internal bleeding, but the kind of violence with a huge power differential where the moment he decides someone dies, they're already dead, a wish spoken to remove someone from this world that one immediately grants oneself. A terminally ill woman can't defend herself against smothering, and even an able-bodied adult man stands no chance in the second between the revolver being unholstered and being shot in the head.

Hypnotising, really. In particular that moment where the third businessman who was first harassing a woman on the train and then beating Arthur up is now slowly limping away as Arthur casually follows him, you can see every aspect of his fear, the sheer realisation that the social dominion he enjoys means nothing when faced with a cartridge of sufficient caliber.

I feel that this is significant somehow, the fact that Arthur is both traumatised into being unable to parse the very intricate and individual drives of the people surrounding him, and the fact that he recognises that this is happening to him, constantly, and acts very purposefully to circumvent it through means which in turn allow no resistance in any sense whatsoever. All of this can, of course, be attributed to trauma as an aspect of the character study of the film, and for this reason I believe that the scenes-that-couldn't-possibly-have-happened and the very real violence he enacts are part of one and the same network of themes.

The fact that for most of the film Arthur is simultaneously treated by the narrative as the one person with humanity (but having this unrecognised by society) but Wayne and everyone else is portrayed as not possessing it (but at the very least conditionally having some of it bestowed upon them by those around them) is an important part of this conceit.

The inherent hypocrisy of Arthur’s character as maligned but having no qualm with truncating the subjectivities around him shows us both that the way he views things is disturbed and that he is legitimately cut off from others, that he genuinely cannot conceive of why he should not act as he does, but the harm he does is real. It’s obvious that we know Arthur did not have any choice in becoming the kind of person he ended up being, but also that he's not in particular a 'good person', if that means anything at all. One could possibly draw parallels to Brad in LISA: The Painful RPG, but to anyone who has played that game I shouldn't have to explicitly draw the links.

Furthermore, this baseline of the ineluctable unpleasantness of Arthur's character helps us differentiate between the parts of the film where he can meaningfully choose what to do, actions he undertakes without the force majeure of trauma and mental illness making any other options not even appear in his head. From here we could possibly draw a parallel to the utter meaninglessness of Alex’ actions in A Clockwork Orange post-Ludivico, a film in which this particular theme is much more explicit, although there’s a contrast of the ability to be compassionate being truncated as opposed to the ability to be cruel.

(To be clear, I'm working with the framework of "what could you reasonably expect from someone who has had their psyche malformed like that?" whether it is the lack of 'good' deeds from Arthur or the lack of 'evil' deeds from Alex as opposed to a blanket condemnation/sanctification of character.)

This is where directorial fiat starts meaning anything, or from a more in-universe perspective, what little agency Arthur himself has left— Watsonian or Doylist analysis, who gives a shit, you know what I mean.

There are a couple actions Arthur took that were completely unwarranted, which were neither reactions to imminent threats or reactions to people who had wronged him in the past. In particular, I am referring here to him sexually assaulting his neighbor — even if not a real scene within the narrative, it still tells us something about Arthur as within the aforementioned parameters — and later the woman on TV.

Were he not to have taken those actions, a meaningful moral judgement — a positive one but in particularly the negative ones — could not possibly have been ascribed to him, because all of his actions could have been conceivably reduced to simple learned traumatic behaviors and reactions to impending harm. The story of Arthur could have been one of a gun cocked by SOCIETY and then exploding in its own face.

However, since not all of his actions can be placed within this framework, we can say something about Arthur for certain that I don't feel we could unequivocally have before: He is not the hero of this story. There are actions of his to which morality meaningfully applies, and in a negative light— as opposed to not being a bad person, the 'not' here referring to the futility of trying to ascribe morality to the actions of those who have certain faculties truncated from their psyche. But why opt for this in the script?

If Arthur could possibly have had all of his actions justified or at least hypothetically justifiable, he would have been the hero of the story. And 'the hero of the story' implies 'story', it implies 'narrative', it would have meant a regression to the narrative structure that the film explicitly seemed to be avoiding, at least most of the time. Joker (2019) wouldn't have been a character study, it would've regressed to a relatively standard narrative with an antihero. Thus, I think it makes sense to insert these actions as a diversion of the baseline of things which could really not have been any different in any categorical way (the killings in self-defense, general acts of revenge, the general insensitivity to the humanity of all others).

All of this is very complicated and challenging, perhaps in particular to those who aren't familiar with the larger lines of the subjectivity that is Arthur: One of a kind of mental illness that not even provisional accommodation exists for, particular economic dependence and destitution, and a general sense of being cut off from the world soul or whatever metaphysical metaphor you would like to use.

(The reason I want to use a metaphysical metaphor is because the longer you are both stuck in and at odds with society, the more everything that happens feels like a presocial fact, something that is intrinsic to you, rather than something that is occuring for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with you. One could choose to draw a distinction between saying that all of it is absurd, that the very construction of value in a Marxist sense creates an impersonal system of domination upon us all, or that the reason why things are as they are is the result of the enforced interests of certain blocs, but this doesn't really matter here. The fact that this reality is rapidly occluded from those who are subjugated to it remains, and that education to circumvent this occlusion and being reminded of what one knows by oneself and others is necessary to not keep returning to a mindset where one feels like something is intrinsically wrong with oneself rather than with society or whatever.)

All art produced by humans, even mass-produced art, is the result of the labor of those who even if they have no particular personal creative input, still levy the aspects of the contexts they are embedded in within the film. No film about a truly alien universe is possible, if it were, it would intrinsically not be possible for humans to conceive of and portray on any medium. Thus we have to conclude that this film, too, says something about perhaps all of us, and those around us.

This is very difficult. The morality of the film is so contradictory as to be completely reprehensible to anyone with any worldview at all, and trying to view it as a character study protects us from being impacted by it. It's a film about Arthur, after all, not us, a twisted person who does not deserve our sympathy. This contradiction doesn’t matter if we abstract Arthur away from ourselves.

I would call this cowardice, or at least, a kind of fear. There is a difference between consuming art from a critical, analytic distance, and really engaging with it. This is of course scary to most people, and I think many of us, even or perhaps especially those who claim to be hardcore critics and analytics are often unwilling to do this. After all, if we really open our minds and hearts to the art we interact with, we don't know how we will end up on the other side.

Will we come to question our preconceptions about who deserves sympathy? Does anyone, even, does the concept retain meaning in a world in which we are all traumatised? Does everyone, perhaps, which may be much scarier to some of us? Why do people behave in the way they do? It would be so easy to assume that the people we hate are behaving either irrationally or from a position of malice, and the idea that everyone has reasons to do what they're doing is a difficult one when we have been hurt by others.

There are a lot of questions like these that pop up when we truly take art for what it is, and I think most of us just can't be bothered. Certainly I couldn't while watching this film, or immediately after it.

This is why I think why a lot of both professional critics and more casual consumers seem to have trouble taking this film in. As a narrative, this film is obnoxious, frustrating, incoherent. As a character study, however, it is still painful, but if you dare to see it that way, you will get way more out of the film than you otherwise would. However, I feel even this is still a layer of abstraction too far removed from the meaning that the film could potentially confer upon us, but it’s one that people seem to be consistently refusing, judging by the state of discourse surrounding this film.

There are certain areas where analysis and ideology fail, or even if they succeed at a totalising idea of how to organise communities and lives, they don't suffice to let us truly perceive ourselves and others. There are certain things that can only be conveyed through art in this way, and at times, even the methodical structures surrounding art can prevent us from getting out of it what we can from nowhere else.

If Joker (2019) fails at any point, I would say it fails here, the parts where it fails to commit to disemphasising the narrative, where they return to the frame of a monomyth with an antihero, where it pulls punches about Arthur and why he does what he does, where it is altogether too subtle about the fact that there are more commonalities between Arthur and everyone else in the film than there are differences. Its cowardice makes it too easy for its audience to, in turn, also hide and scurry away from feeling what they could potentially feel, from having their psyches touched in a particular way.

There is, however, an artist whose work I feel consistently successfully eschews structures and their intrinsic problems, and whose art is extremely impactful as a result.

Play Vesp, by Porpentine.

[greeneggsandhann]

Hey guys. I’m Hannah. I am an Alcoholic and an Addict. Both Alcoholic and Addict are capitalized because I look at my addiction and alcoholism as an asset to my life rather than an expense. Here is my journey:

I know exactly where and when my disease started. It was 2010 and I was 16 years old. Some junior girls invited me to a sleepover with them. My friend and I have never drank before, so we thought this was going to be the perfect occasion, somewhere we were safe and somewhere we couldn’t get caught,...and if we did get caught by our parents, we wouldn’t actually get into any trouble other than a lecture or a very intense hangover. So, we all sat in a circle with two water bottles one filled with strawberry vodka and one filled with orange vodka. They taught and demonstrated how to take a “shot.” Step 1) Put a little bit of koolaid in your mouth Step 2) Drink the vodka Step 3) Chug the rest of the koolaid After I took that drink I remember my lips went numb along with my teeth. I thought this was crazy and I loved every feeling of it. We each had about 3 shots and within the hour we all were laughing and had a pretty good buzz going on. Things kept coming in and out for me. One minute I would be upstairs and the next I was downstairs trying to take more shots with my friend Jo. I finished the bottles and passed out in my own throw up. The next day when I woke up I was filled with shame and guilt because this poor girl had to clean up after me all night. I was mortified and embarrassed I couldn’t hang like the rest of them. Also, I felt like shit. Of course, I never would have known at that point in time that my brain functions differently than other peoples brain. In my 16 year old head I never thought I could be an alcoholic just by that one time.

I moved away from home for my first time and tried out college. I made up this huge bullshit story to my doctor about how I needed adderall to help me focus better in school. That was all I had to say and BOOM wish granted. The world in my hands. I could do so much more and actually enjoy anything I was doing while on it. About a month after I had gotten that script I dropped out of school and found a passion in the food service industry. Where I moved up fast. I Became a bartender and then moved up to management by the time I was 21. I was working long hours, close-open shifts. My tolerance with adderall built up. And I needed more and more to make it through the day. Eventually, my script lasted less than a week and that is when I started spending hundreds of dollars on adderall a month. When I didn’t have the money and couldn’t take it, I became a completely different person. I was irritable and lazy, always tired and pretty much careless. I remember thinking out loud one day to a friend about how much money I am spending on it and how I felt like I didn’t have any passion or care about anything when I was on it. But I didn’t think that was a stopping point I just wanted it to go back to how it used to be where I could take one per day and go to sleep at night without having to feel wired.

About a year of being an assistant manager, I was often tardy for my shifts. My best friend in the whole world fired me. It was something I needed. I needed to get out of the industry and move back home with my mom and save up some money. So that is what I tried to do. I stopped calling my doctor for the adderall because I knew it was killing me. That was when I started picking up pints of vodka. One day I had missed work because I got too fucked up during the day and passed out. I woke up to my mom screaming at me. So I got in my car and was on my way to my aunts. On the way I was hit by a huge SUV. I was still drunk and didn’t have my seat belt on and passed out in the car for a few minutes. When I woke up there were so many lights, firetrucks, an ambulance. My head was gushing blood. At my window there was the couple who were in the other car. I started screaming and crying and they were the sweetest couple ever. They hugged me and asked if they could pray with me. So we prayed. I was off in the ambulance next and asked them to take me to Mercy Health hospital because there must be some God there waiting for me. That happened to be the nurse who clearly knew what had happened but refused to do any blood work on me that could check my BAC. She was an angel and stitched up my head with no judgement whatsoever.

My next brilliant idea was to move to Detroit with my cousin, Jewell. Find a new scenery away from everything kinda like a fresh start for me. I was doing pretty good there. I didn’t have very much money to drink and no adderall. I found a good job at the airport. Then started bartending again and suddenly had good meeting so I started drinking more and more. Started buying pints every night to just chill and have a little fun and something to look forward to. Never really thought it was a big deal, but I never told my cousin about it either because she would be all weird and try to tell me I shouldn’t be drinking so much and watching my every move. So it was my little secret. Work was going well. Longer shifts were getting more difficult to me and I couldn’t understand why. I started getting really dizzy and felt like I was going to faint. My hands would shake and I was sweat profusely. I thought I had vertigo or something like that. Not once did I blame it on the alcohol.

The year went by and I moved out. My car broke down. Back at home with my mom and my brother. Drinking a lot. Having mental breakdowns often. Haunting dreams. That brought me to Pine Rest where I was an impatient for mental illness and drug abuse. I went into this facility thinking “its unrealistic I am never going to have a drink again.” That kind of attitude. When I left there I felt so good for the first time in a while.

About a month later I got wasted while working. I was taking xanax and sneaking shots while I was working. I got sent home. Probably fired. I drove and smashed my brand new 2015 honda civic into a parked car. Tried to start my car and get away. But my car was too smart and notified the police. I blew .31 and was still functional (kinda) So i went to Jail, and I tried every kind of way to get out. That includes faking a seizure and scratching so hard my wrists would bleed. Obviously, that didn’t work. I was too embarrassed and did not want to face my guilt and shame to call someone, so I didn’t. ohhhhh but they found me. and brought the whole litter to pick me up. (aunts cousins niece brother mom) I was offered to go to rehab that day and I told them that jail was rehab enough,

One month after that incident I was on my way back from Detroit I was feeling really sad and depressed and I had a lot of thoughts about suicide in my head. I was drinking the whole way back and made the selfish decision to speed up and hit a semi going 85 mph on the freeway. I didnt know what the plan was in that moment, I didn’t know if I actually wanted to die or just wanted a scare. It was so selfish and I cannot believe I would ever put other people at risk. I am so ashamed to this day. The cop asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital or get breathalyzed. I choose the hospital. my BAC was 5X over the legal limit. and when my aunt and my mom showed up I cried and told them I was ready to go to rehab and I needed help. The next day I was checked into Brighton rehab center for two weeks.

Rehab was amazing. It is not a bad place to be. Its a safe and comfortable place to share your emotions and to withdraw without any judgement. I made life long friends and learned so much about recovery there.

Right after that trip I continued going to my SMART Recovery meetings and had just moved into a sober living house. I was doing really well I had gotten a job, learned how the bus system works. I learned so damn much in that month of being there. But another Relapse happened. It was a 4 day relapse. This time I was DONE.

I made my second trip to Brighton rehab center for two weeks. I knew this was not enough, After that, I admitted myself into the Sanford house for 44 days of rehab. I was doing well and I was nervous about leaving because I would actually have to start connecting with people at meetings etc. I really wanted to give AA a try so i started attending meetings. I found a sponsor right away who is truly amazing. She has taught me so much and guided me through the steps. I started going to YPAA meetings and connecting with young people in recovery. I have made so many life long friends through all of this. I had finally found a hope that I never thought could exist. I know that this is still early recovery and some people might say it’s my “pink cloud” but I have seen so much God in my life right now. Finally, I feel free and I feel actual Joy and contentment.

Being an Alcoholic and an Addict is an asset to my life. Because without this disease I would not be the strong and hopeful woman I am today, It is so amazing to be able to say I am Proud of me.

Long post. Thanks for reading. If you or anyone you know are struggling with addiction and need some support or an ear. PLEASE do not hesitate to contact in my messages on here.

Thanks again for reading. KEEP COMING BACK IT WORKS IF YOU WORK IT AND IT SUCKS IF YOU DONT

ONE DAY AT A TIME

[foxydivaxx]

Bad Apple Chapter 2

 “Why did you bother to save me?”

Amon simply smiles at the girl as they float through the air. “Because I realized you and I are the same. We both went through hell and made mistakes and are being judged heavily for said mistakes.”

She stares at him in awe. This same boy that she chastised and bashed earlier for mistakenly murdering someone is now on her side for doing something similar even though she did it in the past when she was much younger. 

“T-Thanks..”

Dick huffs as he walks up the stairs. He had not spoken to Babs in months ever since she found out about his past one night stand with Cassie and also his past relationship with Helena Bertinelli. 

At first, he was saddened by it but as time went on, resentment began to grow within him as he began to realize that Jason was right. Babs was taking things out of context. Besides, why judge him on his past relationships when she has dated a couple guys as well?

Need to settle this once and for all.

He stops at the door and knocks on it. He does not hear a response.

He knocks the second time still no response.

He knocks a third time. Yet still no response.

He raises an eyebrow. Making things sketchier is the fact that Babs did not respond at all. Usually if he knocks, she would at least say something or he would hear some shuffling in the background. But there was so sound. 

Did she head out? He places a hand on the door knob and turns it and is shocked to find it open. He walks in and discovers clothes all over the place and recognises some menswear nearby.

Suspicious, he heads into the room and finds the door slightly open and his jaw drops as he discovers Babs in bed with another man. It all began to make sense to him. Babs never loved or cared for him because if she did, she would not cheat on him like that. She would not be treating him like that and abuse him for months. 

Once he gets over his shock, he bursts into the room, pulls the guy off Babs and punches him hard in the face. “Dick !! Dick!! Stop!!” Barbara yells. Dick growls and pushes her down onto the bed. “SO THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN DOING WHILST I WAS AWAY HUH?! SO YOU’VE BEEN CREPEING BEHIND MY BACK YET YOU HAVE THE FUCKING AUDACITY TO CHASTISE ME FOR HAVING FEMALE FRIENDS?! OR EVEN HAVE PAST ROMATIC RELATIONSHIPS? YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO ISOLATE ME FROM EVERYONE I LOVE?!!”

Barbara has a fake sad look on her face. “Please...I..I can explain..” It was then that she does something very unexpected, something many warned Dick  about and that was to stand upright as opposed to being an actual cripple.

Dick just explodes right there and lets her have it. “EXPLAIN WHAT?! EXPLAIN YOUR LIES ABOUT THE OTHER GIRLS ESPECIALLY KORI AND CASSIE?!! LISTEN HERE AND LISTEN GOOD!! I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU AND YOUR BULLSHIT!! YOU NEVER FUCKING CARED OR LOVED ME!! AS I CAN CLEARLY SEE, YOU GOT YOUR LEGS FIXED, YET YOU FUCKING PRETENDED TO BE CRIPPLED TO GAIN CHEAP SYMPATHY AND TRAP ME HUH?!”

He then smirks. “Well guess what? Your evil ends here Babs. It’s over.” With that, he walks out leaving a stunned Barbara behind.

Meanwhile, Adrianna and Adam wait outside for Amon to arrive. They saw the news about Cassie and were just as worried about the girl’s sanity. Sure she did some questionable things but who else hasn’t? 

“I expected a lot from Diana not this.” says Adrianna. Adam sighed. “Communication is key in every single relationship. If one fails to communicate, it naturally leads to unnecessary drama. I have been watching the Team and I have been noticing the hypocrisy that they and the Justice League have been encouraging. Case in point, Rose Wilson. We are meant to trust her. I get that Cassie can be very fiesty and hotblooded but Rose herself has said some nasty things. Yet people excuse her.” says Adam.

Before Adrianna could say anything more, a gush of wind announces Osiris’ arrival as he lands in front of them with Cassie in his arms. “Cassie!!” says Adrianna as she rushes over to the girl and pulls her into a hug. Cassie at first is takena aback by this but soon settles into her embrace and hugs the woman back.

“You ok Cassandra?” Adam asked. The girl looked down. “No. Besides I have no powers whatsoever but it’s ok.“

Adam then turns to Amon. “You should have shared your powers with her.” he says. Amon panics. “I do not want to endanger her.”

Adrianna interrupts them. “Now is not the time to discuss this. Let Cassie heal first before we do that.” she says. Cassie was internally grateful for Adrianna for that as they head into the Palace.

There was a feast laid out for her. Realizing how hungry she was, she begins to eat like a lion. The Adam family chuckles with amusement. “It seems all those strong emotions hungered her.”

“It sure did.” Cassie says between mouthfuls. Once she is done, they lead up to one of the guestrooms where she would be staying.

The following morning, Cassie wakes up and at first panics when she realizes that she does not have extra clothing until she spots what looks like a couple of her clothes. 

Did Tatiana send these somehow?

Before she could ponder some more, Tatiana pops in the room. “Hi twinnie!!” Cassie jumps out of her bed and rushes towards her sister and scoops her itno a big hug. 

“You idiot!! How could you be so selfish?!” Tatiana chastises her. Cassie sighs. “My bad my bad!!‘ They both laughed. 

“Good to see you twins are here.” says Adrianna as she pops her head through the door. “Hey sis, go take a shower. I am thinking that some sight seeing here would do us some good.‘ says Tatiana. Cassie nods. “Ok gimme a minute.“

A couple miles away back in the US, everyone had gotten wind of the Dickbabs breakup. “About time tbh. Babs is a bad influence.” says Raven. “Babs started out nice then she just went bonkers.” says Zatanna.

“Thought it was her PTSD acting up but after what Dick told us about her deceit, I am starting to think otherwise.” says Rocket. “How long has she been acting that way?” Kori asked. “Even I don’t know.” says Helena as she sips some coffee.

All of Dick’s exes plus the other girls on the Team minus Cassie were all seated at Rocket’s house discussing the latest gossip. “Does that girl even have any friends?’ Donna asked.

“Not on this Team or the Superhero community that’s for sure.” says Artemis.”Didn’t realize she was that nasty till Dick told us everything she did to him, more or less confirming everything Cassie said about her.” says M’Gann. “Meaning that Babs manipulated and caused most of the drama with her gossip just so she could keep Dick all to herself.” says Stephanie.

“Disgusting. Totally disgusting.“ says Helena. “But Dick is not trophy. He is his own person and deserves a lot of love and respect. Just like Cassie.“ says Kori. They all nodded. “Well she is in Kahndaq right now and I bet Amon will treat her right. Better than both Conner and Tim ever did.“ says Artemis. 

“Considering the fact that he stopped her from killing herself, makes perfect sense.“ says  M’Gann. Donna smiles. “I am glad that he saved her. That alone proves that he is not half as bad as people made him out to be. He made a little mistake and has been trying to control himself.“ she says. “Besides we have all lost control of our emotions now that I think about it.“ says Kara, getting a harsh reminder of that time she served as a Red Lantern.

Vanessa hadn’t said anything because her guilt was eating her up inside. “W-Why did I allow Babs to get to me? I have destroyed Cassie’s life.” Donna pats her shoulder. “You have to apologise to Cassie but not now. She needs to calm down.” Vanessa nods.

Tim was in his lab, going through some files he managed to recover from Barabara’s system. The more he looks through things, the more disgusted he gets with Barbara. He looked up to this girl yet he allowed her to stir shit up, to manipulate him into hating both Cassie and Amon.

She had broken security protocol by hacking into toher people’s personal laptops and whatnot and uncovering all sorts of private personal information to use as blackmail. Thank goodness Amon saved Cassie from committing suicide otherwise, he would have laid the smackdown on Babs.

And to think that she lied about her paralysis.

He even found evidence to prove that Babs actually secretly did some surgery without anyone’s knowledge. He is sure that Babs would become Batgirl once again and if she ever does, the entire Batclan will come from her in droves. 

Bruce slams his fists onto the table in anger. He cannot believe he allowed Barbara to play all of them like this. He is supposed to be the world’s greatest detective yet he got outsmarted by a devious person like Barbara. 

The fact that she used to be Batgirl does not help matters either. He bets that now that Dick has cut her off, she would become Batgirl. He has already told the rest of the Bat clan to be on the lookout for Barbara and also re-welcomed those he had exiled from the family like Helena and Jason back into the fold.

“It just like the saying goes, the worst pain comes from the family.” says Alfred as he comes down into the Cave holding a tray of hot chocolate with Damian right behind him.

“Is it true what I heard about Gordon?” Damian asked. Bruce does not say anything but simply nods. “That evil tramp. She better go hide because if I find her, I shall tear her to shreds!!” says Damian.

“Language Master Damian!!” Alfred chastises her.

Speaking of Barbara, she decided to leave Gotham for a while so that the uproar would die down. She had done some really terrible things indeed and it is best she leaves and then comes back. 

Commissioner Gordon was already informed and he has basically disowned his daughter because as far as he was concerned, he never raised his daughter to be like this meaning that she was no different from her psychotic brother James Gordon Jr.

My God what have I done?

Still it was too late, the damage has been done. No one would ever forgive her. She almost ruined a young girl’s life with her actions afterall, it was she that told Vanessa and manipulated her into exposing Cassie’s big secret. Anyway, she is leaving town but not for good. 

[icryyoumercy]

theologically dubious religious ramblings under the cut, feel free to skip

i have thought about trying to find a christian denomination where my need to question everything and my idealism and my taking everything literally and thus asking even more question would fit in, but the thing is, i kinda fail the basic entry requirements for this whole christianity deal?

like, i just don’t believe in jesus. both in a purely emotional ‘nah, sorry, not feeling that’ way, and in a ‘the more i think about this entire thing, the more i am certain of my decision to actively reject all of it’

and maybe this has zero theological merit because someone much smarter than me has realised this before and sorted it all out, but the story as i’ve been told it doesn’t have any of that, and so it doesn’t work for me

it starts somewhere around ‘denn so sehr hat gott die welt geliebt’, which... nope, nope, nope, fuck you, fuck off, i don’t want this. like. you do not volunteer to sacrifice your own children. that is just not inspiring any sort of confidence in your loyalty to people entrusted to your care. sorry. like, god is supposed to be a sort of father-type thing, and if this is how he loves his son, and we’re all supposed to be kinda his children, then... uh. thanks, but i don’t want to be anywhere near that sort of love

and then, of course, there’s the whole deal where god sacrifices his son, which even without the inherent nopeness of the paragraph above, well. by definition, you can only sacrifice something that’s yours, and the implication that god’s son is god’s possession to the point where he can be sacrificed is just. nope, sorry, but children very much are not their parent’s possession, so this sacrifice isn’t a sacrifice of any worth to me

(and yeah, there’s this whole trinity deal where somehow jesus is god, so god would have been sacrificing himself, which i guess he’s allowed to do, but that would just render the sacrifice pointless because, well, he didn’t actually give up anything much, did he, not to mention the silliness of sacrificing himself to, well, himself)

and then there’s the problem of, dunno, retroactive salvation? like, if you need to accept jesus as your saviour, and he needs to have died on the cross for you, then what happens to everyone who died before jesus did? surely they cannot be going to hell, since, well, that’s just moving the goalposts, isn’t it. and if god did that, then he’s clearly a prick and not worth believing in. and if he didn’t, there really wasn’t any point in volunteering to sacrifice his son, was there. he could have just waited a bit, and maybe come up with a better solution instead, one that didn’t involve such a complicated and confusing plan that could have failed in so many ways

and even if all that can be reasonably resolved, there’s still the problem of me. like, i’ve done my share of getting punished for shit other people did, and it’s not a nice experience. not in the least. not even the tiniest bit. and sure, the whole circumstances around those incidents were pretty fucking ugly too, but this very specifically fucked me up a whole damn lot all on its own. and i don’t want any part of that, in any way at all, in any position whatsoever. just, no. i don’t care that the other party is technically speaking god and can take it, or just skip the whole punishment part or whatever. i make my own damn mistakes, and i will answer for them, too. and in turn, i will not accept any sort of responsibility for any sort of sins my mythical ancestors might have committed. so between those two, i do not have any sins or guilt to my name i need or want jesus to forgive. either i fucked up myself, then i can damn well answer for it myself, or someone else fucked up, then i fail to see how that’s got anything to do with me. 

so even if i could somehow muster any belief in jesus, i wouldn’t know what to do with it?

[leaveharmony]

** this got mad towards the end and it wasn't a targeted sort of mad at anyone in particular so much as a tired & probably-stemming-from-always-having-thing-I-enjoy-and-the-way-I-engage-with-it belittled sort of mad.  And as my father has always taught me, having or expressing emotions is shameful and wrong, so sorry.

Idk I think it's like....harder for me to cast judgement RE: ~cheating scandals~ or w/e because it goes back to it all being completely theoretical to me. No one's ever, face to face, at any time in any way expressed any kind of romantic interest in me whatsoever, I've never been in a relationship of any kind.  It hasn't come up, and that's fine.  Whether this is a case of you cannot miss what you've never had or whether I'm just like....a broken empty vessel for whom the yearning for human contact has gone beyond recall or desire, I dunno, and it doesn't concern me.  This isn't a pity me statement or an uwu secret crush notice me statement, I literally don't care at this point and tbh can't remember ever having done so.

Probably my oldest friend at this point, she....like as long as I've known her she's dated married men almost exclusively (and this started when we were both in highschool, when she was screwing around w/ her married english teacher - something I now understand was shocking predatory behaviour and probably statutory rape besides, but she does not acknowledge it as such so bring it up isn't my place).  She's been seeing the current one for at least three years now, I think, and he's married.  It's certainly an uncomfortable thing, and god knows I don't believe he could possibly think much of her or his wife if he's been doing this for so long and never once manned up and been honest or seriously considered ending his marriage.  But it's her life and we don't talk much anymore anyway, so I've never felt like it was my job or my place to be her therapist RE: holy shit what the fuck is wrong with you why do you do this to yourself and how could you do this to someone else?

Like full disclosure she started ‘seeing’ that english teacher when we were sort of puppy love internet-together (another long story but she wanted to or at least said she did and I sorta went along with it cos I didn't want to hurt her feelings...which of course, then it certainly seemed v. much like she didn't have many of, considering within a week she was having it off w/ someone else...again, this was a detached ‘Oh’ kind of moment, not really connected to any real hurt as she had instigated this and I hadn't really felt anything myself...it was upsetting in a sort of, ‘so this is what people do when they tell you they love you, that is disappointing but I guess life is not fiction’ kind of way but not in a ‘how could you, I love you’ kind of way.  As a first/only experience it could have gone better tbh, but it certainly gave me the right level of expectation afa being used & discarded when someone more convenient came along).

It's possible that most of the people I have ever known have just been fundamentally really bad at relationships and so I just sort of assume this is a normal thing; my father is an abusive shitbag and we're inescapably trapped with him, grandpa was a sort of...disinterested stick in the mud with a frightening temper for whom my grandmother gave up all her interests in sports and the outdoors because he did not share them.  Wabs never married, Tosh told me like she was expecting a pat on the back and a medal that she'd been faithful to her husband as he died of cancer 'even though she  ‘didn't have to be.’  And my instinctive reaction wasn't GOOD FOR YOU so much as it was “....what?!” but again...I didn't speak, because what the fuck do I know?  Maybe ppl run off and start seeing other ppl as soon as their partners get so much as a headcold all the time.

Ppl just sorta get abused and trampled and left and cheated on and discarded, or they do the same to others, and it just looks like a hell of a mess I'm well out of, tbh.  Which I guess is another reason...unless somebody's getting beat or otherwise abused, I feel like it's none of my business.  So honestly, “Tana slept around when he was single and one day some chick he canoodled with for like two months stabbed him for it” is filed under “Yeah that'll happen, thank god he didn't die” rather than “Hahahahaha karma amiright he totes deserved it, domestic abuse and attempted murder are hilarious when they’re directed at men who’re full of themselves!”

Nobody needs to tell me to have low fuckin' expectations for men, ok, I live under the boot of one of their idiot kings.  Tell me Tana fatshames his family for eating, tell me he gaslights them or acts like when they’re hurt or injured they’re making it up to personally inconvenience him, tell me they have to rigidly control their emotions around him to avoid setting off his violent temper, and ok.  Tell me he's a bigot, tell me he hits his family, tell me he hates women, tell me he's a rapist, ok.  But like...’he had a lot of sex and probably hurt people's feelings’ is not really high on my list of cardinal offenses b/c as far as I can tell, that's fucking everyone.  It isn't like he still does, it isn't like he's not tried to put it behind him and grow from it and be better.  It's practically his motto.   Why is ‘I acted in a shitty way but I'm trying to atone and I still look back and feel guilty about it’ only an admirable, affirming  thing to aspire to when it's a tumblr post & not when a guy is straight up saying it?  Which he has, on multiple occasions.  Can't change the past, can only try to learn from it.

At.  Least.  He.  Fucking.  Tries.

When has redneck george ever walked back his comments about gay ppl or his Islamophobia, when has Lesnar?  Beyond a token apology and chasing it w/ a dozen I'M NOT A RACIST THO interviews when has Hogan really acknowledged the depths of how he fucked up?  When did Warrior apologize for his vile bigotry, where's Elgin sincerely regretting being a fucking piece of shit dragging a rape victim's name through the mud?  Jericho's response to ‘hey maybe you shouldn't be advertising your cruise by saying there will be loads of bikini-clad women there available for you to ogle’ was essentially ‘are you triggered, bro, y so srys?’ and at no point did he objections seriously.  Orton never so much as thinks for two seconds before condemning BLM protesters or footballers who take the knee, AND he voted for Trump, but other than hollowly chanting that he's not a racist while blatantly doing things that are racist, silence.  Honma beat his girlfriend, Snuka murdered his partner, Austin smacked Debra around, Angle got stoned out of his mind and broke into his ex's apartment, X-Pac hit Chyna, exactly how often do they refer back to what happened, when did they apologize or express regret or even acknowledge any of it?  I mean I guess Benoit can't, what with the fucking suicide after he bashed in Nancy's skull and murdered his son.

Ppl have different things they can tolerate and forgive, is I guess my point, or at least one of them.  Which is fine!  I mean...I'd sure fucking side-eye anybody who writes any of the above a pass, but, I guess everybody's stories and reasons are different.

I like Tana.  I'm a fan of his.  Ok?  Like it probably sounds like I think he's a flawless angel crowned with light b/c compared to my fucking father, he IS.  It doesn't mean I'm being willfully blind to mistakes he's made or that I'm absolving him of every sin he's ever committed.  I think he's a good person and it's heartening and encouraging that he's in the world and if saying so without adding 18 asterisks about past behaviour and an disclaimer acknowledging all men as shit and all people as inherently flawed makes me a gullible childish ~fangirl~ than ok, I guess I am.  Everybody knows my tags for wrestling/wrestlers, which are there as much as a courtesy to anybody who needs to blacklist as they are a filing system for me (that’s why there’s a catch-all!  For ppl I haven’t thought up tags for yet or don’t intend to!), and tumblr savior is right there if me being silly about my favs in my own space bothers everybody so fucking much, god knows it wouldn't be the first time I set somebody cringing and they had to tune me out before they quietly dropped my ass like a particularly stupid puppy on a country road.  That I am a sloppy fawning emotional mess of untreated neurosis who hyperfixates on things & people who make me feel halfway hopeful for entire minutes at a time & gets stupidly overexcited about stuff isn't new information to me, so if you can't deal with that then... Well...sorry, honestly.  Like sincerely.  I know how I am and I try not to be but I can't help it sometimes when I like something.  Don't feel bad about leaving if you don't want to deal with it, cos I get it, honestly.  Have exactly zero (0) guilt feelings about it.  I’m a fundamentally repulsive creature, ppl have hard limits on how long they can put up with me, and so it has always been, and so it goes.

[indie-struggle]

I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script

So, I've read an article at least twice a year for the last eight or nine years. Some of you may have read it. It came from the Villiage Voice and was written by Josh Olson, a screenwriter noted most for his 2005 story called A History of Violence, directed by David Cronenberg.

I've always enjoyed this article because it is honest and raw and straight to the point. It makes damn good sanity of something a bit insane that is often overlooked. Shared or unshared by others, it gives an insight to what it's like to work in the system he works in, and at the same time trying to live as a writer.

It may come off pompous and coarse or rude and all that other stuff, and it is. But, it also isn't. It's has great advice. But, it's mostly about a man who's hassled. And it takes a lot of balls to put yourself out there like this and tell people that you're tired of this shit, which in this day in age, can fuck your career. I highly respect that in a person whether or not I care for their work.

Moving on, the last time I visited the website it was gone. It took a few minutes to find it somewhere else, thankfully, but I wanted to post it here--like I should have done beforehand--before it was lost forever. It's been almost ten goddamn years since he wrote this and I still find it a great gem. Like a fine wine that grows greater with age. I hope you enjoy it too.

I will not read your fucking script.

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? "I will not read your fucking script." What’s not clear about that? There’s nothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading your fucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I’ll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I will not ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or take out my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

You’re a lovely person. Whatever time we’ve spent together has, I’m sure, been pleasurable for both of us. I quite enjoyed that conversation we once had about structure and theme, and why Sergio Leone is the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, and it would thrill me no end to hear that you had sold your screenplay, and that it had been made into the best movie since Godfather Part II.

But I will not read your fucking script.

At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I’m a dick. But if you’re interested in growing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick in this situation, please read on.

Yes. That’s right. I called you a dick. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move.

I was recently cornered by a young man of my barest acquaintance.

I doubt we’ve exchanged a hundred words. But he’s dating someone I know, and he cornered me in the right place at the right time, and asked me to read a two-page synopsis for a script he’d been working on for the last year. He was submitting the synopsis to some contest or program, and wanted to get a professional opinion.

Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to read their scripts, and it’s the simple truth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is scripts from good friends, and the other is manuscripts and books and scripts my agents have sent to me that I have to read for work. Every time I pick up a friend’s script, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring my friends. If I read yours before any of that, I’d be an awful person.

Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, or someone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, and it’s hard to escape without seeming rude. Then, I tell them I’ll read it, but if I can put it down after ten pages, I will. They always go for that, because nobody ever believes you can put their script down once you start.

But hell, this was a two page synopsis, and there was no time to go into either song or dance, and it was just easier to take it. How long can two pages take?

Weeks, is the answer.

And this is why I will not read your fucking script.

It rarely takes more than a page to recognize that you’re in the presence of someone who can write, but it only takes a sentence to know you’re dealing with someone who can’t.

(By the way, here’s a simple way to find out if you’re a writer. If you disagree with that statement, you’re not a writer. Because, you see, writers are also readers.)

You may want to allow for the fact that this fellow had never written a synopsis before, but that doesn’t excuse the inability to form a decent sentence, or an utter lack of facility with language and structure. The story described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics to an impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, some connected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish, reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half a paragraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central event of the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentence describes a scene he’s in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won’t. This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn’t actually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a cool movie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn’t require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don’t regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.

So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing. And the truth is, saying something positive about this thing would be the nastiest, meanest and most dishonest thing I could do. Because here’s the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage the hopeless, but you cannot discourage a writer. If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you’re not a writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I’ve done you a favor, because now you’ll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that may be. And, for the record, everybody has one. The lucky ones figure out what that is. The unlucky ones keep on writing shitty screenplays and asking me to read them.

To make matters worse, this guy (and his girlfriend) had begged me to be honest with him. He was frustrated by the responses he’d gotten from friends, because he felt they were going easy on him, and he wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give the illusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head. What they want–always–is encouragement, even when they shouldn’t get any. Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they’ve spent a year wasting their time? Do you know how much blood and sweat goes into that criticism? Because you want to tell the truth, but you want to make absolutely certain that it comes across honestly and without cruelty. I did more rewrites on that fucking e-mail than I did on my last three studio projects.

My first draft was ridiculous. I started with specific notes, and after a while, found I’d written three pages on the first two paragraphs. That wasn’t the right approach. So I tossed it, and by the time I was done, I’d come up with something that was relatively brief, to the point, and considerate as hell. The main point I made was that he’d fallen prey to a fallacy that nails a lot of first timers. He was way more interested in telling his one story than in being a writer. It was like buying all the parts to a car and starting to build it before learning the basics of auto mechanics. You’ll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you’ll never have a car that runs.

(I should mention that while I was composing my response, he pulled the ultimate amateur move, and sent me an e-mail saying, "If you haven’t read it yet, don’t! I have a new draft. Read this!" In other words, "The draft I told you was ready for professional input, wasn’t actually.")

I advised him that if all he was interested in was this story, he should find a writer and work with him; or, if he really wanted to be a writer, start at the beginning and take some classes, and start studying seriously.

And you know what? I shouldn’t have bothered. Because for all the hair I pulled out, for all the weight and seriousness I gave his request for a real, professional critique, his response was a terse "Thanks for your opinion." And, the inevitable fallout–a week later a mutual friend asked me, "What’s this dick move I hear you pulled on Whatsisname?" So now this guy and his girlfriend think I’m an asshole, and the truth of the matter is, the story really ended the moment he handed me the goddamn synopsis. Because if I’d just said "No" then and there, they’d still think I’m an asshole. Only difference is, I wouldn’t have had to spend all that time trying to communicate thoughtfully and honestly with someone who just wanted a pat on the head, and, more importantly, I wouldn’t have had to read that godawful piece of shit.

You are not owed a read from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it’s not a huge imposition. It’s not your choice to make. This needs to be clear–when you ask a professional for their take on your material, you’re not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you’re asking them to give you–gratis–the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off hours.

There’s a great story about Pablo Picasso. Some guy told Picasso he’d pay him to draw a picture on a napkin. Picasso whipped out a pen and banged out a sketch, handed it to the guy, and said, "One million dollars, please."

"A million dollars?" the guy exclaimed. "That only took you thirty seconds!"

"Yes," said Picasso. "But it took me fifty years to learn how to draw that in thirty seconds."

Like the cad who asks the professional for a free read, the guy simply didn’t have enough respect for the artist to think about what he was asking for. If you think it’s only about the time, then ask one of your non-writer friends to read it. Hell, they might even enjoy your script. They might look upon you with a newfound respect. It could even come to pass that they call up a friend in the movie business and help you sell it, and soon, all your dreams will come true. But me?

I will not read your fucking script.

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