#i had a great idea which led me on a journey to find exploits to remove censorship in vanilla photo mode

[quaddmgd]

"Good morning. Coffee?"

[lichfucker]

i would love to hear about why all of the ted lasso characters would fail survivor but especially rebecca

hhh ALL of them... okay the vast majority of the players can be explained away with just "physical prowess enough to make them a threat in individual challenges but dumb as bricks and would not be able to strategize themselves out of a bad spot"

this is abt to get long lmao so I'm putting individual ppl under the cut

nate is the most obvious first boot I honestly feel bad about it. bumbling, socially awkward, has NO idea how to assert himself without being an asshole about it (in the rare instances when he does assert himself at all), and even if he's smart enough to be a great strategist (which he absolutely IS), he can't convey it well enough to convince his tribe to overlook his (probable) lack of challenge ability. most of the time, people don't want to draw harsh lines in the sand on the very first vote so they can pretend everyone's getting along and still friends, so nate would be a sort of freebie vote that it'd be easy to agree on.

beard is too much of a follower. what ted says to dr sharon abt him is, "that man has had many lives, many masters." he's very comfortable being led by people with stronger personalities, and even when he disagrees with their calls he will still execute them like a perfect little lackey. the thing about beard is that I think he'd go VERY far in a season of survivor! I think he could EASILY make it all the way to the end! but I just don't think he can WIN. he's genius-level intelligent and SO strategically savvy, but more than that he is fiercely loyal. he'll attach himself to the right person (or the wrong person, as it were), and even if he is whispering in that person's ear all the way through, he would be TOO content to let them take all the credit, he wouldn't push back against them if they disagree with his plans and make a lesser move instead (the whole beginning of 'beard after hours' is him berating himself for not standing up and making the hard calls even when he knew they'd be better), he wouldn't turn around and slit that person's throat at the end to further his own game, and he would make himself socially impenetrable to everyone else. nobody could get close to him, nobody could like or understand him, he'd probably be seen as good collateral if the opposition couldn't strike directly at whomever beard works with, and if he DOES make it to final tribal, I think he'd have a very difficult time convincing the jury that he deserves the credit and the limelight. he wants to win, I just don't think he believes he deserves to.

ted and roy actually would have the exact same problem, which is "physically and strategically competent, but so FUCKING ANNOYING to live with that they get booted for the sake of tribal quality of life." roy would isolate himself socially with his aggression, and ted...

ted is the antithesis of what a "good survivor player" ought to be, which I actually think could work to his advantage in a number of ways? like I think more typical players would find him incredibly unpredictable because he's sharp enough to see what the best moves are, but generous and self-sacrificing enough not to make them. like, there's a reason he's a coach and not a player. there's a reason he says that he doesn't measure success in wins and losses. if he could survive the first few votes, his social game would be AMAZING-- the entire first season of the show is about him wearing rebecca down through the sheer magnitude of his friendship! lesser survivor players would be so endeared to him that they couldn't fathom voting him off, but they're the ones who are getting picked off in his stead. moderately savvy survivor players would not trust a single word out of ted lasso's mouth; there's no fucking way a man can be this kind and this sincere, not on survivor, it's just not possible, he must be plotting something MASSIVE, we have to strike first before he gets his chance. and the truly brilliant survivor players would realize that he IS genuine, he IS sincere, he IS loyal and giving to his core, and that's DANGEROUS. you can't let someone like that make it to the end or they'll take your million dollars. best to shut it down at the jump.

and above all that, I just think that ted... ted would thrive in the pre-merge, in the tribal portion of the game, he's SO team-oriented, but post-merge, in the individual game... perhaps if he had a solid alliance he could also feel that way about, then it might suit his temperament, but ultimately I think he just. wouldn't want it badly enough. I just think the significant majority of people would be vastly more self-interested than ted would be, so they'd take the shot first.

higgins is an interesting midpoint between all three of nate, beard, and ted, in that he's a henchman through and through even when he disagrees with his boss, he's a pushover who'd be seen as a liability in physical challenges in the early game, and he's off-puttingly friendly and polite to the point that nobody would trust that he's being sincere even though he absolutely is. early boot, maybe second or third.

maybe it's just because I've got cook islands on the brain, but jamie (esp season 1 jamie but like. season 2 as well lmao) would play A LOT like early ozzy. an arrogant wonder-boy who's good at everything (did you know there's literally a survivor casting archetype called the "amazing ace"?), with a heart-wrenching underdog story (playing for richmond, that is), an absolute beast in challenges, a huge threat but always immune, he'd win his way to the end but ultimately be beaten out in final tribal by someone smart enough to have dragged him along as their meat shield the whole game.

and as for rebecca... g-d. this one I think hurts me the most because she has everything going for her, she doesn't have a single one of the problems I've listed for anyone else, but I do genuinely believe that rebecca still loses. she's strong and she's smart and she's assertive and she's ruthless and she's sociable and she's a great liar and she's ambitious and she's ADAPTIBLE (she immediately bounces back after not getting the sun to run the photo of ted and keeley and comes up with an alternate plan that will still serve her own endgame, and by g-d being able to roll with the punches and change course is the single most important thing a survivor player can do), but rebecca still loses.

even if we set aside the fact that survivor on the whole is not particularly kind to women over 40... season 1 rebecca, especially early season 1 rebecca, is spite-motivated to the point of self-destruction. she will set her sights on one target and she will be relentless in her effort to get that person out and it'll make her so myopic that she won't see her own end coming immediately afterwards. nobody on that tribe wants to be her next victim-- better get rid of her once she's proven what she's capable of.

she's also dreadfully insecure in the wake of her divorce and when her polished veneer cracks enough to let it show (how many days of being rained on do we think it'll take for her to slip? my guess is five), some people will see it as the vulnerability that finally allows them to connect with her on a human level, while others will see it as a threatening endgame storyline and an exploitable weakness.

there are some juries, particularly old-school juries, that wouldn't vote for her in the end purely based on the fact that a million dollars is just a drop in the bucket to a woman like rebecca mannion welton. that would be a real shame, and a disservice to the game she would have had to play just to make it that far.

what's more likely than that, though, in my opinion, is that rebecca... loses the drive to win. I think that somewhere along the way survivor stops being a game that she is playing, stops being a competition, and instead becomes a journey of personal growth through adversity. I think she, like ted, stops measuring her success in wins and losses. I think she proves herself more capable and resilient than she ever thought she could be, and that is worth more to her than the money or the title of sole survivor, and she stops fighting for it. and maybe the jury admires that, and gives it to her anyway, rewards her transformation. or maybe they don't. maybe they view it as a concession, a forfeit. but I'm not certain that that moment of revelation happens at the final tribal council. I think it happens just before. I think it happens after the final immunity challenge, and she tearfully and valiantly allows herself to be voted out just inches from the finish line. I think rebecca is the fallen angel of the season, and she goes off to the jury with her head held high, which is nice, and so very noble of her, and the fans would be DYING to have her play again but she wouldn't, because she'll have gotten everything she could have wanted out of her survivor experience, and she doesn't need the crown on top of it.

I think rebecca COULD win. she just WON'T.

[paperclipninja]

Some finale thoughts

I’ve been sitting with the Younger finale the past couple of days and trying to wrap my head around it all and why I feel the way I feel. And how do I feel? Great question - sad maybe? Disappointed? Underwhelmed? A little bit of all of the above? But most of all I think I feel duped. And that is the feeling I’m having the hardest time reconciling with my overall love for this show. Also, heads up, this post is focusing solely on Liza and where her story ended up.

I want to be clear that this isn’t to do with who I wanted Liza to end up with romantically. Yes, I have always been an unabashed Charles and Liza fan, but I am first and foremost a fan of good storytelling. I am genuinely a showrunner’s dream audience because you tell me a compelling, well written story and I will follow you wherever you want to take me and appreciate the heck out of the journey and find satisfaction in the resolution. Because good storytelling isn’t about appeasing factions of an audience or taking pleasure in exploiting the trust viewers have in the way certain narrative conventions play out, only to hoodwink them at the 11th hour. It is about striking the balance between the predictable and unpredictable, staying true to the story that has come before and the endpoint that has been set, but doing so in a way that acknowledges that there are ways that certain conventions need to play out in order for an audience to feel satisfied. And for me, this is why Younger has fallen so incredibly short in the finale.

I am here every day of the week for a a clever twist but I have said it before, when it comes to executing any kind of bait and switch well, there is a really fine line between an audience feeling elated because they ‘got it’- they read the cues correctly and get the sense they were ‘in on it’ - and feeling like a fool. The Younger finale left me feeling as though my entire understanding of this season (and maybe series) was completely wrong. I was led to believe that I was supposed to be Team Liza, to be rooting for her to find success in life and love after starting over again. 

So imagine my elation when during this entire season Liza seemed to have identified who she wanted in her life romantically and so, as the drama of season 7 unfolded, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that the heavy focus on Liza’s relationship with Charles was going to culminate in her FINALLY getting who she wanted romantically, while achieving the career success she desired (and set her on this journey in the first place) would be the final obstacle for the character to overcome. Is that route predictable? Maybe. Could it have maintained the follow through that we come to expect in this kind narrative but still have delighted with unexpected ways of getting there? Absolutely. 

To feel like this entire season has been working to convince me that romance was a big part of what Liza wanted in her life, fabricate an inordinate amount of drama around the character she wanted to spend her life with, reunite them and then suddenly try to convince me in the final episode that the lie, which has not been mentioned once in two and a bit seasons, is an issue between Charles and Liza, only to have the protagonist serve as some kind of example that if you lie you can’t have it all...I’m sorry, what? And wanting to bookend the series with the bar scene, I totally get it, full circle, it ends where it all began - it’s a basic storytelling technique that I have marked in many a high school essay - but it once again comes back to me wanting to feel a sense that this was a looming possibility, that it was earned and I was ‘in on it’. 

An effective twist doesn’t come out of nowhere and any argument that this didn’t, it came from the start of the series, is rubbish. In the context of this season, which is what any viewer holds in their mind as a season winds up, Josh and Liza reconnecting in this way was completely tacked on and contrived. Again, it could have been a really sweet moment if the break up that had just occurred between Liza and the man she had been desperately in love with for the entire season, didn’t render the entire season redundant, or if Josh and Liza had had more than one 2 minute interaction in episode 1. Like, what was the point of any of the drama from this season if the focus of the series was never meant to be the romantic relationships? And if the series was never meant to be about the romantic relationships, why end with the possibility of reconnecting with Josh at all and instead end with the four women toasting one another's’ success? 

And THAT is why I feel duped. It’s not about who Liza may or may not have ended up with or the mental gymnastics required for the finale to make any sense in relation to the rest of the season. I feel duped because all the way up until this final episode I was under the impression that I was watching a different kind of show. One that was feel-good and light and fluffy and had its fair share of drama but the fun kind, and resolved in ways that were sometimes predictable, sometimes not, but always satisfying.

I was under the impression that by rooting for Liza, I was rooting for her to succeed and that telling a lie to combat ageism was worth it because the ridiculous premise paid off and she did get it all. Is it cheesy and too happily ever after? Maybe. But you know what? That is what I felt like I was sold all these years. A happy escapism that would often take the ridiculous and make it delightfully entertaining and never take itself too seriously. And with that comes certain expectations of the way storylines will build and resolve: reducing such a significant aspect of Liza's story to a cautionary tale on the perils of lying seemed completely out of place for the tone and type of show Younger has always been.

So perhaps I did misunderstand the type of show I was watching all these years, perhaps my expectation of my favourite series (and yes it remains my fave) to end all wrapped up in a neat way that saw these characters I’m so invested in ride off into the sunset with everything they desired was unrealistic (or perhaps for many they all did and if that’s how you felt then I’m honestly thrilled for you). 

The loop back to the moment when the lie was conceived, right down to the verbatim dialogue from Josh and Liza’s first interaction, essentially creates a Groundhog Day scenario - Liza is back where she started, sure with some career success and some pretty great experiences, but the character growth has been stagnated by this lie from the very beginning apparently. And again, if this season had been working towards this moment of another reset, starting over once again but without the lie in place, I’d be so on board because I actually really like this idea. But to expect an audience to make the leap from one story that’s been told the entire season to this one is too much of a leap at the last minute IMO.

I will always love Younger, I was excited that season 7 seemed to be really deliberately building towards a clear ending, but I will be forever perplexed by the choices made in that finale. 

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 13

Read on ff.net

Read on AO3

One step closer to Hyrule Castle and one second closer to the Calamity…

And Zelda was no closer to awakening her power than when she began all those years ago.

Zelda cast a side-glance at Astor, who walked beside her. He was being very quiet, almost mirroring her dour mood. What was he thinking? He looked completely absorbed in his own headspace. She wondered what sort of inner demons he must have been fighting. He must have been under a great deal of pressure just as she was. What was it like to serve an ancient evil and be expected to be the perfect instrument to bring about its revival? Not to mention trying to turn away from such a destiny.

He’s changing... I was somehow able to persuade him, and now maybe he could be the key in turning back Calamity Ganon since it seems I won’t be able to… What if I’m being too optimistic? Believing he could change... Or that I had anything to do with it… He’ll always see me as the pathetic royal girl that can’t wield her power. He’ll never see me as anything more. He’ll never love me… Or anyone for that matter... Possibly why he turned to Ganon in the first place... Not that any of us are going to live long enough to worry about that, and it will be my fault...

Astor looked down to Zelda, who seemed as though she were about to break into tears again at any moment.

“I must envision a life after the Calamity, I must...” Zelda said aloud and to herself.

Hylia’s prophecy echoed in Astor’s mind. He wondered if those words could set Zelda’s mind at ease. If so, it seemed almost cruel not to tell her. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. What if Zelda shut down the same way he had when Hylia had told him? For all he knew Hylia had noticed his weakness and had come up with a lie to tempt him, Ganon’s chosen, exploiting his weakness to gain the advantage in the war against her greatest enemy. There was no way the goddess herself had ordained THAT for the girl that bore her namesake and her blood. 

Yet, Zelda had been unreasonably kind to him. She had ordered her knight to spare him, even after he tried to kill her. She had gone above and beyond in reasoning and pleading with him. There was the way she looked at him, spoke to him. She made him feel desired. But how could that be? Astor briefly wondered if this was Hylia’s doing as well, as far-fetched an idea as it was, but Astor was running out of explanations for Zelda’s behavior towards him. Weren’t the royal daughters supposed to be able to hear the voice of the goddess?

“Zelda…” Astor paused, trying to get used to using her given name. “Does the goddess ever speak to you?”

“No… Not really… I’ve had these dreams though... but I can never quite hear her words.”

This answer satisfied him. Zelda seemed to be unaware of anything Hylia had planned. Her actions and words towards him were genuine.

“There’s something I can’t quite wrap my mind around... Why aren’t you afraid of me? Why don’t you hate me or find me repugnant? For all that I am, and all that I’ve done… Anyone else would.”

“There’s something about you… I can’t describe it.”

“I’m not worthy of whatever it is you feel for me…”

“That's not how it works… It just is…”

“But I swore myself to Calamity Ganon for so long… I am damned.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“What about that knight? You must have feelings for him?”

“You mean Link? Why do you say that?”

Astor braced himself for what he would say next, but he knew it couldn’t go unsaid if he wanted to show any kind of true compassion towards Zelda.

“You’re fated to unlock your power because of him. It was a vision given to me by my harbinger.”

Zelda stopped in her tracks. It was a lot to take in. “So I haven’t failed after all? It’s really going to happen? Why would you tell me that?”

“I guess to redeem myself a bit, though what I’ve done up until now is unforgivable... I want to help you because you spared my life and helped me to see the truth about Calamity Ganon, and you seemed like you needed to hear it.”

“That’s surprisingly kind of you… But I don’t know if I believe it… I’ve already had my hopes raised and dashed so many times.” Zelda paused for a long moment. “But if an individual could be the thing to bring out my power, I... I want it to be you.”

“I can’t be that person for you…Fate has already decreed it…” He said in a soft, sullen way.

They walked in silence a bit longer.

Astor thought of the Harbinger. Its absence didn’t bode well. It was likely aware of what its seer was up to and it certainly wouldn't let such grievous disloyalty go unpunished.

Astor’s eyes darted around his surroundings. Astor had never been afraid of his Harbinger before, but now he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was capable of doing something really horrible to him.

After some time, they reached a high cliff overlooking Kakariko Village.  She had passed through the village on her way to Mount Lanayru in the early morning hours before anyone would be awake to see her, now the village was bustling.

Astor hadn’t set foot in a village in ages, and as soon as they started to cross paths with other people, Astor remembered why. The Sheikah Villagers were giving them odd looks, and of course they would. This village was pretty closed off from the rest of Hyrule. It was rare for them to see non-Sheikah.

A couple of small children darted past them, laughing, barely acknowledging their presence or personal space as children often did.

A Sheikah woman standing outside of a garment shop smiled at them, trying to wave them down. “Pretty clothes for your girlfriend?” The woman said sweetly.

Astor gave an exasperated, flustered moan, drawing his hood further down his brow.

“No, not today, but thank you,” Zelda responded kindly to the Sheikah shopkeep, beaming and radiating a sense of joy even for a moment. Her smile was like the sun, and any doubts Astor had dried up and disappeared. She loved him, and nothing seemed to be able to sway her. Hylia’s prophecy was one step closer to being realized.

I could tell her the prophecy, and she might just die of happiness…. Astor thought darkly. Loving her. Loathing her. He still couldn’t shake his aversion of Zelda realizing her power. It was too deeply ingrained. Although now he suspected that it was out of jealousy for the knight. And then there was Hylia’s prophecy which filled him with a feeling that had been foreign to him until lately. It was a feeling that both disgusted and thrilled him. But he couldn’t summon the words to tell her. Saying them would breathe them into existence even more so.

They passed houses and other shops, including an inn. Other Sheikah villagers were taking notice of them. 

“Isn’t that Princess Zelda?” one of the Sheikah villagers whispered loudly to another.

Astor walked faster, eager to clear the village. Zelda walked a little faster, too, despite that her legs felt heavy from covering so many miles. 

They made their way through a wide-open valley known as Sahasra Slope, which boasted a magnificent view of Hyrule Castle.

“Father is going to be so cross with me…”

Astor looked at Zelda strangely. She kept bringing up her father. It was almost like she was afraid of him. More afraid of her own father than she was of him… which really said something. Astor knew just enough about the royal family to make some assumptions.

“Does he believe the same as the people in your court?”

Zelda flinched. “Oh… You know about that…? It feels that way sometimes.”

“I don’t understand. You’re the one with the blood of the goddess. Shouldn’t he be worshiping the ground you walk on?”

“Well… He doesn’t see it that way. Tough love, I suppose…”

“What does he have to be angry about? Aside from you breaking custom to go to the Spring of Wisdom? Not a reason to be angry, if you ask me. This is a war, after all. You’re just doing what you must to have the potential to be victorious.”

Zelda looked at Astor with surprise. “You really believe that?”

“I’m… I was... Ganon’s chosen… I’m not ignorant or blind, although I suppose it would be accurate to say that Ganon kept me blind for so long. It’s important to understand your enemy. Your father is a fool. Trust me on this.”

“Hmm…” Zelda hummed. “What about your parents? What were they like?”

“I never knew them… I grew up in an orphanage in Deya Village.”

“Oh… I’m sorry… Now I feel silly for complaining.”

“It's fine. It stopped bothering me years ago and it’s beyond irrelevant now.”

They crossed the Rebonae bridge, on the last leg of their journey, and passed through a vast apple orchard, slightly off from Zelda’s original course.

The sky grew a vibrant orange as they entered Hyrule Castle Town. Zelda gave an audible exhale. “… Almost home…” She knew she had to prepare herself for anything now. 

Astor jolted when Zelda took hold of his hand. She was barely aware of how tightly she held onto him. But he felt her… or rather a time in the future where she would squeeze his hand with such intensity, to the point of pain. Her ragged breath was in his ear, as she braced herself against him. A wave of intense emotion washed over him and he...

...ripped his hand away,  Zelda looking at him puzzled and a little hurt.

“Whenever you touch me… I see and feel things.”

“Oh… Do these things displease you?” That wounded expression lingered on her face.

“I… I suppose it doesn’t…” He said, offering his hand to her. The vision didn’t continue, but it still left him stunned and strangely longing for more.

The streets were almost as devoid of life as they had been the night before. No one gave them more than a cursory glance as they passed by.

They walked up the winding brick pathway that led up to the castle, and when they reached the sanctum, all four champions, Impa, and Link turned to them as they appeared in the doorway. All was eerily quiet as they came forward. Zelda’s eyes were red from crying and everyone looked with suspicion at Astor. Link placed his hand on the hilt of the Master Sword.

Urbosa and Impa ran to Zelda.

“Well if this isn’t a fine how do you do?” Said Revali in a dry tone. “We all thought the princess was in danger when in reality she was just off on some tryst. The Calamity is about to occur at any moment, and we’re all miles away from our Divine Beasts with our fingers in our tailfeathers...”

“Oh, Revali. Go suck an egg. This is NOT the time.” Urbosa chastised the rito, and then she turned to Zelda. “Are you alright, little bird? Where were you? And why is HE here?” Urbosa looked at Astor with great dismay and distrust.

“Urbosa, remember when you said you would always support me and to just say the word? This is it... I need your support now more than ever.”

Urbosa considered this, her azure blue lips parting slightly, although at a loss for words.

“Tell me what's going on? I’m all ears.”

“Alright, now that Zelda is safe and sound, can we get back to our Divine Beasts and forget this whole asinine situation.” Revali interrupted again.

Astor spoke up. “That’s exactly where Calamity Ganon wants you when he returns. Ganon’s blights are set to take over the Divine beasts and kill their pilots.

Everyone turned to Astor with a look of disbelief. Mipha reached for Link’s hand for support, but stopped short, growing self-conscious.

“And why should we believe you, vile follower of the Calamity? How do we know you’re not trying to set us up? You may have convinced the Princess, but it’s going to take a lot more to gain our trust.” Urbosa responded curtly.

“Urbosa!” Zelda protested.

“Forgive me, little bird. You may have shown this man mercy, but I won’t…”

“I believe him,” said Daruk. 

Urbosa turned to Daruk. “You’re kidding right?”

“I mean, he sounds sincere enough to me.”

Mipha quickly assessed the energy between Princess Zelda and Astor and intervened, speaking. “I believe him as well… Or rather I believe Princess Zelda. Let’s give him a chance before we jump to rash conclusions.”

Urbosa turned her ire back to Astor. “What are you trying to pull?”

“I’m not trying to pull anything. You can take my warning or leave it, for all I care. I just wanted to spare Zelda the heartache of losing her champions.”

Urbosa folded her arms. “I swear if you hurt her I’m going to cut you up piece by piece and feed you to the Molduga. She is precious to me and I must do right by my dear friend, Zelda’s late mother… We Gerudo have our ways of dealing with voe who take advantage of one of our vai, especially when said voe is a member of the Yiga… or an affiliate.”

“Do I make myself clear, Prophet?”

“Crystal…”

King Rhoam appeared on the balcony, alerted by the commotion of the Champions.

“What is the meaning of this…. Zelda? You’ve returned? What were you thinking, running… quite literally running from your duty when the Calamity is nearly at hand?” There was much derision in his voice.

“I did no such thing. I would never.” Zelda’s voice wavered. She wasn’t surprised her father would make this accusation, but it still hurt terribly.

“Then. where. were. you?” Rhoam said evenly, and in a way that shook Zelda to the core.

“I went to the Spring of Wisdom… In a bid to unlock my power. I’ve failed. I’m sorry. I didn’t feel anything. Just like all my other attempts.”

King Rhoam shut his eyes. “That was not your decision to make. You know it is forbidden for you to set foot on Mount Lanayru until you are of age. For all you know your disobedience  may have cost all of Hyrule!”

Zelda began to break down. “But…”

“No more excuses, Zelda! You are to spend the rest of the night in prayer, asking the goddess for forgiveness and discernment, and so help me, you WILL unlock your power.”

Zelda clenched her fist. “No, I won’t! I’m not a child anymore. Please stop ordering me around like one. We must prepare to oppose the Calamity in whatever way we can, and I won’t waste another second praying for this cursed power to awaken!”

“Zelda, you are out of line, and I will not tolerate another word from you!” Rhoam raised his voice, almost shouting. “There is no excuse for this behavior. As long as I am King, you will obey me. Your mother would be very disappointed in you, Zelda. What a waste…”

 “You should watch your tongue, old man… How could you speak thus of the one who carries the blood of the goddess? Perhaps it is you who should beg forgiveness.” 

Everyone went deadly silent as they directed their attention to Astor.

Rhoam glared at the younger man, indignantly, taken aback by his words. He felt a deep sense of suspicion just from the look of him. There was a darkness about the young man that gave Rhoam a great sense of disquiet. “You… You must be the prophet I’ve heard about. What role do you play in all this? And who are you to tell me how to speak to my daughter? You know nothing of the responsibilities I have to my kingdom or of the pressures of raising a daughter of the royal family.”

Astor was about to protest when something violently rocked the very foundation of the castle. Everyone braced themselves, gasping.

Zelda’s eyes widened, horror in her expression. “It cannot be…” Zelda raced outside, already knowing what she would see. Everyone followed her out.

She looked up and sure enough, the worst had come to pass, and it was beyond her worst nightmare. Circling and raging around the highest spire was a purple-red miasma. It was just like the image on the Sheikah Slate, except now Zelda could make out that it resembled a great swine. There was a clap of thunder, and embers of malice floated down all around them.

“Ganon…” Zelda stared up at the being in terrible fear as 100,000 wretched screams of despair rang out across Hyrule.

[ossseous]

hello!! hope you're well! just saw ur response to the "properly formed society" comment on the carrier bag theory ursula post, i felt like the way u answered was so gentle but firm and informed. was wondering if u could maybe share some recommendations for texts to read more about this? cos i agree w/ the idea but its hard to find books like that. for example i think yuval's book ultimately has this kind of idea behind it (havent read it but from what ive read OF it, thats the vibe). thank u!!

sorry the word limit probably didn't help me express that right, i meant more books about anthro that focus on exploring human nature and our beginnings with a less "man is violent. man is the best supreme species. progress greatest invention. colonialism good because progress" yadda yadda yadda kind of deal, does this make sense? thank you again. also i think im obligated now to ask u your garbage ship of the week 

I’m much more of an article person than a book person because I can only take so much dry jargon filled writing for so long, but I do have some suggestions.

The biggest one is probably Questioning Collapse. For context, Jared Diamond is a man (not an anthropologist) that shares all his theories on how past civilizations, such as the Greenland Norse, or the Rapa Nui, or the Maya, collapsed, in the terribly titled book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (yikes). Let's get some things straight though. Jared Diamond proved in his book Guns, Germs, and Steel, that he is a white supremacist who exploited the people of Papua New Guinea and believes that euro imperialism was just , bound to happen because europeans were more "civilized." So it was no surprise when all his favorite themes, that people, especially "uncivilized" ones, are violent and selfish, showed up in Collapse. 

Unfortunately, many of these theories have become very popular and many people assume them to be correct when they aren't. Some examples: Diamond posited that the Rapa Nui (Easter Islanders) essentially destroyed their own natural resources which lead to warfare, cannibalism, and eventually their own demise. This ignores the fact that the island was ravaged by european expeditions, which included Fuck Boy Supreme James Cook (of the botched kidnapping and eventual killing by Hawaiians fame). Of course these encounters with Europeans led to the enslaving of the Rapa Nui, as well as the introduction of diseases that had a devastating impact on the population numbers.

Anyways, Questioning Collapse, edited by McAnany and Yoffee, is a collection of essays written by different people in the scientific community to dispute the theories Jared Diamond lays out in his book Collapse.

Ancient Civilizations by Fagan and Scarre, specifically chapter 2 “theories of states”

Another one would probably be Almost Human: A Journey into the World of Baboons written by Shirley C. Strum. I cant quite remember if Strum ever addresses this because it has been a few years since I read it, but: some of the earliest "man is just naturally violent and animalistic" ideas actually come from the surveying of baboon (and other primate) behavior and comparative anthropology. However, this came early in the field of primatology when observation methods weren't pinned down. Long story short, the male baboons that were being observed weren't actually being "naturally" violent--they were agitated and scared because the people observing them were literally observing them from a big ol scary unfamiliar jeep/atv thing that they drove up right next to the baboons' band. That was decades ago, and a lot of changes have been made since to how fieldwork is done. Anyways, Strum was one of the earliest groups of people to go out and observe baboons and she continued to do it for decades. Almost Human is essentially a look at her field notes/diary during the time. I have a couple other primatology book suggestions if you are interested. Here a couple: Gorillas in the Mist or anything else by Dian Fossey. Manipulative Monkeys by Susan Perry.

The next book I recommend is Farmers, Traders, Warriors, and Kings: Female Power and Authority in Northern Igboland, 1900-1960 by Nwando Achebe. From what I remember, Achebe isn't terribly fond of the anthropology field, (which is interesting because much of the book is ethnographic), but what can I say, I personally do not like historians myself so 🤷‍♀️ (also I might be thinking of someone else)

My personal loathing of historians aside, this is a great book that explores the ways in which women... well... navigate power and authority. You get to learn all about Female Kings and how the Igbo do not fit in with eurocentric gender norms--as well as the impact that European colonization eventually has on the Igbo culture and the role women and men play within their families and society.

Some articles that discuss the effects of colonialism, structure of prehistoric societies etc etc from an anthropological perspective:

State Formation: Anthropological Perspectives by Krohn-Hansen and Nustad

Different Types of Egalitarian Societies and the Development of Inequality in Early Mesopotamia by M Frangipane

Change in the Lives of Brazilian Indigenous People: To Pluck Eyelashes (or Not?) among the Canela by William and Jean Crocker

Gender Dynamics in Hunter-Gatherer Society: Archaeological Methods and Perspectives by Brumbach and Jarvenpa

Economy, Ritual, and Power in Ubaid Mesopotamia by Gil Stein

I have a lot of these articles (and more lol) as PDFs. If you would like to read them and cannot access them, let me know, I can put them in google drive or something.

also my garbage ship right now is still beth/borgov from the queens gambit lmao

[pi-creates]

So I’ve been happily watching @stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale stream through games recently, and she has decided to try one of my favourite Telltale games - Tales From the Borderlands. But since CJ isn’t familiar with the Borderlands games (and from the sounds of things, neither are some people in the chat) I’ve put together a very basic bit of background information from what I know (I also haven’t played everything from after TFTB’s release). 

It isn’t necessary to know any of this to enjoy TFTB as it gives a brief, ‘bare-bones’ introduction, but I figured it might help some people who like having that extra bit of depth going in without having to play through the other games. 

There won’t be spoilers for the TFTB plot, obviously, but the bottom section under the ‘read more’ will list characters from the main series who are mentioned/appear in the game and relevant information that someone familiar with the series should already know about them. But if you are familiar with the series and don’t want to know who may or may not show up (or would just rather go in blind to who is a ‘returning’ character) - stop reading at the Notable characters segment. 

[Spoilers for the Borderlands series below here]

For starters, Borderlands is set in the distant future – there are ways to ‘digistruct’ weapons and vehicles at the press of a button, you can walk up to a vending machine and instantly change your appearance, there are advanced cybernetics, robots are normal, you can have personal shields, teleportation is technically possible for both weaponry (notably grenades) and people, and there are guns that shoot electricity/fire/corrosive ammunition.

The goal of every Borderlands game revolves around the idea of opening a Vault – an ancient archway of Eridian origins (just think of long-extinct aliens) that is filled with treasures, hostile guardian entities, and also a very big, pissed off vault monster who will attempt to destroy anyone/anything that tries to get inside. The people who take the risk of searching for a vault and the treasures inside are labelled as Vault Hunters. In the core games, this would be you.

The problem is that finding a vault is hard since they are hidden, and they are often locked with artefact keys that trigger them to unlock. This means that the location of a vault, a vault key, or any signs of Eridian tech is VERY highly valued. Most of the games therefore revolve around the planet of Pandora since it has a high concentration of Eridian ruins which leads prospecting vault hunters to assume there must be more vaults to find on the planet.

Pandora, though, is more than a little inhospitable. The environment is mostly barren or wildly extreme, the wildlife is often very aggressive and deadly, and the people tend to be very rough since they have to deal with all of that. The planet itself doesn’t offer many prospects beyond weapon manufacturing, research, resource mining, and banditry. It has, however, previously been home to large corporations who tried to exploit said resources and attempted to ‘civilise’ the locals who would rather tell those corporations to piss off with the booming end of a shotgun. There is also a significant portion of the population who teeter really close to insanity on a daily basis. That is normal for them.

All of the attempts to settle and gather resources from Pandora has led to literal rubbish heaps, abandoned colonisation attempts, manufacturing/research zones that are often not friendly, bandit shanty towns, toxic chemical zones (from corporations running unethical experimentation) and SO many roaming bandits. Naturally, the locals don’t take kindly to anyone who works for the bigger corporations as they expect to be screwed over or exploited in some way.

For people familiar with the series, the timeline for Tales from the Borderlands is set after Borderlands 2 and before the Fight For Sanctuary DLC.

For people unfamiliar, you need to know that Pandora has recently dealt with the Handsome Jack problem. Basically, the handsome Hyperion CEO was set on wiping out all bandits and dangerous wildlife from Pandora. The problem was that Jack had a very low opinion of vault hunters, bandits, and pretty much everyone on Pandora as he believed they all fell in to those categories. 

The player’s introduction to Jack literally comes from him inviting vault hunters to Pandora, only for him to then blow up the transport in transit. You are lucky enough to survive where most others died. Jack himself then contacts you to say that you aren’t following his plan to kill all the vault hunters and “if you could just do me a favour and off yourself, that’d be great. Thanks, pumpkin.“

At the start of Borderlands 2 you will hear of Jack’s rather unethical and violent methods of dealing with people who aren’t on board with his plan – all while having a rather cheerful manner of speaking, almost as if he was enjoying playing the game with you as his opponent. He actually keeps in contact with the vault hunters throughout the game to casually chat with them, and occasionally yell at them if they aren’t playing along with him.

He plotted to open a vault on Pandora that held a very powerful monster called the Warrior. He was going to harness the Warrior’s powers to enact his wide-scale extermination plans. On the journey to stop his plans the vault hunters end up killing Jack’s daughter, Angel, as she was being used to ‘charge’ the vault key. Angel herself led the vault hunters to her location in the hopes that they would stop her father’s plans, much to Jack’s disapproval. He stops being cheerful at this point and doubles-down on wanting to raze all of Pandora to the ground.

He does successfully open the vault and the vault hunters have to defeat the Warrior before Jack can use it. The vault hunters win and Jack is killed for his crimes against Pandora. His final speech before dying in Borderlands 2 was very cool – including it here as it sums up his thought process really well. It has also lead to some interesting interpretations of Jack’s overall character.

"No, no, no... I can't die like this... Not when I'm so close... And not at the hands of a filthy bandit! I could have saved this planet! I could have actually restored order! And I wasn't supposed to die by the hands... of a CHILD KILLING PSYCHOPATH!! You're a savage! You're a maniac, you are a bandit, AND I AM THE GODDAMN HERO!!

"The Warrior was practically a god! How- How in the HELL have you killed my Warrior?!

"You idiots! The Warrior could have brought peace to this planet! No more dangerous creatures, no more bandits, Pandora-it would have been a PARADISE!!"

Naturally, since all of this drama happened not long ago, the citizens of Pandora are very much still on edge in regards to anyone who works for the bigger corporations – Hyperion especially.

Definitions to some things you are likely to see/hear about in TFTB –

Eridium – An ore-like resource associated with the vaults. It glows purple and is supposedly exceptionally rare in most of the universe – but not Pandora. This is what most of the manufacturing companies want since it can be harnessed to create highly effective tech/weapons.

Catch-A-Ride – The service that Scooter (a mechanic on Pandora) uses to digistruct vehicles out of Catch-A-Ride stations.  

ECHOs / ECHOnet – Essentially your mobile phone with internet and an app that lets you check everything in your backpack with a holographic display.

The Crimson Raiders – More or less the resistance fighters of Pandora who kept the citizens protected during the fighting of the main games. Run by the original vault hunters and still active in keeping Pandora free of outside threats.

Atlas – A technology and weapon corporation that was the first to make an earnest attempt to colonise Pandora after they suspected it would hold a vault. Was known as one of the best in terms of quality. They have since gone out of business.

Hyperion – The main corporation you will be dealing with. Has a particularly bad reputation on Pandora due to their former CEO, Handsome Jack, attempting to wipe out every bandit community on Pandora. Under Jack’s rule a lot of experiments were also run testing Eridium and Eridium by-products on people and animals – resulting in death, mutation, and insanity to most subjects.

Helios – Hyperion’s orbital station that can constantly be seen orbiting between Pandora and its moon. The station itself is shaped like a giant ‘H’ and houses a concentrated weapon that can shoot massive ammunition at targeted areas on Pandora. The weapon can also be used to shoot transport containers from the orbital station down to Pandora’s surface.

Elpis – Pandora’s moon. Visibly cracked open due to excessive mining. Everyone from here is VERY Aussie and it’s a little weird...

Notable characters you may meet/need to know about –

Marcus – Your narrator – he also narrated the intros and endings to the other games. You won’t see him, but it’s a nice tie in to the format of the main series.

Sirens – Essentially these ladies are magic. They are all born normal, but they will suddenly change and inherit their siren powers when another siren dies. They stand out by their glowing, tattoo-like markings that mysteriously appear on them when they awaken their siren abilities. Not much is known about them other than they can interact with Eridian based materials, and that they are excessively powerful since they have magic abilities.

Claptrap (CL4P-TP) – A class of unicycle robot that is very annoying. Doesn’t shut up, but is technically a vault hunter. You may or may not run in to him.

Angel / (Guardian Angel) – A siren who had the ability to interface with technology. She is the daughter of Handsome Jack and spent most of her life hidden in a secured bunker that only her father could enter via a DNA lock and voice password (her father saying “I love you”). This is due to Jack becoming extremely protective after bandits tried to abduct Angel upon realising she was a siren, and after Angel unintentionally killed her own mother with her powers. Due to her siren powers, she had the ability to stay in constant communication with anyone outside of the bunker, and to help her father with any tasks he required. Was killed by the vault hunters in Borderlands 2.

Handsome Jack – Antagonist from Borderlands 2 and previously the CEO of Hyperion. Has a mask of his face fastened over his actual face which was scarred by an Eridian artefact on Elpis. Starting out as a programmer, he worked his way up the ladder in Hyperion with Angel’s help through a mix of (initially) well intentioned plans to help the people of Elpis, and a growing obsession with power and hatred for Pandora and its bandits. He eventually strangled his boss and named himself President and CEO of the company.

Professor Nakayama – Had a massive crush on Handsome Jack in Borderlands 2. Smart guy who was devastated by Handsome Jack’s death and was working on a way to find the best successor to Jack to run Hyperion. He was attempting to clone Jack from old medical data (taken somewhere before the start of Borderlands 2′s plot) before the vault hunter’s confronted him and he literally dies from falling down a flight of stairs. Easiest boss battle ever.

Shade – DEFINITELY NOT INSANE. Somehow lived alone in a town in the middle of a desert with no water - and this definitely didn’t effect him mentally at all. He just wants a friend.

Scooter – Pandora’s best mechanic. Nice guy and actually a little more normal than a lot of other Pandorans. Has girl troubles, not that he’d ever admit it.

Ellie – Scooter’s sister. Also a mechanic, much to her mother’s displeasure.

Moxxi – Mother of Scooter and Ellie – runs a bar, slot machines, and previously a battle arena (The Underdome). Pretty much seen as Pandora’s Pin-Up, which she seems happy about since it has garnered her significant influence and power on Pandora. She speaks in pure innuendo.

Janey – Elpis’ best mechanic, focusing more on vehicles that work in low (or no) gravity. Runs an equivalent of Catch-A-Ride on Elpis. Girlfriend of Athena.

Athena – Vault hunter who was hired by Jack to help with the Vault on Elpis. Had a falling out with Jack after dealing with the Elpis situation, as this is where Jack was clearly starting to lose his stability. She notably fights with a shield that she can throw and return to her hand. Previously an Atlas employed assassin who turned against the company after Atlas tricked her into assassinating a target that was very important to her. Girlfriend of Janey.

Zer0 – Vault hunter who found a Pandoran vault and was involved in killing Handsome Jack. Another assassin who fights with a sword and is capable of making hologram decoys of himself. He likes to display holograms in front of his helmet to communicate since you cannot see his facial expressions. He’s an alien / who always speaks in haiku / with some exceptions.

Brick – Vault hunter from the first game. He is a berserker who punches VERY hard, but is a softy at heart.

Mordecai – Vault hunter from the first game. Sniper and sharpshooter, doesn’t need a scope to get a good headshot.

Lilith – Vault hunter from the first game. Siren who leads The Crimson raiders along with Brick and Mordecai.

Loader Bots – Hyperion made bots that are used for security and manual labour. They are big, they can speak, and they are very sturdy. Weirdly enough, they have the capacity to become self-aware (though self-aware models are often destroyed by Hyperion if discovered).

Psychos – A particular class of bandit that is always shirtless, dressed in orange pants, masked, and they all speak complete gibberish. They have some consistencies to their gibberish including an obsession with meat and salt.

Butt Stallion – Handsome Jack’s diamond Pony – Jack lovingly named her after the vault hunters at the start of Borderlands 2. She eats Eridium and poops guns... I wish I was kidding.

[starwarsnonsense]

Top 10 Films of 2018 (So Far)

Since I quite like continuing old traditions, I wanted to do a post rounding up what I consider to be the ten best films of 2018 so far. This list includes a few films that came out in 2017 in the US, since they were only released here in the UK this year.

Have you seen any of the films I cover below? Have I piqued your interest in a title you might not have heard before? Let me know, and do share your favourites too!

1. Annihilation, dir. Alex Garland

This was my most anticipated film of the year, and my hype for it was more than rewarded. This is a marvellously rich and transporting science fiction film that isn’t afraid of taking the viewer to some very weird places. However, Annihilation doesn’t simply rely on its strangeness to succeed - it is also firmly rooted in its characters and themes, which has made it incredibly rewarding to return to. Natalie Portman is fantastic as Lena, and Annihilation is a brilliant showcase for her - Lena is a complex and frequently self-destructive character, riddled by guilt and regrets that shape the pulsating, luminescent world of the mysterious ‘Shimmer’ that she has to venture into. The Shimmer might seem like an environmental phenomenon at first, but it’s really more psychological, being a space that adapts according to the people who enter into it. This film overflows with fascinating and thought-provoking ideas, and it was entirely worth the hike I made over to Brooklyn to catch one of the final showings at the theatre (since Annihilation was denied a theatrical release in the UK, I made a point of seeing it while I was on holiday in New York). I think it will go down as one of the great science fiction films, and it belongs in the same conversations as 2001: A Space Odyssey and Solaris.

2. Beast, dir. Michael Pearce

This little British film - shot mostly on location in Jersey by a first-time director - was easily the biggest (and best) surprise I’ve had so far at the cinema this year. I literally had no idea this film existed until a day or so before I watched it, and that made the experience of viewing it even more wonderful. Moll (Jessie Buckley) is an isolated young woman who is stifled by her controlling family and quiet life on a remote island, as well as a secret sin that bubbles away underneath the surface. Her life is predictable - safe, repetitive and dull - until she meets Pascal, a mysterious local man who she finds she has an affinity with. However, there is a murderer haunting the island, taking the lives of young girls in the night. Who’s to blame, and what impact will the killings have on Moll and Pascal’s swiftly escalating romance? While that is a synopsis more than a review, I felt it necessary to explain the premise to try and compel you to seek this one out. Beast is raw, woozy and utterly absorbing - the love story between Moll and Pascal is one of the most passionate and gripping you’ll ever see on screen, and their chemistry is simply sensational. There’s a real gothic, fairy-tale edge to the story which appealed perfectly to my (admittedly rather niche) tastes. This is a real hidden treasure of a film - do yourself a favour and make it your mission to watch it.

3. Lady Bird, dir. Greta Gerwig

This film was so, so relatable, despite my not really having experienced an adolescence anything like “Lady Bird’s”. While the details of her life are very different from mine, I think anyone can relate to the sweeping brushstrokes - the tensions that can arise between parents and children, the thirst for freedom and independence that builds the closer you get to the final days of school, and the feelings of love and loyalty that are always there even when they’re unspoken. Greta Gerwig captures all of this and so much more with marvellous delicacy, balancing little moments that add colour and spark with more serious scenes so deftly that it’s amazing to think that this is her first feature. Lady Bird is a very specific and very beautiful film, and it’s special precisely because it feels universal even as it feels small and personal to its director. 

4. Eighth Grade, dir. Bo Burnham

This is the perfect double bill with Lady Bird, and the people who have dubbed this film “Lady Bird Jr” are right on the money. Elsie Fisher has a real star turn as the heroine Kayla, who is a very special child - she’s kind, sensitive and thoughtful, which basically means she’s my kind of superhero. But even as she is a good and sweet person, she is also going through all of the trials you’d expect a 13 year old to be facing in 2018, as she wrestles with acne, confusing feelings about super-dreamy boys, and the escalating anxiety that comes with a comment-free Instagram post. Like Lady Bird, this film succeeds in being both very specific and highly universal - the only social media I had to deal with as a teen were MySpace and Bebo, and I found that seeing Kayla wrestle with a whole kaleidoscope of feeds, devices and platforms made her strong grip on her integrity as a  funny and deeply warm-hearted individual all the more remarkable. Bo Burnham, as with Gerwig, made a pretty incredible film here - in particular you should watch out for the father/daughter dynamic, which is my favourite part. Eighth Grade is funny and generous, and the perfect medicine if you’re feeling demoralised by the state of the world right now.

5. The Breadwinner, dir. Nora Twomey

The Breadwinner is a really lovely animated film telling the story of Parvana, a young girl living with her family under the Taliban. When her father is taken off to prison, Parvana sees no other choice but to dress as a boy to provide for her mother and siblings. But how long will her disguise last? The story here was what really gripped me - it’s very simple, in both the telling and the themes, but it is truly beautiful in that simplicity. The emotions are very raw, and this film goes to some shockingly dark places at times - while I think it can be watched with children as long as they are mature enough for some challenging themes and upsetting moments, it’s likely to speak most strongly to adult audiences with a fuller appreciation for the context in which the film is set. It’s a great and moving alternative to more mainstream animated efforts, and is well worth your time.

6. Phantom Thread, dir. Paul Thomas Anderson

This was a delightfully twisted film with an absorbingly complicated and twisty relationship at its centre. Vicky Krieps is an absolute marvel as Alma, and it’s wonderful to see how she battles to bring the fragile and austere designer  Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) to heel. It’s also a beautiful film with rather fabulous fashions - if you love couture, particularly from the ‘50s, this will be a real treat. I also appreciated the many allusions to classic cinema - there are strong shades of Hitchcock’s Rebecca, as well as the underrated David Lean film The Passionate Friends. Check this out if you like your romantic dramas weird and entirely unpredictable.

7. Revenge, dir. Coralie Fargeat

Revenge is angry, sun-soaked and batshit insane - and it is pretty great for all of those reasons. It follows Jennifer, the teenage mistress of a sleazy married man. After a horrifying assault Jennifer returns, phoenix-like, to wreak her revenge upon her attackers. This movie was very much inspired by exploitation flicks, with their penchant for showing scantily clad (and frequently bloody) women wielding shotguns to hunt down the brutes who did them wrong. However, first-time director Coralie Fargeat takes every one of those tropes and owns them, ramping up the blood and giving the action a propulsive energy that keeps you gripped even as you know exactly where things are going. The soundtrack here is also one to look out for - it’s all pulsating synths that do a great job of building the suspense and tension from the get-go.

8. Lean on Pete, dir. Andrew Haigh

This is a very painful film in many ways, but it’s only painful because it does such a great job of earning your emotional investment. The lead of this film is Charley, a sensitive and quiet teenage boy who becomes attached to an ailing race horse as he seeks to escape his troubled home-life. When he finds himself in crisis, Charley takes the horse and they head off on a journey across the American heartland. Charlie Plummer is extraordinary as the lead here - Charley is the kind of character that makes you want to reach through the screen so you can offer him a hug of reassurance and support. The photography of the American countryside is exquisite, and means this film really deserves to be seen on the big screen - the breadth of the landscape gives all of the emotional drama some (richly deserved, in my view) extra punch.

9. You Were Never Really Here, dir. Lynne Ramsay

This is a very weird film (you’re probably noticing a theme at this point) but it’s completely absorbing. It’s very much actor-led, and the film rests on the shoulders of Joaquin Phoenix’s gripping and unpredictable performance - in some scenes he’s muttering in deference to his mother like a modern-day Norman Bates, while in others he’s portrayed almost as a lost boy in an overgrown body, disorientated by his environment and engaging in acts of extreme violence as if in a sort of trance. The narrative is fuzzy and unfocused, but I didn’t find that mattered much since I was too busy following every evolution of Phoenix’s face.

10. Thoroughbreds, dir. Cory Finley

Olivia Cooke and Anya Taylor-Joy make fantastic foils to one another as two appallingly privileged teenagers whose obscene wealth is only matched by their resounding lack of morals. This is a film that plays with your loyalties, trying to wrong-foot you at every turn - it’s frequently difficult to figure out what’s genuine here, and while that did sometimes leave me feeling a bit emotionally detached that’s usually the point. This film is more of an intellectual puzzle than a lean, mean, emotion-extracting machine (see: Lean on Pete), and it succeeds brilliantly on that level. The simplicity of the story means the fun lies in picking apart lines and expressions, so go in prepared for some close viewing.

[some-triangles]

WRESTLING OF 2018

It was perhaps the gayest year of wrestling there has ever been. 

The Golden Lovers brought an influx of new, excitingly-gendered fans, and set to work normalizing their couplehood by demonstrating that a gay champion can fit as neatly into New Japan’s ongoing story about evil foreigners and the soul of wrestling as a straight one can.   On a more radical front, Hiromu Takahashi made everyone he fought fall in love with him, spreading his ideology of wrestling-as-sex through sheer animal magnetism, in a way that only he could.   It is difficult to resist the urge to romanticize his injury, given the tropes that surround men like him.  I was in the room when it happened and when I watched the replay I felt something die: the possibility of a new vernacular of grappling, one which acknowledges the homoerotic tension that is always present in a wrestling ring and uses it for fuel.  More to the point, though, I saw a young man’s neck break.

We can console ourselves with the idea that even if Hiromu can’t come back to us he left a mark on some of his foes which will linger.  Witness Will Ospreay’s frankly carnal hunger for Kota Ibushi -  Ospreay was Hiromu’s most eager disciple and (should he avoid a similar fate) seems destined to become an avatar of wrestling, such is his big dumb talent.  Hiromu’s influence will spread, albeit gradually.  If you’ll let me rationalize this hurt by making it a story, his legacy is a slow smoldering touched off by a candle that burned too bright.

It was also a gay year in the west, for in WWE 2018 was the Year of Women (undeniably the gayest of the beginner genders.)   The ascendance of Becky, Charlotte, Ronda et al to the main event has been the success story of the year, because it feels organic, like something the crowd wanted, even though it was in part the hard work of the booking committee that brought them to that point.   If WWE had not failed at every turn to get a single male superstar over, the girls wouldn’t be headlining pay-per-views.  

I kid, of course.   Against the many, many reprehensible things WWE has done this year as a company, the rise of women’s wrestling stands as an uncomplicated positive step which they pursued and accomplished intentionally, clumsily at times but with obvious care.  When they’ve made mistakes in this journey they’ve gone out of their way to repair them, reacting quickly (by their standards) and decisively (by their standards) to the demands of the audience, and as a result they currently boast a women’s roster which is the best and most successful the world has seen since the heyday of Manami Toyota and Aja Kong.   It helps that they have their pick of the best talent in the world; there is no IWGP Women’s Championship, no real payday or celebrity outside of the E.  People will say this is because Japan is different, that segregation is natural there, to which I reply: the fuck it is.  The biggest wrestling promotions in Japan choose to be male-only, and as a result the best female wrestlers find work overseas. This is a weakness that WWE will exploit when they launch NXT Japan.

If all this queer yonic energy is upsetting, worry not - 2018 was also the year of the Elite, and they have so much penis for you.   The Being the Elite crew have proven that we now live in a world where a group of wrestlers, if they’re talented and hard-working enough, can get themselves over without the support of any company, particularly if they’re on TV a lot in multiple countries and can get the companies they do definitely work for to promote their web show.   Once that’s done, all you need is some dad jokes, some catchphrases, some sub-SNL sketch comedy, and a truckload of dicks, and you have arrived at Nerd Paradise, the magical zone where Kenny and Cody discuss their favorite Disney amusement park rides in front of thousands of men in black t-shirts.

Again: I kid.  I was there at All In, too, and I got worked just like everyone else, to the point where I’m still half-hoping that the boys are about to launch a wrestler’s union and not some half-baked new TV promotion to slot in between MLW and whatever that thing Austin Aries launched to feel better about himself was. And we do live in exciting times, vis-à-vis the internet: the Elite may have had help, but Pierre-Carl Ouillet proved that all you need to revitalize a long-dead career is a Youtube account, a willingness to endure insane amounts of physical punishment, and a dream.

What I genuinely took away from All In – and from the wrestling I’ve seen this year generally – is an appreciation for wrestling fans, who have demonstrated themselves to be increasingly diverse, enthusiastic, hungry for good content, and willing to support anyone who’s putting in the work, regardless of where they come from or who they are.   I mean, we’re still wrestling fans, i.e. perpetually loud, wrong and angry about it, but we’ve come a long way.   People like the Wrestlesplania team, Spectacle of Excess, TDE and the twitter wrestling GIF community, fanartists, cosplayers and so many others are modeling new and better ways to engage with the product, challenging ideas about who wrestling fans are and how they behave, and generally being great people.  I for my sins am an old-school spiteful nerd at heart (hence the tone of this post) but I believe the community has been immeasurably improved by the contributions of people who aren’t.  Even the newly ascendant vanguard of British wrestling geeks are skating around every opportunity to prove themselves horrible people, led by the beatific smile and cadaverous pallor of Botchamania Maffew, who tries his best.

There’s more to say about New Japan and its eternal return to xenophobia, about Daniel Bryan the sellout and how he reminds us that we’re always being worked, about Roman Reigns and the cloud of missed opportunity that hangs over him even in his absence, about Hiromu.   But the story’s not over yet – the story of wrestling’s never over.  In less than a month the landscape will have changed again and a new year of carny nonsense will stretch out before us, with new meaning to wring from it and new things to get inexplicably, apoplectically mad over. Kevin and Sami will be back.   Hiromu might be back, god willing, even if just to take his Shibata victory lap.  The Elite might change the world.  Someone else we’ve never heard of might do it first.  WWE might succeed in signing every hot new professional wrestler on the planet, and Zack Sabre and a tiny Spanish man will still find a way to have a five star match in an armory in Barcelona.  We might find out that Kim Jong Un has been paying Vince McMahon millions of dollars to suck at promoting and thereby sap American morale.  Wrestling will continue to rule, in spite of this.  Wrestling will continue to be for everyone.  

[yeastofeden]

Hello! Your Traitor Uraraka theory was an amazing read! I want to dive into the world of character/story/literary analysis too, but I dont know where or how to start... Any advice/tips you could share?

Thanks so much! I’m honestly flattered you would ask… I’m ahobby writer so a lot of what I know about analysis is what I learnedin grade school, on my own, or adapted from what I know about artcriticism & analysis….. Since you’re not sure on the start,I’ll just talk about all the core things I feel helped me getinterested in this.

Read If I had torecommend anything specificfor reading, I’d say lookinto classic literature – not because its “critically acclaimed,”but because a lot of the time classic literature has been analyzed byprofessionals in their fields, so it can be a nice way to see howother people handle character interpretation, storytelling, worldbuilding, and so on. I liked Shakespeare a lot, and you probablywouldn’t be surprised to hear that people analyze the shit out ofShakespeare. I probably picked up the most of my understanding ofcharacter analysis from indulging in Shakespeare alone.

Don’t like Shakespeare? I’d say look into stories that are just over 50 years old; Lord ofthe Rings, Catcher in the Rye, Pride & Prejudice, Lord of theFlies…. So long as you can find actual scholars analyzing it,you’re golden. Read things you enjoy; if you like anime and only care about that…maybe check out textbooks on classic anime.

Alongwith looking up how others analyze, start being critical with all themedia you consume. Movies are a great way to do this because it’sshort format and easyconcumption. You can stayfocused on critical thinking for a couple of hours while enjoyingsomething–I also think movie reviews are a good way to experiencecritical analysis. And don’t just watch good movies… watch badones too, and figure out why they’re bad.

WriteActuallywrite. Take all the interesting things you learned and apply it tosomething. Don’t just think about it; the tragedy about onlythinking is that nothing really solidifies like it does once youfinally put it out there. Talkto friends about it if you can drag them into aconversation;a lot of my analysis started out because I was talking with otherpeople. If you don’t have anyone to talk to about a series or don’twant to bother people with your miscellaneous thoughts, get a sidetumblr or a dreamwidth and just write things there to get themdown–ifyou’reshy, just don’t tag things.Tbh, sometimes I just write things out and then delete them when I’mfinished just so I can get the thought out of me. Writing is just apowerful tool tohelp organize thoughts into cohesive opinions.

Butdon’t just write thoughts only… build on them. Write your owncharacters and stories just for fun. Write fanfiction. WriteAlternate Universes. Really just explore your own taste in fictionand the kind of things you yourself want to see. If there’s onevery easy thing I could suggest… take your favourite characters orship and slap them into story that already exists. I wrote one of myOTPs a few years ago into HasChristian Andersen’s theLittle Mermaid,andit was interesting andfuntrying to suit different characters into the roles of the story.

Writingand reading as a combination are just good things for you; they helpbuild competency with literature and language, andby just indulging in the two of these while remaining critical canjust naturally better your ability to read deeper into things.

ResearchAlongwith the earlier mentioned analyses that you should look into, it’sworth it to look into like extra resources. Check out interviews withyour favourite authors; look at like Ted Talks about creativity andwriting; read into tropes and motifs; find creative people you likeand follow their work and look for trends; lookinto writing concepts and themes.Storiesare just made up of patterns and once you start finding the patterns,you can start exploiting them. A Hero’s Journey is one of the mostfundamental patterns we can follow in storytelling, and with someabstract thinking we can start to predict the events that will occurin a story. A lot of my theory is built up on observing patterns.

IfI could point you toward one single video, it’s Kirby Ferguson’sTED talk “Embrace the Remix.” It talks about the idea thatnothing is original and all things are just remixed versions of eachother. This is part of why tropes exist;  you could go look attvtropes.org and hit random and start learning about these patternsright now. Granted, I don’t recommend using tropes as a foundationof an argument, but knowing tropes can help you connect the dotsbetween series.

IfI had to suggest any non-literary research that’s worth lookinginto….Check out psychology, art, and/or culture. Psychology is just morepatterns, I use Maslow’s Heirarchy of Needs when I write andobserve survival horror. Art is another way to tell a story and isespecially useful when observing visual media. Culture can help youunderstand why people write the way they do, becausethere is a difference between Eastern and Western media andstorytelling trends.

“Personality sections”Alittle back story on me: pretty much all of thereading/writing/researching I do thesedaysis because I do a lot of text-based roleplay on Dreamwidth. I’vebeen doing this for about8 years.Overthe years, I’ve written out easilyover 30 “personality sections,” which are basically 500-2kcharacter summaries–for characters like Sakura from Naruto, Makotofrom Free, Jake English from Homestuck, and so many others–as apart of a way to “prove” that I understand the character I’mroleplaying whenjoining organized groups.I’ve also read literallyhundredsof these personality sections because I joined vetting teams forsaid organized groups, and have written many rejectionresponses to help people understand where they can improve.A lot of people I know hate writingthese personality sections… but I love them.

Youcould join RP and get a feel for it thesame wayI did, but that might not be your thing. But the process of writingthese “personality sections” wasbroken down to a science byroleplayers,and can be seen as a base form of character analysis. Wetalkedabout a character’s personality, what shaped them to be that way,and sometimes how that affected them in the future of their story.When I led a vetting team, these were the requirements I set:

Mustbe at least three paragraphs long for minor characters, fiveparagraphs long for main characters. Players should be able to conveya good understanding of their characters, but just describing apersonality isn’t enough. Make sure that when you explain aparticular attitude that you back yourself up with some canon proof,otherwise mods have to wonder where you are getting this informationregardless of our knowledge of canon. Be sure to explain clearly andconcisely, organizing your paragraphs so related subjects aretogether. Avoid explaining the personality in such a way that itreads like a history section - generally this is determined byunnecessary use of chronological order.

Andthese are the same guidelines I hold myself to when I work on my ownpersonality sections. Some people have broken down personalitysections in such a way that they are formatted “three positivetraits, three negative traits” withsome variance.Some like to talk about important relationships aswell.I always defend that personality should be backed up with actualcanon evidence. “Uraraka is kind,” I could say, but I should backit up with an instance where she showed kindness, such as when shesaved Midoriya from tripping when they first meet.

TheorizingIfI’m honest, I don’t much like theorizing. I like to read theoriesand I like to think about things, but I’m not actually partial totrying to predict the future of a series because I feel likeserialized stories are too choppy to be worth my time, and there’snot much sense trying to predict the future of a story that’sfinished. I’m more inclined toward theorizing about the past, orwhat’s already happened but wasn’t explained.

Mydisinterest in theorizing kind of shows….I’ve only written twotheories for Tumblr–Urarakais the Traitor (My Hero Academia), and Both Shiros are the Clone(Voltron). I think I ended up being right about the second one butI’m not sure where the interview isthatproves it, justthat it was SDCC stuff.Thereason I’ve written any theories at all is because I personally wasmotivated by frustration–I didn’t know why people weren’ttalking about these things. SoI made a post to try to get people to talk. BeforeI posted my theory, no one would have looked twice at Uraraka andthat drove me nuts.Now I’ve made a following strong enough that Uraraka seems to beone of the highest contenders in terms of just… gossip. Which,thanks guys. I’m floored.

So…. Myadvice would be to pick a subject you think should be talked aboutand go for it. Do the research. Canon-review. Takenotes. Search for patterns outside what you’re trying to analyze.Writeand rewrite and rewrite again, becauseanalyzing is basically high school but fun.

And…lastly…. Prepare to be wrong. You have a different sense ofstorytelling than anyone else. I have been bitten right in the assbecause I viewed and loved many-a character because I saw them theway I wanted to, and the author clearly did not share my views.And people might not like your theory; people might super hate iteven, and that’s not such a big deal. In the end it’s just fiction and we’re all just here to enjoy a story we love.

I…know that’s a lot, but Ihope it was at least helpful information! Ithink in the end the most important part is just to be critical andremain open-minded. Never stop learning. Choose your battles. Write about what you love.And don’t worry so much about being wrong. 

[martinmcg]

PALACES OF FORCE

Our journey to Paris and the Exposition Universelle de 1889 did not begin auspiciously. The trip required us to catch a train from Victoria Station, which is a terrible place. From Victoria Street the station appears to be nothing more than a shabby wooden shed, held together only by the many layers of paint that have been plastered on it over the years. The station’s exterior, however, offers barely a hint of the horrors within. The inadequate walls conceal the most chaotic, the most crowded and, assuredly, the dirtiest place I have ever seen.

And I am from Calcutta.

Everything was stained black by the smoke and clouded by billowing steam. I felt certain that, if I could but find a moment’s pause to contemplate it, I should be able to feel the station’s grime smearing itself across my face.

But there was no pause. The crowd heaved back and forth between the great hissing beasts of the engines. Men pushed and grunted, women screeched and shoved, and the children scuttled like rats and bellowed like savages. In terms of both volume and shrillness the noise of the crowd was almost a match for the whistling, rumbling, rattling, and hissing of the great steam engines that loomed over us all.

Though I have lived here now for somewhat more than sixty years, I still find it impossible to reconcile England’s conception of itself as the world’s most civilised nation with the wolfish mob its people become when gathered together. It is as though the English, by constant repetition of their claim to an excess of refinement, hope that it will become reality. It is plainly a deception, though perhaps not without a certain admirable intent.

My companion and I struggled through the noise and press of the station to our appointed platform and the night train to Paris. The distinctive yellow-ochre of the Brighton and South Coast Line trains took on a sickly pallor in the dim light and smoke-laden air. A discreet display of coin caught the attention of a somewhat reluctant porter, and we made our way along the platform.

My companion, Mohandas, was a quiet man, shy and softly spoken even in his native Gujarati and more so when required to converse in English, though he was quite fluent. You will have heard of him of course, as he is now more than famous. Then, however, he was simply a student hoping to be called to the bar. Like many of the Indians who came to England to study at that time he affected to become, in appearance and behaviour, a more precise instance of the idealised English gentleman than any I have ever encountered amongst the native population. However, unlike the majority – including, I freely confess, myself – Mohandas maintained the proprieties of diet and religious observance. This religious bent and his somewhat serious manner had led some of our fellows to abandon him as a prig and a bore. I fear he pricked their consciences. For myself, having no conscience, I found him honest and intelligent, and we became regular companions.

He dressed in the most proper fashion, taking the utmost care with his appearance. Those who know him only from the newsreels may imagine that Mohandas only ever dressed in the simplest of clothing, but when I think of our youthful days together in London, I see him in the clothes he wore that day: a chimney-pot hat and suit bought in Bond Street, with a gold watch chain across his chest.

Assisted by the porter, we installed ourselves in a compartment in the first class carriage and settled down. We had, thanks to my habitual punctuality, arrived a little early and our train was quite empty so we were able to pick our compartment and arrange ourselves before the majority of passengers arrived. As the time of our departure neared, the train became quite full, crowded even, and I waited with interest to see who would share our compartment. I watched as several of our fellow travellers peered through the glass of the door, then turned away with expressions of distaste.

I dismissed it with a shrug, and if Mohandas noticed he gave no sign. As has always been his way, he spent any spare moment reading voraciously. He had galloped through the Daily News, The Daily Telegraph and The Pall Mall Gazette, and was absorbing The Times when there was a roar from the guard on the platform and a blast from the engine’s whistle, and the train juddered forward. We were leaving at last. I stared out the window, watching the dark and crowded platforms slip away. And then we were out of the station and, for a moment, I was blinded by the early evening sun.

I blinked several times, and when I recovered the most handsome man I have ever seen was standing in the doorway to our compartment.

He was several inches taller than my own six feet, with beautiful deep-set blue eyes. Though he was obviously Caucasian, his skin was almost as deeply coloured as my own. His hair was black and, growing slightly longer than might everywhere be consider proper, it tangled into curls. His full beard was lightened by a faint, reddish touch. He was tall, but even through his fashionable pinstripe suit I determined a slender boyishness about his body.

I nodded and the stranger smiled. There was a shyness about his demeanour that only enhanced his physical beauty. He sat next to me, facing Mohandas.

“It seems you have offended some of your fellow travellers,” the man said.

Mohandas looked up sharply.

“But we spoke to no one,” I said.

“Some people need only the slightest of excuses to become offended,” he said. His accent was marked and I assumed he was Scottish, though I would later learn he had been born in Ireland.

“Such as?” It was Mohandas who had spoken. I was quite surprised for it was usual for him to require a lengthy courtship with a new acquaintance before overcoming his natural reserve to address them directly.

“Oh, the usual. The cut of your suit, the style of your shoes…” he paused, and looked around as though searching the cabin for examples of things that might offend a polite sensibility, then he smiled. “The colour of your skin?”

I grunted a laugh and even Mohandas grinned.

“Casement,” the young man thrust out an open hand and I shook it vigorously. “Roger Casement. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Sanjit Kamath,” I introduced myself. “And this is my friend and colleague, Mohandas Ghandi.”

“I believe I have heard of you, Mister Casement,” Mohandas said as they shook hands.

The young man cocked his head to one side.

“Really?”

“You have been in Africa? One of Stanley’s men, in The Congo Free State?”

“I was, but how could you know?”

“Your friend, Henry Ward, has spoken most highly of you, at our meetings.” Mohandas pulled out a pamphlet on vegetarianism and I barely suppressed a groan.

“You know Henry?”

“I have attended meetings of the Vegetarian Society with him.” He waved the pamphlet at young Casement; Henry Ward’s name was on the front. “Hearing your name, I could not fail to know you by his description.”

Casement leant back in his seat, stretching his long legs. He seemed, suddenly, entirely at ease. “Well, if you’re friends with Henry, then I am sure this trip will be most pleasurable.”

Our eyes met for a moment and a smile curled my lips.

“Most pleasurable,” I said.

*

I have forgotten much of the conversation that passed between the three of us on that journey to Paris, but I do remember that we talked about Livingstone and the Congo, and about the prospects for establishing a genuine commonwealth in Africa that might serve as a beacon for the whole continent and perhaps the world. Casement was passionate and sincere in a way that only young men who have found a true cause can be. I found him immensely likable and attractive, and we chatted endlessly.

Mohandas spoke rarely, but one of his interventions sticks clearly in my mind, for it was my first insight into the political ideas that were coming to the boil inside his head.

I had asked young Casement what he hoped to achieve in Africa.

“Why, to end slavery, to ameliorate the most awful conditions that the natives must endure, and to spread enlightenment of the ways of the modern world.” Casement said. He spoke so straightforwardly and earnestly that it was impossible to doubt his sincerity and difficult to resist his beautifully simple vision.

Mohandas laid the book he was reading onto his lap.

“And what if the people there do not want your enlightenment, Mister Casement?”

Casement looked surprised. He stared at Mohandas for a moment, opened-mouthed. The idea had clearly never occurred to him.

“But you have not seen the terrible conditions in which they live,” he said. “Each new tribe we discover suffers an existence a civilised man would not wish upon a dog!”

Mohandas smoothed out his suit trousers. It was, I thought, a very lawyerly motion.

“I believe I have seen such conditions in my own homeland,” he said. “Are you to tell me that the poor natives of India or Africa are better off for the coming of the white men?”

“No,” Casement didn’t hesitate. “Not yet. But that is because they are being exploited. We, that is those of us who support the Free State, wish to liberate the Africans from such exploitation and to establish them as a modern nation amongst the peoples of the world.”

“And what if they do not wish to be modern in your ways?” Mohandas turned to look out the window as Kent, low and lush, rumbled past. “Has it occurred to you that their traditions and their way of life may be as valuable as yours?”

It clearly hadn’t, for Casement fell silent.

After a moment I changed the subject and we talked of happier subjects, perhaps of cricket – my true love – or mutual acquaintances and our plans for our time in Paris.

Later, the young Mister Casement and I spent two hours together in his cabin on the steamer that carried us across The Channel. He was a strong and fierce lover. It is my clearest and most cherished memory of our time together.

*

I will not dwell on the details of the 1889 Exposition, except for those that impinge most pertinently on this tale. None who were not in Paris that summer can hope to comprehend the scale and opulent magnificence of the display that girdled the Seine. And, even these many years later, those who journeyed through its many wonders will not require my aid to recall the impression that the city and the Exposition made upon everyone who took in its sights.

Suffice it to say that those who consider these things, experts who have attended similar events all across the globe, judged the Paris Exhibition of 1889 to be the most extraordinary and comprehensive gathering of mankind’s many achievements in the fields of art and science. Subsequent years may have witnessed mankind’s increasing ingenuity and the blossoming fruits of many great minds, but there are still those who insist that the Paris Exposition has never been surpassed or even matched. All man’s greatest achievements to that point were on display on the Champ de Mars that summer and the path that would lead us into the next century was set out for all to follow.

The once-controversial symbol of the exhibition, Mister Eiffel’s great tower, remains in place – now synonymous with France herself – but the Exposition left a more subtle mark in the souls of the many millions of visitors lucky enough to have explored its wonders.

*

The planet span serenely at our feet. First, one noticed the vast white ice cap of the Arctic, then, as we circled slowly around and down past the equator, the great expanses of Asia were gradually dwarfed by the ungraspable hugeness of the Earth’s oceans, until at last the Southern ice cap was above our heads, and we had passed below the planet.

It was a most disconcerting experience.

The globe, as high as a three-storey house, dominated the huge room, and a single walkway spiralled around it as the planet itself rotated. By some fluke we had entered the room when it was otherwise empty, and in the church-like silence I found myself deeply moved by this vision of our planet.

The sense that the globe represented something fundamental was profound. The immensity of the world on which we live, and our own smallness within it, was made plain. Its scale – one millionth of the planet’s actual scope – staggered the mind. Only when faced with such a sight, the vast globe encompassed in a glance, can one comprehend how insignificant is humanity. But, more surprisingly, I was at the same moment struck by the fragility of the planet, a tiny haven of life in an unimaginably larger universe. We were insignificant specks on the face of a planet that, itself, seemed suddenly no more than a full stop in a lost volume on a forgotten shelf in some great library.

The great mountain ranges appeared as but wrinkles on an aged face. The greatest rivers seemed to be no more than trickles into oceans that were themselves made simple pools that a child might splash through. The portion of our planet that is habitable, squeezed between expanses of ocean and ice, driest desert and sterile mountains, seemed reduced to so small a sliver that the distances that divide race from race seemed meaningless.

I dare say that no man capable of reason could have gazed upon that globe and not been moved by the essential unity of humankind.

Casement was stroking his beard, looking up at the planet, his eyes followed southernmost tip of South America as it passed across his field of vision. Mohandas had paused further up the walkway. I can still see him, in my mind’s eye, standing just below equator, one hand slightly out-stretched as though he would scoop up the waters of the Pacific Ocean

In that moment the only sound was the gentle rumble of the machinery that drove the great globe.

Then the door above us opened and a group of giggling girls entered the chamber. The spell was broken.

“Shall we move on?” I said.

*

Our next steps took us into the future. From the chamber containing the globe we crossed to the Galerie des Machines.

This hall, dubbed the “Palace of Force” by one Parisian commentator, was itself a symbol of man’s power over nature. One knew, logically, that innumerable tonnes of iron anchored the great vaulted roof that arced high above us, but under acres of glass and in the summer afternoon’s sunlight that flooded everywhere, that mass of metal seemed to become attenuated. It was possible to imagine that the whole building could simply waft into the Parisian sky. We descended a wide staircase to a viewing platform dominated by a tall, skeletal clock tower. We paused there; we had entered through the western end of the Gallerie and stretching away below us was the first of two great wings that met beneath a glass dome that was larger, lighter, and more impressive than anything in Europe’s ancient cathedrals. My own reaction was reflected in the gasps and exclamations of my fellow visitors. The torrent of people divided on the platform and swept downwards to the Gallerie’s floor via two sweeping staircases.

There was a moment’s respite then, as one recovered from the shock of this extraordinary building. We regrouped, sharing glances that, at least on the part of Casement and myself, revealed that we were almost awe-struck. That this temple of light and iron had made an impression on Mohandas was obvious, though whether it was favourable was not at all certain.

No sooner had we become accustomed to the magnificence of the great exhibition space than we began to become aware of the wonders it contained.

Looming over the entrance stood the engine of an ocean liner – a cathedral of steel and brass, dwarfing all who entered and impressing on everyone the power now in the hands of man. Elsewhere hundreds of smaller engines wheezed, slapped, and banged, illustrating the many tasks man’s ingenuity had found for them.

For myself and Casement the Hall of Machines was a delight. We jigged from stand to stand, gasping at each toy or gadget, thrilled by the endless possibilities that opened up with each new discovery. Everywhere electric lamps flickered even in the sunshine, and the exhibition was filled with swarms of photographers who went about their task with a fervour, recording every miniscule detail. Moving pictures flickered in darkened booths. Recorded music blared from Berliner gramophones. Daimler motorcars trundled amongst the wide aisles between walls of machinery. Everything that we later took for granted – the whole future – was here.

In the centre of the hall, beneath the vast dome, two balloons were suspended. The smaller example was a model of the gaudy device that had first born the Mongolfier brothers aloft just a century before. Dwarfing that, however, as Jupiter does its many moons, was its modern equivalent – a great crimson orb below which was suspended a wicker basket.

We paused beneath it. Casement smiled to himself then signalled to the balloon’s attendant.

“What are you doing?” I asked, but he ignored me and took the attendant to one side and began a whispered discussion that commenced with a regretful but firm shaking of the attendant’s head and concluded with a handshake and a discreet exchange of francs.

“Come along.” Casement held aside a thick red rope and waved us towards the balloon’s basket.

Mohandas stopped and looked toward the attendant who bowed respectfully.

“What have you done?” I asked.

“I told him Mohandas was the Rajah of Peshawar,” a huge boyish grin split Casement’s face. “And that he was interested in buying a fleet of balloons to enable exploration of the Himalayas.”

A look of outrage spread across Mohandas’s face but we rushed to his side and Casement shuffled him into the basket before he could splutter a word. I distracted the attendant with a most elaborate namaste.

Once the wicker basket was raised above the floor of the hall of machines, Mohandas’s outrage dissipated and his natural curiosity asserted itself. Casement stood alongside Mohandas, and the two of them could hardly have presented a greater contrast. Casement was tall and hale so that even standing still he seemed to vibrate with barely restrained energy. Dwarfed beside him, and fragile, Mohandas held himself so perfectly still that the world seemed to pivot about him. Even then I worried whether his slight frame could carry the burdens he took upon himself – yet he never buckled.

Casement seemed quite transported by the sights and sounds of the great machines now at man’s bidding. “Impressive, isn’t it? These engines are power incarnate. They are the way to the future.”

“Certainly,” Mohandas did not look at him. “They are the way to a future.”

Casement caught the barb; clearly he had not forgotten their brief exchange on the train. He swept his hand across the scene below them. “Do you really mean you believe that the people of Africa or India would be better off if we denied them all that this could offer?”

“What does it offer, my friend?”

“They’d have the strength to build, the ability to control their lands, the power to protect themselves against the predation of the white nations or their fellows.” Casement was counting off the obvious benefits on his fingers. “They could ensure comfort from want and safety from exploitation. And with ease from such fears comes the ability to devote time to art and science and the true fruits of civilisation.”

“These machines could do that for the poor of India and Africa?” Mohandas was smiling.

“Of course! Look around this room. Think what they have done for Britain and France.”

“So you believe that these great machines could make the poor of the rest of the world as fortunate as the poor of Limehouse or Manchester or Birmingham?” Mohandas shook his head. “How happy they will be that such luxury has only cost them their lands and their traditions.”

Whatever response Casement was planning stuck fast. He stared out across the exhibition, gathering his thoughts.

“Of course, the present organisation of our society is far from perfect,” he said.

“I hadn’t taken you for a communist.”

“I am not,” Casement visibly bristled, pulling himself to his full height. “But I will concede that there are ways industrial society could better provide for its people.”

“And who will care for the people when these great machines rust, when the land has been abandoned and the crops fail?” Mohandas’s hand chopped the air. “When these machines become scrap, Mister Casement, how will your Empire feed our people then?”

“I have said that changes are necessary,” Casement met Mohandas gaze and held it, visibly trying to restrain his anger. “But I hardly think an Irishman needs a lecture from anyone on the consequences of famine.”

There was silence then, for what seemed like a very long time. Even the sound of the machines in the exhibition hall and the thousands of people moving just a few dozens of feet below us seemed to fade away. I found myself unable, or perhaps unwilling, to intercede, for I felt certain some crucial struggle was taking place. But there was to be no victor here and, after an eternity, it seemed, the two men reached some silent accord and smiled.

The mood immediately lightened and Mohandas, looking out over the Galerie des Machines, pointed to some stall that caught his eye.

I signalled to the attendant of the balloon, who set to winching us back to earth.

“You shouldn’t have lied,” Mohandas said, nodding towards the attendant. Casement’s face was a sudden mask of utter contrition.

“I did not mean to-”

Mohandas rested a hand on his arm, leaning close, smiling.

“I have never even been to Peshawar.”

Casement’s laughter rang out across the Palace of Force.

*

The next day we took a journey into the past. Our trip through time took us down a boulevard illustrating the history of human habitation presented in exquisitely detailed reconstructions or large models. We began in the familiarity of the present but quickly passed a delightful hostelry of the Renaissance, the rougher dwellings of the Dark Ages, the glory of Rome and the simpler elegance of Greece, back through the cruder dwellings of the stone ages and, ultimately, to the troglodyte beginnings of mankind in caves lit by guttering flame. Nor was only European history presented, for the display featured civilisations from across the globe, from the tepees of the Red Indian and the adobe homes of the Americas before the Europeans arrived, to the homes of ancient Egyptians, Assyrians, and Phoenicians. Perhaps unsurprisingly Mohandas and I were particularly fascinated by the reconstruction of the Brihadisvara temple in Thanjavur. We were most impressed by the attention to detail in the reproduction which included the great bull and the Periya Koil.

Finally we reached the end of the boulevard and, rather tired and hot in the afternoon sun, we were drawn to the shade of what appeared to be a small copse of exotic trees from which strange music floated.

Beneath the trees we found reconstructed a village of the native people of Malay. At first glance it was little more than a scattering of bamboo shacks thatched with palm-leaves, and yet there was something in the grace of the buildings that spoke of a simple life in a bountiful land. Rather than the construction of man, the village seemed to have formed organically from the very stuff of the forest and it seemed that to live life in a place like this would be to become an organism in service of the trees.

We followed the music to an open theatre, roofed with more palm leaves but open at the side, and watched a traditional dance performed by a group of native girls. They were such slight creatures that it seemed impossible that they should dance with such grace while encumbered with head-dresses and thick bracelets, brooches, buckles, and embroidered garments. But graceful they were, and they moved with such entrancing charm that the three of us stood quite transfixed as their arms and fingers etched intricate, exotic patterns on the Parisian air and their musicians beat out rapid yet oddly plaintive rhythms.

How long we stood there I cannot tell, but when the show finished the first hint of evening could be felt on the air and the feeling of being transported to some distant shore was complete. Silently we made our way back to the huts of the village and dipped inside the first one, finding low benches set around the wall. We spoke not a word as we arranged ourselves, perhaps fearing to break the spell that the dancers had woven around us. We were entranced.

“This is how life should be,” I said eventually, stretching out in contentment.

“Exactly!” Mohandas suddenly leaned forward. “This is the life for which we are intended. This is the level at which our moral and economic life should be organised. We cannot understand the world in a city where every neighbour is a stranger – we have no feeling of kinship. But in a place like this, where everything is shared, men could see the consequences of their actions and be held responsible for them. In a place like this, justice would be a reality.”

“You’re a romantic!” Casement was laughing but not mocking.

“You think so?”

“You think this thing,” Casement took in the village with a flick of his head, “is real. It isn’t. It’s a fiction.”

“Not this place, perhaps, but places like this are real.”

“No,” Casement’s voice rose slightly. “I hadn’t seen it before but your background has made you as distant from places like this as mine.”

“You know nothing of my background.”

“I think I do. You are a child of privilege – more so even than I, I think–”

“My family were not wealthy.”

“No? But you have been privileged. You have had an education, a chance to travel, and all the while protected by your family’s position. You said your father was a politician, so you have grown up amidst the exercise of power.”

“That hardly invalidates my opinions.”

“Of course not,” Casement stood up and walked to the door of the hut, bending to look out into the village beyond. “But you know nothing of what it is to really live in places like this.”

“And you do?”

“More than you, I think.” He dipped beneath the roof of the hut and stepped out. Mohandas followed him. Reluctantly, I trailed behind – regretting what I had started. “At least I have lived amongst these people – though, I confess, always apart, always with the knowledge that I could walk away. But I saw enough to see that their life was not one of harmony with their surroundings but a struggle just to gather enough to live. One poor harvest and a generation may be lost.”

“Then we should temper our society to live by what nature can provide.”

“Why, when we have the power to set these people free from nature’s tyranny?”

“You think your work sets the poor free, but you simply bring them another form of imperialism,” Mohandas’s lawyerly training had taken control; he spoke evenly and with confidence. “The ideas of progress you force upon them are as alien and destructive as any imperial army.”

“Perhaps,” Casement conceded and, for a moment, Mohandas broke his stride – surprised. “But the ideas I bring them are no more alien than yours, and no more dangerous.”

“Dangerous? How could it be dangerous to live within one’s means?”

“How could such communities protect themselves from the true imperialists – whether amongst their neighbours or the white men?”

“But what would an imperialist want with a poor village?”

“Wealth.”

“But a place like this would have no gold, no jewels,” Mohandas smiled. “I think there would be nothing here to bring the conqueror.”

“I think you misunderstand the nature of wealth and the desire for power.” Casement did not return the friendly smile. “Riches aren’t built on gold but on people. What use is gold if you have no labour to dig it from the ground? How can palaces be constructed if you have no slaves to build them for you? And what good is wealth if there are not masses of people possessing nothing to gaze upon your fortune with envious eyes? What is power if it is not exercised in the subjugation of others to your will?”

Mohandas opened his mouth to speak, but Casement did not pause. He was striding around the little village now, hands clenched behind his back, his body tense, his jaw firmly set. His voice was loud, his accent becoming quite nasal and pronounced, and his eyes were ablaze.

“But this all starts from a false premise. Those with power would never let your dreamy villages exist, for they would bring gold and trinkets and buy your villagers first, and if that did not work they would bring rifle and horse and force their compliance. The only way that a village like this can be free is if its people are given the tools of the modern age and made as powerful as anyone who would threaten them. It is the job of those who care to construct a decent world to give them those tools.”

“No!” Mohandas’s voice was gentler than Casement’s and he habitually spoke so softly that the fact that he raised it now visibly shocked the young Irishman. “Guns are nothing without men to wield them. Gold is nothing without people willing to be bought. You underestimate the power of resistance.”

“And you underestimate the determination of the powerful to stay that way.”

There was a rustle in the trees. I looked up to see the Malayan girls whose performance we had recently watched peeking from between the leaves of the plantation’s vegetation. How long they had been there, I could not guess. From the bewildered looks on their faces, it had clearly been long enough to understand that the two smartly-dressed gentlemen before them were arguing furiously.

One of the girls noticed me and I doffed my hat to her. She giggled and nudged one of her companions who, in turn, began to laugh. My companions, however, were so entirely engrossed in their debate that they squabbled on, unaware of their audience. One of the bolder girls began to imitate Casement’s mannerisms, which set another girl to imitate Mohandas’s air-cutting hand movements.

The giggling turned into outright laughter.

At last there was a pause.

The argumentative pair turned towards me, confused. I nodded towards the trees. The Malay girls howled and suddenly the two lions of debate became blushing boys. In a moment, I was roaring more loudly than any of the dancers.

*

“I must go on to Brussels tomorrow,” Casement said as we paused on the Pont de l’Alma. We were alone, Mohandas having gone in search of vegetarian food, and the streets of Paris suddenly emptied. “I must see if there is work for me back in Africa.”

He placed his hands on the low balustrade and I rested my hand on top of his. He looked around furtively and then leant his shoulder against mine. We shared a smile.

Paris had pulled down the stars and draped them around herself. The banks of the Seine glowed with all the majesty of the Milky Way. The river, blacker than the night sky, ripped silently against the bridge’s buttresses and reflected a uncountable points of light in every swirl and eddy. Further down the river the city’s other bridges were ribbons of light leaping across the darkness. Boats of every shape and size, brightly lit and filling the night with laughter and the clinking of glasses, seemed to dance at the feet of the great statues that guarded our bridge.

“At least tonight will be memorable,” I said.

Casement, his eyes on the rippling river, nodded and smiled softly, but I sensed part of him was already back in Africa.

*

Now, almost seventy years after our trip to Paris, Casement is long gone – executed in an English jail – and my friend Mohandas is dead these ten years – assassinated by a fool. Both lived their beliefs, turning ideas into actions, and both were killed because of them.

Though the history books show that their lives followed quite separate trajectories, I have recently come to think that they led to rather similar places. Both fought for independence for countries that would ultimately be divided by religious enmity that was stronger than they could conceive. And their dreams of justice and equality have been betrayed by those who used revolutions to replace one corrupt set of rulers with another. Neither man would be content with the continuing penury and exploitation of his nation’s poor and both would, I am sure, find themselves fighting the very governments they struggled to create. In revolution or resistance, progress or simplicity, Irishman and Indian were both victorious and defeated, and they have become symbols that embarrass those who have come after them.

Today I found myself wandering with my friends through the Paris of the Exposition and that great model of the globe was spinning, once again, at our feet. Somewhere above my head a Russian device is circling the globe. I have heard its frantic, crackling warble on the wireless. I wonder if allowing all humanity to stand above the Earth and watch it turn might not have the same profound effect on all the world that it on the three of us so long ago. However we die, we live together and now we can see the world now as it truly is, just a speck. Yet even this mote – significant only to us – is so massive that it overwhelms our petty differences.

I see the great engines of the Galerie des Machines and laugh at how impressed we were by toys that have been entirely surpassed in the years that followed. I think of our journey into the past, to that most distant village, and my companions’ disagreement. I am surprised that my strongest memory is not of the words of two great men putting forward their visions for a better world but of the laughing Malay girls who mocked them before going on their own way through their ersatz forest and away into the Parisian night, quite unaware of the weight of the discussion they had witnessed.

Finally, I am back on the Pont de l’Alma and the smell of roses rolls across the water from the gardens constructed on the Trocadéro. I turn back to gaze at the Champ de Mars; Eiffel’s slender tower knifes the night sky with twinkling diamonds and the great palaces shine brightly. The South Bank is ablaze with the light of man’s greatest achievements. I reach out and, just for a moment, I seem to have gripped all time and space and that I might manipulate an awesome power to remake the world.

I could set free the engines that Casement so admired. Unleashed at last, their energies might set men free.  Or I could crush them and cast us all back to innocence. Mohandas believed that those machines were as much the tools of slavery as chains and rifles.

The choice is mine. If I can make it.

I hesitate.

And then Casement is beside me, urging me onwards into the Parisian night. I follow him into the gardens on the Trocadéro and we lose ourselves again amongst tall hedges and the perfume of flowers.

“Palaces of Force” was first published in Aeon SF #8

PALACES OF FORCE was originally published on Welcome To My World

[xgenesisrei]

An Asian Perspective on Creation Care Theology

*On November 10-12, the World Evangelical Alliance and the Lausanne Movement, in partnership with the University of Wisconsin-Madison, gathered 70 people from 25 different countries to revisit the Jamaica Call to Action on Creation Care and the Gospel. I was given the responsibility to deliver one of the three plenary sessions on the theology of creation care alongside Dr. Ruth Padilla DeBorst and Dr. Jonathan Moo. Below are some notes of what I shared.

Mabuhay!

My task is to point to areas that should be emphasized more in developing a global theology of creation care, particularly from an Asian perspective.

“There is no reward in heaven for recycling, picking up trash, or planting trees.”

“We are called to save souls, not trees!”

“The earth will be destroyed in the end, no matter whether you polish it up or abuse it. It does not matter; it is not a church issue!”

You must have heard similar sentiments whenever the topic of creation care is brought up. For my part, the most memorable was during a workshop in the aftermath of typhoon Haiyan. An organization invited our team in Micah Philippines to help sustain the work rebuilding the devastated city of Tacloban. The task is to help church leaders get a good grasp of integral mission and reconnecting their people to the natural environment that has taken their loved ones, their homes, their livelihood, their churches, and for some even their faith. In one of the workshops, one pastor stood up and addressed us, “Ptr. Rei, it is really wonderful to learn from the Bible all these insights about holistic mission. I really appreciate it. But one thought has been lingering in my mind all throughout: what if the rapture happens tomorrow or next week, then all these efforts we are doing to rebuild our city will just come to waste?” For a moment, I think my mind went blank. Not because I don’t know how to answer his question. But because my heart sank at how deep theology can grip people’s souls that it can dissolve fresh encounters with the Word of God.

Of course, popular ideas like the one that entrapped the pastor in my story are anchored on what was presented as legit biblical teachings to churches. But these ideas came from somewhere. Before it was embraced and before it took root in the consciousness of Asian Christians, it was exported from other parts of the world.

And so, Hyunte Shin, in her research work entitled ‘The Influence of the Bible in Shaping the Negative Viewpoint of Korean Christians towards Nature’ (2020), concluded with this observation,

“The tremendous influence of certain brands of Western theology brought by Western missionaries from their home countries are the ultimate root of the apathetic stance of South Korean Christians towards environmental issues.”

What kind of brand exactly? Theological traditions with key doctrines that lead to a negative attitude towards the environment, in particular, that the natural world is destined to be totally destroyed by God’s judgment and the believers will be transported in the air from this wicked world in order to be with the Lord in heaven forever. Sounds familiar?

The same observation is made by Prof. Katsuomi Shimasaki of Japan. In a conference on environmental concern in Asia, he offered this analysis,

“There might be a theological reason why we Protestant Christians, especially evangelical Christians, have difficulty finding true value in everyday life and in good works. If we believe that the world around us will disappear someday, it follows that we ought not to labor to preserve the planet. If we believe that Christian salvation means the soul would fly away from the world to heaven, our attitude towards life on earth would naturally be indifference.”

Prof. Shimasaki traces this conviction from theological traditions that are heavily shaped by dualistic and Modernistic philosophies from the West.

And so, I guess, as we develop a more global theology of creation care, there is a need for our brothers and sisters in North America and Europe to confront ‘contra-creation care’ theologies as such. Otherwise, Asians would find themselves in endless debates about new forms of ‘green theology’ that can be thought of as distracting the church into saving trees instead of winning souls and thinking of the goodness of creation instead of the Great Commission. Walter Wink has a term for this confrontative activity, i.e., “naming the powers,” that is, identifying influential systems of reading the Bible that exercise authority over people’s mind and hearts under the guise of ‘biblical orthodoxy.’ We need to ‘name’ these toxic theologies that have caused harm not only to the welfare of the planet but also to the holistic spirituality of the people of God.

The challenge for Asians, on the other hand, is to recognize that such inadequate theological perspectives are by no means normative and universal, and can actually be dropped like a hot potato. This process, however, of breaking-free from imposed theological traditions are by no means easy. It is not easy because of the reality that it is now actually self-imposed in many parts of Asia. I’ve seen this in my country in the Philippines, in Cambodia, in Thailand, and even in China! The technical term for this is ‘colonial mentality’ -the thinking that it must be from the West so it must be sound. Undoing this kind of mentality among our people which has been deeply mesmerized by unhelpful Western thoughts and frameworks is what the process of ‘decolonizing’ is all about.

But decolonizing also comes with a challenge to be able to think on our own feet, read the Bible from our own horizon, led by the Spirit of God in our tongues, and boldly pursue where that journey can take us. 

And I am confident that our non-dualistic cultures and outlook as Asian people have what it takes to develop a more 'integral' approach to mission. Hopefully, this will allow for a strong theology of creation care to sprout, grow, and bear fruit in our context. Furthermore, I think we have it in our DNA as Asians to move away from the anthropocentric character of theology as we have it now in its popular forms. This can be something that we can contribute to the global theological conversation.

In the Philippines, for example, despite 500 years of colonization from Spain, Japan, and the United States, there remains to be a vivid glimpse of something deeply rooted in our culture that can allow us to read the Bible in such a way that we can see the breadth and depth of how the welfare of the planet is intertwined to the well-being of the people that inhabit it. For example, our spirit of hospitality and generosity as a people is anchored in our sense of being that is deeply relational. Our national language is in fact very rich with regards to the vocabulary of ‘kapwa’ -a word that can be translated in English as ‘fellow’ and captures the idea of what Jesus had in mind about being a good ‘neighbor’ (Luke 10:25-37).

The opportunity that this word, i.e., ‘kapwa,’ opens for us Filipinos includes rooting our creation care theology from an understanding that the rest of the created order are not simply ‘things’ or ‘resources’ for us to harness or marvel at. Instead, they are fellow creatures of God whose redemption is closely bound with the salvation of the children of God (as Apostle Paul teaches us in Romans 8). I think ‘kapwa’ mentality captures the sense of why the Hebrew words for man (adam) and soil (adama) are very closely linked. A theology of ‘kapwa’ then can lead my fellow Filipinos to a redemptive outlook that is more cosmic in scope, e.g., that God is saving and renewing the whole planet, bees, birds, rivers, and not just its people. It suggests a ‘theology of planetary neighborology’ as a relational framing of creation care wherein the whole of the earth forms a community of love and support for one another. I guess, this is the kind of thinking that ought to stir our imaginations in the midst of the pandemic rather than a paranoia for the coming of the Anti-Christ or whether the vaccine for COVID-19 shall come with the mark of the Beast.

In other words, what I am saying is that part of rejecting toxic theologies that are harmful to the harmony of the whole created order is the responsibility of Asian theologians to develop theological thinking that could provide alternative perspectives helpful in moving the global body of Christ towards a fuller vision of what the ‘shalom’ of the kingdom is about.

That’s my first point.

My second point is that a key element of what this kind of theological thinking, if it would be a distinctively Asian contribution, will have to touch upon is the issue of injustice. Any theology of creation care that will ignore or be silent about the justice angle of why we are now in a crunch time to work out our efforts on creation care would be less than honest. Let me explain myself why. This picture is how rain forests in the Philippines look like in 1900s. The next picture is how it ended up in 1990s. The first picture is pre-American occupation. The second picture is post-American occupation (the last of the US bases in the country to be shut).

It would be very difficult to rally our people in Asia to care for creation without addressing the issue of how at the very heart of colonization is the exploitation  of valuable natural resources by force. 

Somehow, we need to trace the link between our present climate crisis and the enduring impact of the history of colonization. We need a theology that shall be big enough to have a space for difficult conversations on this issue.

I do not need to belabor the point that the Global South has a lesser contribution to humanity’s unhappy role in aggravating climate change. But yet, it is people in the Global South who are the first to suffer from floods, droughts, and other effects of our current planetary disorder. As all of you may know, the Philippines is the gateway to the Pacific. Typhoons are a natural part of our lives. And God gave us a natural first line of defense. The picture below shows a remarkable mountain range that stretches from both ends of Luzon, the country’s northern region. 

Surely, God knows what he is doing, why he put our archipelago beside the Pacific Ocean, and why we can afford not to be so much afraid of what the ‘forces of nature’ can bring.

But when it is ‘unnatural calamities’ brought about by the irresponsibility and greed of a specific sector of humanity with capacity to abuse the environment on a massive monstrous scale, then that is another story. We are now seeing storms beyond their normal strength and outside of their regular rhythms. We are now seeing forests burning beyond control. And we have just seen and still are wrapping our heads with the impact of what happens when we transgress the safe natural boundaries that should exist between human beings and the animal order. This COVID-19 pandemic reminds us well that while we may find ourselves in the same sea, definitely, not all of us shall be in the same boat. For many of the countries without much safety net, a vaccine will not be enough to undo the loss of lives, livelihood, opportunities, and momentum for nation-building.

While it will be great to teach our children the value of recycling and garbage segregation, what do we do with big global companies and conniving governments that make no distinction between what is sustainable and unsustainable use of our planetary resources? It is good that we have stated in the Jamaica Call to Action the need to “radically confront climate change.” But climate change is just the fruit not the root of the problem. The elephant in the room is how to radically confront those responsible for climate change. May we take some time of deep reflection before we jump to article 10 of the Jamaica declaration about “peaceful reconciliation,” mindful of the inescapable truth that there can be no peace without justice.

The blood of the trees cry out. And God surely hears them in as much as he hears their praises (Psalms 96:7-13, 98:4-9, 148).

Integrating the deep demands of justice in our creation care theology will surely offend not a few, and I guess, annoy a whole lot more. But I am also confident that at the same time it will bring comfort and hope to those who have long been asking questions they cannot blurt out aloud.

Thank you!

-Rei Lemuel Crizaldo

*Our theology and worship working group includes participants from the north and south of the Americas, south and southeast Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and Europe.

[nevillelongsbottom]

are ya’all even ready for it: here it is, the hot fuzz au, featuring neville and lee! i’m tagging @amaliabones just bcus i love her and need validation and @audrxyweasley the bae

The only thing Neville is looking forward to in Ottery St Catchpole is, perhaps, the fresh air.

He shifts on the train as he clings to the poor peace lily he’s having to take with him; she’s not going to like the journey much at all, and he sighs into her leaves.

“Sorry, Hannah,” he says. “Not long now.”

-

It’s worse than he ever could have imagined: the pub is full of underage losers with voices like helium led by an indignant teen by the name of Ginny, the streets are full of leering young adults, and the person he’s just arrested for trying to not only drive drunk but with a traffic cone on his head turns out to be one of the other police constables.

“Cheer up,” he says, poking his pierced tongue out. “Means you’ve got work to do, doesn’t it?” Neville twitches; Lee seems to have all the professionalism of a goat, and twice the amount of cheek, and yet somehow they’ve been lumped as partners. Peace lily or no, he has limits - first, to be sent to this boring little village; second, to have such irritatingly poor colleagues…

He’s going to go mad and get back to London to be transferred to a mental hospital.

“Hey,” Lee calls from across the room, flinging over the car keys, which Neville catch effortlessly. “Chin up, pretty. Got a missing swan, belonging to one Luna Lovegood.”

“Lovegood?” Neville frowns. “Come on, Lee, stop taking the piss.”

“Says Sergeant Longbottom!” one of the Trouble Twins calls from his desk, and the other one joins in for their mingled hyena laugh. Neville resists the urge to throttle them both.

“Nah, she’s real, sadly. Bit off the deep end, but nice enough. You’re driving.”

“So I noticed,” Neville mutters, jangling the keys. “How does one go about catching a swan, exactly?”

-

With difficulty, apparently.

Neville tries to ignore the stifled giggles of Rolf Scamander, nosy neighbour, as he takes a reckless dive for the bird, who screeches and increases her pace as he slams full throttle into the ground.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbles as he gets up. “I’d rather be chasing a cat burglar.”

“What? The cats are even harder to catch,” Lee laughs, resting an arm on Neville’s shoulder. “We could just lose it a bit further out and have lunch at the pub. Luna’d be none the wiser.”

“Absolutely not!” Neville snaps, appalled at just the suggestion of such an act. “We are going to catch this swan, Jordan, because that is our job and what we are paid to do.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now come on; we’ve a swan to catch.”

-

Neville does not catch the swan before lunch at the pub, and decides to begin a lifelong rivalry with the species out of stubborn frustration.

“Don’t worry, sarge,” Lee purrs. “It always takes some time to get used to the swing of things. How are you enjoying our little town?”

“It’s nice,” he says, taking a sip of his apple juice. “Quaint.”

“You mean shit,” Lee corrects. “Well, you’re a city boy. I guess that’s to be expected.” He has a gulp of his pint. “I’ve been here all my life. Never known anything different. It’s good, you know.”

“I imagine I’ll get used to it,” Neville replies, wishing beyond nothing for a good London patrol; nobody’s doing anything here, and why his talent and arrest records are being wasted, he has no idea. Lee smiles sympathetically.

On the bright side, Neville catches the swan.

-

He gets on with his duties and tries to find excitement and fun in the little things, but fails rather spectacularly. Lee’s Lee: he eats lunch with a pint at the pub and offers snide comments and little effort until Neville asks for it. The newspaper publishes articles on him, and spell his name wrong so he’s christened Log-in-Bottom by the Trouble Twins, who seem to think they’re being funny.

“I mean, it is kinda funny,” Lee shrugs. “You’ve got to admit.”

“No,” Neville says sharply, “it isn’t.”

“Alright, children, stop bickering,” Crouch Jr grunts as he passes a pair of tickets to Neville. “I’d like it if you two could do the whole department a favour and show some responsible face at this local production - or is that too hard for you?”

“No, sir,” Neville replies, trying to keep the anger out of his voice; it wouldn’t do to be angry now. “We’ll go. Lee?”

“Well, my usual style’s action, but I’ll give it a go,” he says with a smile. Neville resists the urge to roll his eyes, and hides his own smile behind his hand; there’s a lot to be said for Lee, he supposes, playful and witty. Sometimes. If he’s lucky. “Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of forbidden romance?” He grins, elbowing Neville.

“Get off, Lee,” he grumbles, but half-heartedly.

As expected, the play is abysmal; the actors are about as convincing as a twig, and having to smile at them at the after-party strains Neville’s cheeks. Lee, thankfully, is better, knowing them both a little growing up (“not that I was ever friends with Pansy and Blaise, mind; pair of twats”), and makes conversation for the both of them.

“And how on Earth did they ever become actors?” Neville grumbles, chewing on the energy bar he’d brought with him and wishing he had a coffee or the like.

“Money,” Lee replies. “They’ve got tons of it. That’s all.” He leans on the counter. “Those kind of divisions really come out in towns like these, you know? But we put up with it, like I’m sure you do in old London.” He takes a sip of his pint. “At least that play’s over, right?”

“Yes. Right.” Neville allows himself a rare smile as he looks down at Lee, leaning in to add a “thank God”.

-

It’s been a long while since Neville’s last been to a crime scene, and he has to suppress the urge to whoop with glee as he passes under the tape.

“Morning,” Theo mumbles, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s happened here, then?” Neville asks, nodding a curt good morning to Officers Brown and Weasley (just Fred this time, thankfully).

“It’s what it looks like,” Fred shrugs. “Car accident. Parkinson and Zabini, as you can see, have been rather made mincemeat of.” (This is not an exaggeration; were Neville not so hardy from his years in London, the sight might’ve made him sick.) “So, sarge, you’re the expert here. What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Neville frowns. “Cordon the area, single lane of traffic, visible police presence.” He looks over at Lee, who shrugs.

“Sounds right to me,” he offers.

“Then get on it with it,” Theo nods. “I’ll call the meds to clean up. Keep the public at arm’s length, alright? We don’t want to worry them; there’s just been a terrible accident.”

“Accident?” Neville frowns. “Sir, that didn’t look like an accident to me - and, by the way, it’s meant to be ‘collision’ now. Revised police vocabulary.”

“Right. Fine. A terrible collision; mouth shut, Lee, and let’s get that cordon up.”

Neville nods, taking every spare moment to fold his arms and muse; it seems strange, really, for the beheading as demonstrated on poor Parkinson to be as a result of the same collision that’s merely left Zabini a mess on the dashboard. Lee saunters up and prods him.

“What?”

“You don’t think it’s an accident, do you?” Lee asks.

“Collision.”

“You don’t think it’s a collision, do you?”

“It’s not my place to speculate without evidence, but not really, no. It just seems strange, like there’s something off about it.” Neville shrugs. “Never mind. I’m sure we’ll find out if there is any trouble in the investigation.”

“If anyone bothers to look,” Lee adds helpfully.

“Oi, Log-arse!” Fred calls; Neville sighs, and ducks back under the tape, Lee watching him go and poking his tongue to his cheek as he eyes up the wreckage.

-

Neville is beginning to feel like he knows the pub better than the back of his own hand; he sighs as he takes another drink of his apple juice, and Lee glances over.

“Something up?” he asks.

“No. I’m just tired.” Neville shifts over as two other patrons shove in next to him, pressing his lips together to conceal his irritation.

“Ah, look who it is!” one of them jeers. “Sergeant Longbottom, what a delight to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about your crime-solving exploits.” He holds out a hand that Neville shakes politely. “Draco Malfoy.”

“That huge mansion that takes up the entire village skyline?” Daphne adds, leaning in; Neville’s tried to avoid her smug face like the plague, but she seems fixated on him. “That’s his, and it’s all off kitchen utensils, can you believe it?”

“It’s a profitable market,” Draco grumbles, and as he makes to light a cigarette, Neville neatly snatches it from his hand and points a thumb to the door.

“Outside,” he says gruffly.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Miserable git.”

Daphne laughs, watching him go. “Don’t mind him, sarge. He’s always like that.”

“Is he now,” Neville mutters into his glass. Lee laughs, slinging their elbows together.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up. Point Break or Bad Boys II?”

-

“Have you ever fired two guns while jumping through the air? Or one? Ever fired a gun into the sky while screaming ‘aaah’? Ever knocked a man out with one punch?”

Suddenly, the barrage of questions Lee had posed to Neville in the first few days they’d worked together makes sense: these films, Neville notes, have no grounding in reality whatsoever and plot lines so unbelievably thick that a two-year-old could follow them easily, and yet he finds that they’re somewhat… enjoyable, with a cornetto and a glass of wine.

“Well?” Lee asks with his trademark wide grin, pushing the DVD back into its box.

“They were very interesting films,” Neville says carefully, and Lee smiles, knotting his fingers in Neville’s hair and pulling him down for a short and nearly chaste kiss; Neville raises an eyebrow, but Lee doesn’t seem to respond.

“Great,” he says, “I’ve got loads more where they came from. Now how about some Zombies’ Party?”

-

Neville sighs as he ducks under a flapping line of police tape, folding his arms as he examines the wreckage that once was Draco Malfoy’s mansion.

“Another accident?” he asks Lee.

“Gas explosion,” is the answer.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange that there are two accidents like this in a row? Especially considering Malfoy’s clearly well-despised temperament?”

Lee shrugs. “Accidents happen - or, should I say, collisions happen.”

Neville stifles a laugh. “Shut up.”

Lee nods, wrapping an arm around Neville’s neck and leaning in close, breath warm where Neville’s skin is exposed. “Don’t let anyone else hear you think it’s not an accident, though, alright? They’ll take the piss.”

Neville frowns, glancing up; Lavender is waving at him from closer to the crime scene. “Lee, what if it’s not an accident? We can’t just ignore that possibility.”

“Nev,” Lee pleads.

“I’m a policeman. It’s our duty to find out what’s happened.”

Of course, they laugh at him.

-

They laugh at him all the way to the village fair, where the other officers have themselves some rip-roaring fun while Neville sits by himself and just thinks; there’s something off about this village, that’s for sure, but he just can’t pinpoint what.

“Sergeant Longbottom?” a hopeful young voice inquires; Neville looks up at the bright face of Colin Creevey, who’s far too lovely to be angry with, bad spelling or no. “I was hoping to talk to you about something - to do with the accidents.”

Neville sits up, nodding. “Of course; what is it?”

“Well, I’ve got a few things to do first, but why don’t we talk by the church? At three?”

Neville nods. “Of course. Thank you for coming forward, Mr Creevey.”

As Colin hurries off, camera raised, Neville allows himself a small smile - he’s not entirely wrong after all, then, and he stands up, finding Lee armed with a huge puff of candy floss. “Hi, Lee.”

“Hiya, Nev!” Lee says cheerily. “Look, you know how you love me and all?”

“Do I, now?”

“Course you do. I’m charming and wonderful and there’s a really big teddy bear over there and I want it.”

Neville snorts, wandering over to the stall and picking up the play rifle, so light under his hands; he barely even pays attention to the rules, just to what’ll get Lee that bear - Lee’s been good, and nice, and supportive, and Neville wishes there was a better way to show his gratitude than just getting Lee a fairground toy.

It’s effortlessly won and Lee looks pleased as punch, clinging to the bear, three quarters his height and making it look like there’s a large fluffy bear walking around.

“You’re the best,” Lee purrs.

“Just repaying all the cornettos,” he shrugs.

-

It’s pissing it down with rain and Neville wants to cry: Creevey’s dead and the other officers are still insisting it’s a fucking accident and even Lee’s all tired out, holding the umbrella.

“Don’t take it personally,” Lee implores. “We don’t get murders round here.”

“That’s no excuse for the police to just pretend that murders aren’t happening!” Neville shouts, running a hand through his hair. “People are dying - they’re being killed - and we’re still stuck in the ‘accident’ stage! Can’t you see it’s wrong?”

“These things just don’t happen here!” Lee insists. “I don’t think Theo even knows murder procedure.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“But that’s how this place works, Nev! Deal with it!”

“I will not deal with the blatant incompetence and ignorance of this constabulary!”

Lee sighs. “Come on, man. And I’ve got faith in you.” He shoves the umbrella into Neville’s hand and jogs away across the green, head ducked down, giant teddy tucked under his arm.

-

The bell on the door rings as Neville steps inside, immediately hit by the smell of the happy blooming flowers. He’s not spoken to Miss Sprout much at all, but she’s never seemed anything but kind, with a soft round face and a beaming smile.

“Good morning, Sergeant Longbottom,” she says. “What brings you to this little shop?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you had any Japanese peace lilies,” he answers; she nods. “For a friend - a close friend.”

“That’s lovely. Flowers are the best gift, I think; it’s just a shame I can’t stay, really.”

“Oh?” Neville frowns. “Why?”

“I’ll be moving away soon - a shame, really, but that’s just how things go, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” As Sprout wraps up Neville’s lily carefully, he explores the shop further, admiring the brightly coloured petals and elegant arrangements further back in the shop. It’s nice, he thinks, maybe the only part of the village he really appreciates; if only he weren’t so busy, he’d perhaps keep more plants. He likes them. They seem to understand.

He steps back over to the counter and almost retches with horror: Sprout is dying right in front of him, stabbed in the neck by her shears, and the suspect dressed in black has just dashed by him.

Yelping and using what little activity skills must remain from his years in the Met, he makes chase, but the suspect is unreal: they can run at speed and great length, longer than him, and Neville’s very well-trained.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, bugger.”

-

Lee’s sweet with him, even if the idea of murder still seems to be entirely implausible to the rest of the constabulary, and even when his accusation that it’s Greengrass backfires miserably.

“It’ll be alright, boss,” he says, leaning a head on Neville’s shoulder. “Maybe it was just a collision.”

“Piss off, Jordan,” Neville grumbles. “I know I’m right. There’s just something I’m missing.”

“You’ll get there,” Lee says, patting his back. “You ought to head home, though. Maybe grab some sleep; that always helps me figure out the next level of Sonic.”

“This is real life, not Sonic,” Neville reminds him. “But thanks.”

“No problem, sarge. Call round tomorrow if you’re still feeling rough and we can have a coffee, maybe a pint,  yeah?”

-

Goyle’s on the floor along with the remnants of a shattered peace lily pot and Neville’s chest is heaving; he wants to call Lee, tell him what’s happened, but there’s no time: his head is racing and he knows what’s going on and he doesn’t like it, and though Lee is important, justice comes first.

He grabs his coat, and goes.

He can’t believe the scale of the operation: practically an entire village, conspiring for perfection in the worst way possible, as if it’s attainable, as if there’s something wrong with reality, that people exist and are flawed and that the function of villages are to help them cope with these flaws.

And he - he is just another box on their checklist.

Lee bails him; they’re on the road to London when he pulls over, thumbing over a few twenties as he chews his lip. “Get back to London, yeah? Stay safe. Away from here - just let the town get on.”

“What?” Neville frowns. “You can’t go back, Lee - they’re, you know, murderers!”

“I live there, Nev. It’s my home,” Lee shrugs. “I’m not expecting that you’ll understand, because you’re a city boy. But some of us are tied to our homes.”

“Lee, please,” Neville begs, but Lee is just smiling and walking away, disappearing into the encroaching dark. Neville resists the urge to kick the car, and slides in, slamming the door shut and revving the engine.

-

There’s a charm to action films, and a certain kind of badass dignity one achieves when riding into town on a horse with enough guns strapped to themselves to take down the residents of Ottery St Catchpole three times over.

There’s a charm, too, to leaning down to kiss the person you love while armed to the nines.

-

While Neville infinitely prefers extreme cycling to extreme driving, he’s certainly not averse to either; he is, however, not much a fan of being shot at while trying to drive frantically in pursuit of Crouch and Greengrass.

It’s hard to keep the smile off his face when Crouch inevitably crashes and when Greengrass ends up impaled on the model village spire, and Lee is immediately at his side, elbowing him. “I think she looked better without the new addition,” he says, deadpan until he giggles. “You did a good thing, you know. Old Crouch deserved that broken arm.”

“Oi! Log-arse!” They’re a whole crew, the police force, clambering up the hill and over to the model village, all grinning widely; the twins, Theo, Lavender, the incomprehensible Oliver (Neville thinks even the people in Scotland would struggle to make sense of his drawling accent), and the desk crew, Seamus and Dean. “Look at you go, you London wanker!”

“That’s high praise from you, Fred,” Neville says with a smile. “You guys took care of everything in town?”

“That’s everyone locked up and away, and higher forces called,” Theo confirms.

“And yet you’re all here, with no-one taking care of the cells,” Neville points out, chuckling lightly - it’s not funny, of course, but it’s just so wonderfully typical of the Catchpole Police Service. “We ought to head back, keep an eye out. You guys can decide who the cake’s on this time, and not Lee, because he’s a great shot.” (This is most indubitably a lie.) “Thank you for all your help - even you, Fred, George.”

“No problem, Log-bum,” George says cheerily. “That’s our job. Just make us best men at yours and Lee’s wedding.” Neville rolls his eyes, but smiles over at Lee, linking their hands.

“Have you still got that giant teddy?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just curious.”

-

“Man, I hate paperwork,” grumbles Fred; not that he’s done much, of course, just a pathetic pile of completed papers.

“At least we’ve got cake!” Lavender beams, offering Fred another slice that he takes gleefully; even Neville takes another slice, between watering the service’s new collection of cactus plants. “This is so much fun. We should do this more often.”

“Just arrest more people,” says Theo.

Neville pauses, cup of water hovering nervously over Oliver Wood Jr., turning slowly to Lee. “Hey, Lee,” he says, “was Moody in the NWA?”

Lee’s eyes widen. “Shit,” he says in substitute of “yes”, and dives for the door to find the nearest weapon; Neville grabs an empty plate as the door to the CCTV room swings open and Mad-Eye Moody steps through, gun in hand.

“Think we were through, did you, Longbottom?” he bellows, and fires.

Lee’s an idiot, and he gets in the way.

-

“Hey,” Lee says, pausing to lean back in through the car window. “Want anything from the shop, love?”

“Just a cornetto,” Neville replies, softly kissing Lee’s lips. “Sarge.”

“Coming up, Inspector.” As Lee heads off, Neville leans out of the car window; he takes a breath of Ottery St Catchpole’s fresh air, and eagerly awaits yet another day of working in a small village.

[fatimakarim]

Suzanne Haneef, Islam: The Path of God, pages 7–24

To ALL OF YOU, MY READERS, WHO ARE SEEKING TO KNOW ABOUT THE FAITH OF ISLAM OR WHO ARE SEARCHING FOR A PATH OF LIFE, I DEDICATE THIS WORK, WITH A PRAYER THAT IT MAY BE USEFUL TO YOU IN YOUR QUEST.

“The little book you’re holding in your hands was written by an American woman who accepted Islam in 1965. However, when I first encountered Islam in the mid-50’s, I knew absolutely nothing about this religion or its followers. In fact, whatever I thought I knew-that Muslims believe in a pagan deity called Allah and that they worship Muhammad-couldn’t have been more incorrect and absurd.

At that time, the Muslim presence in this continent was hardly noticeable and was limited almost entirely to foreigners hailing mainly from the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent. American Muslims were extreme rarities, who came into their new faith with very little support from any direction: there were very few Muslim communities and Islamic centers, a small and inadequate supply of literature and information about Islam, and a severely limited number of live role models to learn from. The critical question of how Islam could be applied by people living in the mainstream of American society without sacrificing any of its basic principles or teachings had barely been asked, much less answered.

But during the past three decades, all this has changed dramatically. The Muslim community is now firmly established in this continent; currently there are some 1500 mosques or Islamic centers in the United States, and a large number in Canada as well. Muslims are found everywhere, even in the smallest places. They are making significant contributions not only to the religious and spiritual life of North America but in many other areas as well: politics, business, teaching, technology, research, medicine, and the social sphere.

Islam is generally thought of as an Arab religion. But the fact is that Arabs comprise only one-seventh of the world’s Muslims. Indonesia has the largest Muslim population in the world, followed by Bangladesh, Pakistan and India. Some twenty or so million Muslims live in the People’s Republic of China, and triple that number in the former Soviet republics. Thus, the Muslim population in North America represents the Muslim world in miniature. While it consists primarily of Arabs and Indo-Pakistanis, there are also significant numbers of North Africans, Iranis, Afghans, Turks, Bosnians and South East Asians. And there is a steadily increasing number of American Muslims.

Still, in spite of this growing Muslim population, and the fact that Islam and Muslims are constantly in the news, many people in America know almost as little about Islam as I did a third of a century ago. We may imagine that we’re getting a lot of information on the subject from the media, but much of what comes to us is actually misinformation, which does nothing but reinforce prejudices and stereotypes.

Even now, at the end of the 1990s, I find myself constantly surprised by the unwillingness of people in the West even to consider Islam as a possible source of correct information. I’ll give you just one example of this. Christians and Jews are deeply interested in biblical history and archeology. But with very few exceptions, they approach these subjects without ever consulting Islamic sources, which would unquestionably provide a wealth of authentic information. And I keep asking myself, When are the people of the West going to realize the treasure that Islam is and avail themselves of what it has to offer?

I’m sometimes asked what attracted me to Islam. To answer this, I must give a bit of personal history.

By the time I first began to hear about Islam, I’d parted company forever with my earlier strong Christian convictions. Not finding answers to the insistent questions I was struggling with (questions which you’ll frequently encounter in this book), I stopped believing in God because the only God I knew about was unbelievable. It was simply impossible for me to come to terms with what I perceived His dealings with humankind to be.

But as time passed, I found a deep aching emptiness within myself where God had previously been. It then became clear to me that Islam offered something I desperately needed: absolute certainty and clearness of direction. As I came to understand the Islamic concept of God and His purposes for mankind, it was one that made complete sense to my mind and that I instinctively recognized as right. Islam’s emphasis on the individual’s relationship with God and its deep spirituality drew me like a magnet. And I knew I had to make it my own.

It’s been a long journey from that state of knowing less than nothing to this point. But it’s been a grand and exciting journey. It’s taken me from inner emptiness, sometimes verging on despair, into the heart of a faith which I’ve found to be like an ocean in its depth and breadth. This journey has allowed me to recapture the spirituality of my childhood, and to taste the flavor and sweetness of Islam as a way of life in some of the Muslim heartlands. Summing it up, it’s been a journey of coming to an understanding of the purpose and meaning of existence and of finding my own personal path to God.

This is a path which I feel so blessed to be a part of that I must share it with others-with you, if you’re willing. I’m offering to be the tour guide on your journey of discovery of a faith which is as dear to life itself to millions of the world’s people. The fact that some of these people may be your neighbors, friends, fellow students, co-workers, grocers, physicians, teachers or even your relatives may make this journey more real and personal for you as you try to look at things through their eyes.

Muslims are no longer “those people over there.” On the contrary, they’re over here and they’re an integral part of our communities. This fact in itself demands from us the willingness to be open-minded and to replace prejudice, speculation and stereotypes with accurate information, which hopefully in turn will lead to tolerance and respect. And in the process we may find out how much Islam and Muslims have to offer us.

My approach to the subject is simple and direct, not scholarly. I’ve emphasized the concepts and high spiritual principles of Islam rather than its rules; this is not a how-to-do book but simply an overview. May God, your Lord and my Lord, the Lord of the universe and every creature in it, bless you and guide you as you read.”

THINKING THINGS OVER

where am I going? This society? The whole human race?” These are questions which many of us today are asking urgently, deeply troubled about what we see happening in our world Our concerns may be quite personal ones, centered around our own particular life situation. They may be general ones, related to the state of things as a whole or both. For this is a strange and difficult time, a time when all the old values and traditions seem to have been cut out from under us without anything clear and definitive having been substituted for them. From every direction and every possible source, we’re being bombarded by the newfangled ideas, values and behaviors of the New Age in which we live.

The New Age is an age with many interesting features. One of these is confusion. Great numbers of us no longer seem to have a clear sense of right and wrong, good and bad. Under the impact of too much personal freedom and the flood of new ideas and values, we’re falling apart, frightened, uncertain, lost. After all, how is it possible to have certainty about anything when even the most basic, time-honored values are being called into question?

In comparison to earlier times, everything around us today seems upside-down and backwards. A great deal of what was previously considered right is now looked upon as outmoded, irrelevant or just plain dumb. At the same time, much of what used to be considered wrong is now accepted as right, normal and okay. Members of the older generation, like myself, still maintain our vision of what things were like in an earlier, simpler, less perplexing period. But when our generation goes, apart from people of strong religious faith, who will be left that still retains a clear vision of a saner, more stable society? That vision will have gone with the winds of change.

This tum-about in basic human values and morals has led to a steady unraveling of civilized standards and behavior, not only in the country but worldwide. Brutality, lust and all manner of other evils flourish around the globe; violence, vice and exploitation seem to have become the new order of the day. And fear hangs over the whole world. Those of us who are even slightly sensitive to the currents and energies around us realize that something is wrong-deeply, awfully wrong. And we carry the collective burden of humanity’s pain and turmoil deep within our hearts.

Day by day the fear and uneasiness increases. Often we sense that we’re at the edge of a terrible and dangerous abyss, surrounded by intense darkness. As the end of this millennium approaches, predictions of a worldwide Armageddon-like catastrophe haunt our minds. And how can it be otherwise when we sense deep within ourselves that things have gone so wrong that such a crisis is due? For each day, new and deeper holes appear in the social and moral fabric of mankind, and it seem obvious that when the holes become more than the fabric itself, it’s past repair.

Why? you may be asking. Why is our society, our world, so terribly disturbed? Why is there so much suffering, misery and evil on earth? Why is everything around us and inside us in such a state of upheaval?

Why are the rates of crime, violence, sexual misbehavior, family breakdown, substance abuse and suicide mounting day by day? Why are there so many problems within my family, among my friends, or in my own life? Why am I so anxious, depressed, stressed-out, uncertain, unable to find any peace of mind?

These are all-important questions. I’ve thrown them out to you, not in order to make you uneasy, but because they’re matters which we urgently need to address. Yet we seem unable (or perhaps unwilling) to put our finger on the cause. Social scientists spend years studying such issues, but even they often fail to understand the primary reason for this troubled state of affairs, much less what can be done about it. Why? One possibility is that in a secular society such as ours, the reason is one that few people want to admit or accept.

Can it be that we’re all suffering because a critical something is missing from our society and world in our time? And is it possible that because of this missing thing, a huge emptiness exists in a great many people’s hearts? Might it be that our attempts to fill this void, although without knowing what it represents, has resulted in our blind race for material solutions, material supports and material satisfactions, without taking into consideration our total human nature and its needs?

Then, we may further ask ourselves, can it be that the race to replace that vital missing element with material goals and goods has warped our spirits and, in turn, our values even more? To take this line of questioning further, is it possible that the drive for material props could be fuelled by an intense spiritual hunger, even starvation, which we try to fill in any way we can?

In my view, the essential thing we’ve lost is religious faith. Together with faith, we’ve also lost the fixed set of values and principles which guided the lives of peoples and civilizations before us, giving them stability, continuity and certainty. The prevailing materialism that’s taken the place of faith has resulted in a misplaced trust in science and technology, which are good servants but bad masters. It’s cheated us and robbed us of a sense of direction, both as individuals and as a society. On a deeper level, it’s also deprived our spirits of the deeper, truer satisfactions they require.

While earlier responsibilities and rights went handin-hand, today freedom rules. This freedom is defined as the right to do what one pleases without accountability as long as it doesn’t “harm” anyone-that is, as long as no criminal or civil codes are violated. But who’s to decide whether a word or an action is harmful to others, or to our own inner selves? Without a strong conscience, firmly grounded in universal principles of right and wrong, it’s easy for us to be cheated by the desires of our egoes, so that whatever we want to do seems all right.

Because of this loss of faith and the moral responsibility which it instills, another catastrophe has occurred: our society’s loss of its clear understanding of the family as a God-ordained institution, to be upheld and supported by every possible means. Sexual enjoyment has become an end in itself, divorced from responsibility. Better methods of”protection” are offered as the solution for the host of problems this attitude has brought upon us, rather than encouraging responsibility for the consequences of our actions.

Our children and their well-being have become the first victims of this loss. Many of us grew up in disrupted families in which we never learned any positive parenting skills. Some of us want to be good parents but are so strapped financially that it’s difficult to be. Others of us have given priority to a better lifestyle or a rewarding career. No matter what the reason, great numbers of our children are growing up without the emotional security, parental love and attention they require to be healthy. And the circle of deprivation continues from one generation to another. As a result, we’ve become increasingly a nation of emotionally crippled, dysfunctional people. Due to no fault of our own, many of us carry hollow spaces inside hearts which should have been filled with love and a sense of well-being from the moment of birth.

Another casualty of our lost sense of responsibility is the moral and spiritual training of our children. From a young age, they’re bombarded by values, morals and examples which conflict sharply with any religious belief, and even with civilized standards. But young people who’ve never been taught morals and values other than material ones have no standards for distinguishing right from wrong or beneficial from harmful. Nor do they have any effective weapons for fighting against their own powerful impulses or the pressures coming from outside.

Science, which many people believe provides answers to all questions, has played a major role in eroding religious belief and traditional values. Many people today question the very existence of God, demanding “proofs,” although strangely enough, we never hear of anyone’s demanding proofs that God does not exist. Others, although believing in His existence, do not grasp His relevance, even to their own personal lives.

Although as a society we may give lip-service to belief in God, this is far removed from having certainty that He is in complete control of all things. According to our current thinking, a vague force called “Mother Nature” (or just “Nature”) is responsible for running the natural world in an orderly, predictable fashion. But when something out of the ordinary occurs, something which we look upon as unpreventable, such as a natural disaster, it’s viewed as an “act of God”-as if God were some sort of an intruder in the smooth, orderly running of the universe.

But without firm belief in a Supreme Being who is continuously involved with His creation, we human beings are spiritually and emotionally empty and deprived. We go through life uncentered, unfixed, and a prey to every wind that blows, without clearly-defined beliefs, values or goals by which to chart our path.

If you grew up with a religion and strong faith, you’re one of the lucky ones. Many of us were never exposed to anything of the sort. Others were brought up with a religion but later outgrew it; we still believe in God but don’t subscribe to any particular faith. Some of us may have looked into various religions without finding any clear direction. Others would like to believe but don’t have any idea in who or what, or even where to look. And still others of us may feel that even if we knew what to believe, we’re beyond all hope of salvation.

Whatever your particular case may be, it is critical for you to know that you were created by an absolutely merciful, loving Lord. He created you because He desired you to come into being, and He honored you by breathing into you something of His Divine Spirit.! No matter who you are or what you may have done, that fact alone gives you worth and importance. And He, your Creator, is asking you to connect with Him.

God is always there for you. He never leaves you; there’s no way you can get rid of Him. All you need to do is reach out to Him. If He doesn’t have any place in your life but you would like Him to, initiate the relationship. Call to Him, ask Him for help and guidance, pour out your heart and your needs to Him, tell Him that you love Him. For without being firmly bonded to our Source, we’re hollow, empty creatures, easily crushed and

destroyed by the difficult conditions surrounding us. Without belief in the purposefulness of our lives, we’re likely to be in despair.

At the same time, you need a way, a path to walk upon to Him, a system for guiding your life. But, if you’re not to be misled, it must be a true and correct one.

Islam, the faith of one-fifth of the world’s people, is one among many ways claiming to be the truth. I’m talking about real Islam, of course, not the biased versions you hear about in the media or the Farrakhan variety, but the genuine, pure faith that goes back to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) and the early Muslim community.

Islam, meaning “surrender” or “submission”, is the original religion revealed by God from the beginning of human history. He revealed it through the first man, Adam (peace be upon him), who was also the first prophet. Later, He revealed it through Abraham (peace be upon him), the father of Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

“ Abraham was neither a Jew nor a Christian, but he was a Monotheist, a Muslim. And he was not of the Polytheists.” (Quran 3:67) God says concerning him.

Still later, He revealed it through Moses (peace be upon him), and afterwards, through Jesus Christ (peace be upon him), the miraculous prophet who came to revive and purify it. And He revealed it for the last and final time through the prophet who established Islam as a world religion, Muhammad of Arabia (peace be upon him), the most perfect of all mankind. And this final revelation contains God’s unchangeable guidance for humanity up to the end of this world.

“I hear what you’re saying,” you may be thinking. “But exactly who’s making the claim that Islam is the truth, and why should I believe it any more than in the claims of any other religion?”

Good questions, which you should be asking. Islam’s answer to the first part of your question is, quite simply,

God Himself. This, and much more, is what He has to say about His final revelation:

o mankind, the truth has come to you from your Lord. Therefore, whoever is guided, is guided only/or his own soul, and whoever is in error errs only against it. (Quran 10:108)

That which is revealed to you [Muhammad] by your Lord is the truth.

(Quran 13:1)

Those who have been given knowledge see that what is revealed to you [Muhammad] from your Lord is the truth and leads to the path of the Almighty, the Praised One. (Quran 34:6)

By the Lord of the heavens and the earth, this is indeed the truth, as [much as the fact that] you are able to speak. (Quran 51:23)

But claims to being the truth are not to be taken lightly. In order to test this claim for yourself, please read on. Gather information, sift and weigh it all in your mind, and come to your own conclusion.

If you do conclude that this religion is the truth, then other conclusions follow: that in Islam’s divine Message lies hope for ourselves as individuals and for mankind as a whole-indeed, perhaps the only hope; that nothing other than this faith that can cure the deep, devastating ailments of humanity; and that, without it, there can be no lasting solutions, no safety, and no way out of the life threatening global crisis of our time.

ISLAM’s WORLD VIEW

“I bear witness that there is no deity except God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God-Ashhadu an la ilaha illa-Llah, wa ashhadu anna Muhammadu Rasool-Allah.”

Muslims repeat this Declaration of Faith over and over again in their daily prayers. But what does this Declaration really mean?

This act of witnessing proclaims that I accept no one as my God except the One, Eternal, Almighty God, who alone is worthy of my worship and service, and that I accept Muhammad ( peace be upon him) as His last and final messenger to mankind. In accepting both, I’m prepared to follow the guidance which God revealed through Muhammad ( peace be upon him) as my way of life and my path to salvation.

When a person is ready to make such a commitment, he or she enters Islam by repeating the Declaration of Faith in front of witnesses. He or she is now formally a Muslim, part of the world-wide community of the millions who live by the teachings of Islam. He or she is also absolved of all sins committed before accepting Islam, as pure as a new-born baby.

1 THE AGE-OLD MESSAGE OF ISLAM

I have already pointed out that Islam is not a new religion. Rather, it is the original religion revealed by God to mankind from the dawn of human history. Thus, the first man, Adam, who was also the first prophet, was a Muslim in the sense of being surrendered to God. And after him came a series of prophets, including those we mentioned previously and many, many others, who were all Muslims or surrendered ones. And every single prophet brought the same divinely-revealed Message from his Lord.

And what is that Message? It is that there is a single, unique Being who is the Lord and Master of all creation. He alone deserves to be worshiped and obeyed, and we, mankind, are accountable to Him for all our actions. We are in this life for a brief, limited period, after which we will return to Him for judgment. We will then enter a life of eternal duration, during which we will either be in permanent happiness or in misery. And the choice of our destiny in that future life is up to us.

2 UNDERSTANDING REALITY

Now, everyone has a certain world view, an understanding of what constitutes Reality, and this view naturally differs greatly from person to person. But what’s really important about our world view is whether it’s a correct one or merely someone’s mind-product — possibly our own.

If it’s correct, well and good. However, if it’s one that we human beings have concocted out of our own or other people’s guesswork or imagination, it’s bound to be wrong. On our own, we simply don’t possess the equipment or capability to grasp what makes up this endlessly complex Reality. And since our principles follow from our world view and our actions follow from our principles, if our world view is wrong, everything we do is almost bound to be wrong as a result.

What we’ve got to figure out is this: Is Reality only what we can see, touch, taste, smell or hear with our bodily senses or grasp by means of our technology, or is there something more? Is there Someone in charge of it all who is Himself the Ultimate Reality, or are there just individual bits and pieces? Is everything in existence simply the result of randomness, coincidence or blind chance? Or, alternatively, did Someone arrange it so that all the bits and pieces are actually parts of a great, meaningful whole, an unbelievably grand, complex cosmic plan?

Then, if there is such a Someone, who and what is He? And-if you really want to take all this to its logical conclusion-isn’t it just possible that finding out about that Someone is the most important thing anyone has to do?

Let’s continue this line of questioning and get more personal. Perhaps we further need to ask: Does my own individual, personal life have any purpose and meaning, or not? Does it really matter what I do, say, think or feel? Am I just some physical being who will one day stop living, like all other living things, so that, suddenly, when the switch is turned from On to Off-fini? Is this life that I’m now in the only life, or was there something before it-and if so, what? And will there be something after it for me, some other state of existence? If not, none of these questions matter. But if there is going to be something after it, the critical question is: What is that future life of mine going to be like?

These are questions that every thinking person must ask because they form a vital part of human consciousness, questions which human beings have sought answers to since the beginning of history. The only problem is, Who has the answers?

3 ARRIVING AT ANSWERS

It’s obvious that finite beings cannot arrive at answers to questions such as these on their own, for such questions are related to Infinity. Therefore, to rely on our limited senses, technology, thought processes or personal understanding for answers is futile and may even be dangerously misleading. For, again, even if some of our answers are right and some are wrong, the end result is bound to be inaccurate.

We are therefore faced with the unescapable conclusion that no one can possibly have all the correct answers except the One who created the whole. Only when the Creator Himself supplies us with the answers are they certain to be correct ones. Otherwise, human attempts to arrive at such answers are bound to be nothing more than guesses, or, at best, bits and pieces of the truth. And in view of our limited equipment, answers arrived at on our own probably have much more likelihood of leading us astray than guiding us aright.

Islam teaches that God, the Creator, Himself communicates the answers to us. By means of revelation through His chosen representatives, the prophets, God speaks to us about Himself and His creation. He informs us that there is an ultimate Reality which is known only to Himself, its Originator, and that He is the sustainer and center of that Reality.

What we human beings are able to know and understand of this Reality by means of our limited human equipment is actually only the tiniest, most minute portion of it. God refers to this part of His creation that we’re able to know about or experience as the ‘Witnessed’ or visible, in contrast to the ‘Unseen’ or spiritual realm. And He makes it clear that belief in that unseen realm is a pre-requisite to being open to receiving His guidance, His final Message to mankind, the

holy scripture of Islam known as the Qur’an, saying,

ذَٰلِكَ الْكِتَابُ لَا رَيْبَ فِيهِ هُدًى لِّلْمُتَّقِينَ الَّذِينَ يُؤْمِنُونَ بِالْغَيْبِ وَيُقِيمُونَ الصَّلَاةَ وَمِمَّا رَزَقْنَاهُمْ يُنفِقُونَ

This [Qur’anl is the Book in which there is no doubt, a guidance to those who are mindful of God, who believe in the Unseen. (Qur’an 2:2–3)

Anyone with a working mind is aware of the incredible complexity of the physical universe in which we live, as well as of our own selves. But it’s quite probable that the complexity of this material world is as nothing compared to the infinitely greater complexity of the unseen Reality. Its depth and complexity is so immense that even the prophets, who were intimately connected to the spiritual realm, knew only a minute part of it.

It is therefore critical that we take our answers to the questions we’ve asked about Reality and about ourselves from the One who has them, not from any other source. Otherwise, we may never fulfill our appointed destiny and may end up in some limbo which we’re not going to like. It’s our business, our obligation as thinking human beings, to know the answers to these and many more questions which relate to our ultimate destiny.

We will start by taking a look at the basic beliefs of Islam, which are a summary of the unseen realities and our own place within them.

credit: Suzanne Haneef, Islam: The Path of God, pages 7–24. (PDF)

i recommend this book to everyone!

E-book copy http://www.islamicbulletin.org/free_downloads/new_muslim/islam_the_path.pdf

read her first book: What Everyone Should Know About Islam and Muslims by Suzanne Haneef

E-book copy http://www.islamicbulletin.org/free_downloads/new_muslim/what_everyone.pdf

[espiritodeviagem]

Altars

The idea of altars to me, where I was born and raised in Portugal, was only present in a church, in a very conventional way. Setting up a cross, lighting candles and worshiping whatever that is, how ever that meant. And I would more often see it in chapels and churches, cemeteries even, in a very strict, structured and formal way. Almost like you had to have permission to set up an altar in such formal way. And I was raised in this society, although very open to other religions, it was mostly Catholic. I never practiced it. My parents never really did. The reason why they never baptized me was to let me choose my belief systems or practice my own beliefs, in the way that I wanted. Later I saw myself seeking truth more than hollow beliefs. That led me to become more aware of life’s mysteries, life’s most hermetic and mysterious vibes of nature, and within ourselves, us, holding the power of the mind or /and under the powers of the mind. The powers that make our mind oscilate between diferent states. In the phenomenons of nature and chemistry there is a lot we don’t know and it is to that ‘unknown’ that I give the same strength of faith or belief that a god believer would give in his prayer. So it’s in that void. It’s in that so vast and unknown space within our knowledge that I concede, to myself, that idea of god, as in the root and direction of our belief. For me that idea of worshiping something that is unknown, is not just for the sake of being unknown. I realized that everything else under our sense-scope is under our physical perception, but all these things are under the influence of something greater, something that we can call the ‘unknown’. Many sciences have labeled it, when coming to confront these facts in their research, as space or ether. 99.9% of an atom is space, it is web of energy fields. And from that, we include all our physical life forms under this realization. All is atom based: properties, elements, compounds, substances, and 99.9% of it is just space. And what are all these substances based on? So that’s where on a rational level I started to embrace the idea of god. Also throughout my readings and studies, I think I came to terms of naming the idea of god, the absolute, the supreme or the supreme-self… Which is great. I think it gives space for the acceptance of different forms of that which is formless. My rational self allowed other more subconscious parts to have importance, and allowed the more intuitive parts of myself to being supported and engage and participate in my life. After awhile, slowly, gradually my understanding faded into and went through different forms of acknowledgement. I used to think more about it in a meditation. Taking it to the day-to-day life, used to talk to people and try to see what is between us in that Space. See what is there beyond the words they speak, and the words I perceive. In an attempt to expand my senses to a broader spectrum of understanding.

Later in life there was a practice of yoga, that In me at the beginning, as I started to practice more consistently, it showed me different aspects of myself both in the physical and mental realms. I changed a little bit. Became more assertive, more concerned about myself and also more attuned with the changes I could go through on a regular basis, being daily, weekly, monthly, seasonly,… As time passed I saw myself becoming more devoted within the context of the practice and in touch with that side of Yoga that is very devoted, and of a worshiping nature, towards something. Devoted to something that I could say is the Absolute, and in the yoga terminology called Ishvara, or in one syllable OM. And in my studies as well I came into terms with that, learning what does that mean. It’s not alone Hindu or of the Vedic culture. It is yoga knowledge and a concept pretty much across many religions and practices around the world. This to say that when I first started to practice, my devotion it was to the body and the myself, to listen to me, to make myself healthy, and make myself function right. And who knew that this would lead me to a bigger all pervasive and inclusive consciousness of self, hey! In my first trip to Mysore, India in the shala of Ashtanga there is a big altar, there a big devotional part to it, towards depicted deities, you can see it. It is practiced in a way that is not imposing it to any one of the students, but it is there. It took me awhile to know how to embrace that. It is, at the start, beginning and end, an individual path to anyone.

There is this side of the practice that is spiritually devoted, and just going on the mat, for the body’s sake, for my own thing wasn’t enough most of the days. I would end up over exploiting myself, taking myself to points of exhaustion. You know, there is a all circuit of energies around us and our body is within those circuits. Using our body, with our mind, we shouldn’t just cut loose from using those available circuits. We could integrate them inside these inner circuits, inside these cycles, and at least have these paths open for us. And Ashtanga Yoga practice really does this, the practice really helps. I started to practice with this connection, as in the devotion to something beyond myself. One time I remember being on the mat, this was in the Mysore Main Shala, and to practice with the concept of Ishwara and OM and what this ended up meaning to me after the classes, studies and individual reflection. Focusing on this I noticed it was taking the attention way from me and into something that is me as well (and ‘me’ here I mean ego, personality, idea of individual self, body) but also everything else. I felt supported, like I was sharing responsibilities and concerns I was holding alone, felt watched over, while at the same time I was extra conscious of my actions, and with this energetically refreshed. That’s how I became a bit more devoted and into practice of devotion on this journey. And it was the right way for me of becoming devoted, finding expansion beyond limited ideas of self, through practices of understanding, adoration and surrender. “Yoga is a physical discipline with a spiritual intention”, few years after this event, this quote by Kino McGregor really culminated these thoughts in one sentence quite well. Satsangs also help, where you absorve and surrender what is being said and the all meanings invade and uplift yourself. Along this first experiences, I learned that bringing this devotional intention into our earthly, daily, actions has the same benefits mentioned above. Even if there are clashes of energies, dense emotions and conflicts, in doing so. It is all brought forth to be observed, integrated and resolved. Blessings!

This article is called ‘altars’ because at some point at this stage I started to set up little altars everywhere I stay. I’ve been traveling for a bit, moving around, and now I carry this self-made incense holder in which I drew some sacred geometry patterns and symbols, that I’ve also came to terms with as symbols of something meaningful, that serves as a base for my ambulant altar. On top of it I place a few items: totems, talismans, gemstones, blessed items, sacred idols or symbols. In my case I do place among a few other items: a japa mala that I use to meditate the 108x OM, but when I’m not using I leave it there; have a small yantra sculpture, they say it is the three dimensional form of OM; and then I have a little sculpture of Ganesha, a more figurative form to worship, a symbol for me of the removal of obstacles. These items remind me and support me to be connected and keep me in the right path. We can always do something like putting a picture of someone who has attained their center, someone who is a guide, a light in this foggy path, a monk, a teacher, a guru… “…in many forms you can represent the formless…”. Many have a statue of Buddha. Buddha is the representation of one that has attained enlightenment, so you can see serenity expressed in the statue. You can look at it and be transported into that state of mind for a little bit and try to settle it in you. It could be anyone, anything that transmits to you this integrity of life. Guru means darkness removal, the one who promotes the removal of darkness in our lives. For all I care, a teddy bear can be a guru. If the little kid owning it feels safe, that darkness is removed in his life or during his night, just by the being in its presence or gazing at it. The teddy bear is the little ones guru. In Ashtanga Yoga shalas, altars often show a respect to the lineage. Pictures of teachers, gurus, and their gurus, and the gurus gurus, until the one that is in charge of that space now. It recognizes steps of generational evolution while they were all seeking the same and ended up passing on that flame of knowledge to the next in the lineage. If you are a beginner to Ashtanga practice and you take a look at these altars, you can think “ok, if I take this seriously I will be stepping into this circle, I wanna be genuine and be in it in the right way”. And students practice and just visualize that. Visualize the chain of knowledge and learn in first hand with their immediate teacher.

There is also along with all the set up, the very active part of altars, (in Hindu tradition they really know how to take it seriously, abiding all scriptural rules) being at the home temple, or streets, gardens, shops... ritually lighting up incense and candles, bringing fresh flowers, scents and some offers of fruits, spices or any food or treats to their altar. It’s interesting. You are kind of bringing all these things that are so much like, symbolically, bridges from the material world to the immaterial world. From an incense stick comes the smoke and aroma; from the flower also, emanation of pleasant aromas; from the candle, you can see is clearly something material, fuel burning, forming fire, it’s light and heat, and then disappearing; the gemstones, know for being emanating constant energy frequencies; the chants, from the voice comes the vibrations. So it’s these bridges, of what seems to be, between two worlds that altars are suppose to be. Joining the world within and the world outside, micro and macro-cosmos. Like a gateway, a portal, a secret passage. We all have this within. So when I set up my altar, and from day to day I bring flower, light up incenses and candles, and do my practice in front of it. It really reminds me of the center of life I want to be connected to, what I want to recognize, be and do, and to keep me reminded of the bigger picture. That there is always a finer scale to look to and a larger one to look from. All this is my journey. Anyone can have anything in their altar to create that space for awareness, bringing us back to a meaningful path, calm, peaceful, strong willed, devoid of anxiety, that some times we forget. I think walks in nature and humbling ourselves towards natures magnificence have that same effect, perhaps even more real and connected than only altars. A big tree, or any plant, a stream, a river, a mountain, a cave, the sea, any natural landscape can brings us to this point. And this is a practice I’d wish everyone to cultivate and not forget. Maybe with altars you can create this gateway very fast, anywhere, but natures is always there bridging life to us, and us to life.

I reminded myself to write about this when one day I was in such a rush in my house, in my room, getting out to go to work. I rushed through my practice very fast, shortened it a bit as well. I was running around, forgetting stuff, ate too fast… when I was coming out of my room close to the door, my little altar sat there and I froze for a bit, and just looked at it and became humble to it, gave in my energy to it, took a deep breath and very fast I acknowledged what all that meant. It meant a leap from that stress to a higher self and calling.

That higher calling we can call it OM. And with in all creative process happens. I normally think of it’s meaning before I chant it or meditate on it. OM – the seed of all knowledge; the guru of the very first gurus; unbound by time and space; omniscient and omnipresent; the self behind all beings; untouched by raga and dwesha (raga attractions; dwesha repulsion); the origin and end of all. These meanings come from studies of the Bhagavad Gita and the Yoga Sutras.

These meanings really try to englobe a description of a all pervasive self we can all connect to. And meditation (mindful living) on them come to be of truly great effect in ourselves, our expression and manifestation, and may the altars or anything else be there to remember.

[srchmn]

So I just finished Worm... I’ve seen enough praise for it that I expected to love it but the overlong journey is a bit of a disappointment. I’ve had time to develop my opinion in the course of the story and the problem with it can be summarized by a word--”looseness”. 

I must clarify that I like Worm. I like it enough to finish it and write about it. I even spent a few nights dreaming about it. Its merits lie in its inventiveness and half of its ambition. However, the acting of reading through the series hadn’t been the most pleasant one and I find that a lot of the story does not align with my interest.

-The phrase “a lot of the story” is a good place to start with taking Worm apart. It is too ambitious, too bloated. It spent too much time on things that do not interest me, giving the impression that it was written with the approach of “seeing what sticks”, and what sticks are not always the things that agree with my sensibilities. Note, that I not only opine as a reader but also as a writer. For example, Harbinger’s chapter barely mattered in the story, Foil and Parian still felt like tag-alongs by the end, the new Endbringers did not amount to much, things like these. 

I appreciate the little things that make me go “okay, that’s a thing”, making the world a bit more lived in, which is what a lot of the plotlines in Worm do (Wards’ side, Dragon’s side, Amy’s side, etc.) but it feels off when the most of it is Taylor’s story because it gives the impression that the others are just dangling. 

-Then there is the problem with the prose. Wildbow is certainly more verbose than I am, more confident and all that, but I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying simpler compositions. 

Worm is simply drawn out. Being harsh, I’ve thought of describing a lot of the action scenes as boring play-by-play, the more reflective aspects of it is more tolerable but feel repetitive, and sometimes I doze off thinking that what I just read is meaningless. 

Because it says more than it needs, I sometimes catch it being distracted. The writing shares the problem of being bloated. I would be lost in the action to realize that the narrator themselves lost track of what was happening. A number of characters would step into focus then out and forgotten as if their existence ended just then. There are a number of times that a presence like Shatterbird simply disappears in the battlefield (97% sure this is not me doping out). The first person narration can be an excuse if Taylor doesn’t have a canonical ability to watch over everyone.

-Ambition is a two-way street to greatness and Worm got stuck in the middle of it. It may be just my preference for humbler stories but I really did not like the escalation Worm presents. I think the bank robbery is probably my favorite in the series. It is meaningful, as a first step if nothing else, and it has a strong sense of identity. My suspension of disbelief was also quite healthy then, before it wore out in the consequent events. 

Believability is important in my enjoyment if only to rein in my more cynical mind from tainting that. It eventually cracked and after the Mannequin fight, I’ve come to adopt the idea that the author just does whatever is badass. I like Skitter as a warlord but her thoughts had devolved into “words” and everything just crashed when she quitted. 

add: I forgot to mention that some of this sentiment comes from my observation of the amount of punishment Skitter and her armor endures. 

By the way, Skitter’s rise to notoriety has been the high point of the story and her surrender is the falling action. The first Slaughterhouse Nine arc was a strong group vs group conflict that didn’t quite pan out because of how lengthy it was, how many distractions there were. Of course, what came after had its share of strong moments (I like Weaver’s meeting with the Goblin King, for example) but I think that the story was overstaying at the point. The emotional core had gone loose off the socket.

-I realize that I didn’t really say much about the looseness directly, it might even be the wrong word. If there is one thing I find most fascinating with Worm, it is boldness to move on (besides that one damning revelation at the very last chapter), the chain of cause and effect is taut. However, it caused the author to go through a lot of detours. I don’t know how the writing process goes here, if the detours are planned or if they are solutions to a present problem but they mattered. Most of the time they are small setbacks that add several paragraphs in the story. Then there are complications that either shakes everything (something I would praise) or simply delay further.

The series of events that led Skitter’s first exploit, in castrating Lung, to her membership to the Undersiders, to the escalation of the gang wars, to the Leviathan’s visit, then the Slaughterhouse Nine, is one thing that I cannot take away from Worm. It was a bold move to do something that lasting. I’m not fond of the End of the World thing but I suppose it also counts. The Leviathan’s appearance is the main piece here though because it really changed everything.

The latter complications are the ones that make the story longer, perhaps more suspenseful, without truly adding to the story. These would be the second Mannequin fight, Purity’s rampage, etc.. These are scenes I find undeserving of the focus they received. 

The fact that there are such chapters is odd considering that the author was willing to skip several pages of Taylor’s story. The Chicago Ward’s arc didn’t get as much attention it deserved considering that it was a rather substantial part of the story, and it would have made sense, too, because that was the majority of Taylor’s cape life.

-There should be more but I guess that’s the essentials. Just sharing some hanging thoughts from here: 

Rachel turned out well. I also like Dragon even if I’m not so thrilled about her love story. I want to see more of Tecton and the other Wards. As soon as Taylor developed a crush on Brian, I thought he needed to die to tip her over. Golem is such a waste, he was such a good foil for Weaver. More of Emma would have been nice.

[zolzhin]

The Dragon’s Request (OC and OU)

One of the most developed and beloved of my characters is Uliganderek Ssatherin, last surviving member of the Shissthar Draconian race. I have detailed all his exploits in my mind and have written many of them. Sadly I lost much of his story due to life events. Now...perhaps I can bring to life once more, the most alien and yet in my heart, relatable, characters I’ve ever made. This is one of the few stories that survived. I hope to rewrite and write new ones as well. ENJOY

The Dragon's Request

The road had drawn dark before me, as the night came rushing with a speed I could scarcely credit. Having just left the well lit streets of Tryle, it seemed that the encroaching shadows were even deeper than I remembered. The road had not been behind me for a month and already I had grown used to the civilization I was leaving. I had wished I could stay there, but something drew me on. There were places and things I have not been able to see and comprehend. My journey is not finished, though I now know, perhaps there was someplace I could return to.

The destruction of the force of evil and insanity in Tryle had been harsh of course. I had to recuperate, and I waited it out. But even as they told me the rough seasons were coming, I knew I could not linger any longer. I took what provisions they could load me down with, and set off south upon the almost non-existent trail. Some came to watch me leave, others went about their business. Most were just so happy to be free of the terror they once were under they continued to have their parties even so many days later. The joy of humans was infectious, and I could not be roped into that.

Yet they had been right of course. Clouds brewed up before me on the path and occluded the waning sunlight I had been using to guide my steps. As the clouds swallowed what was left of the light, rain began to patter down. Slow at first, it was a simple wash that felt good upon my scales. Yet I could smell the ionized air, I could feel the rumble of the winds from far away. For a creature that once soared through the skies I had a good sense of the weather. One had to have such a sense, or find themselves caught in a blizzard in the Dominion lands. Yet even with all my senses on alert, the storm broke upon me with such speed and ferocity that I was caught unawares.

The wind picked up, the loose dirt of the path the first to be thrown free. Then pebbles and small branches began to scurry across the ground. The rain itself seemed to become smaller, the fat droplets of water becoming stinging daggers of fast moving water and ice mixed. This land was different from my home, the weather was fairly warm but this stinging freezing rain still came down. I had thought myself safe from this sort of weather so far south, but apparently I was not. The storm began to come in earnest and even I could feel the stinging of the water beneath my armored hide.

The lightning and thunder came next with a roaring ferocity I could almost not credit. Within seconds of the first lash of yellow ravening power, the rolling air pressure and sound wave hit me like a physical blow. Perhaps if the bolt had struck me directly, I would have fallen before the wrath of nature. Thankfully the pressure and sound were not enough to harm me. But disorientation began to steal over me as the lightning rose in frequency and the constant boom of thunder left my senses reeling.

Quickly I realized that no simple camp would keep me safe in the face of this gale. A tent would be blown away long before I could get it ready and a lean-to would only last a moment's breath more. I would have to find some sort of natural cover, for I had moved to far beyond the small town's furthest outskirts to hope to find a building.

My eyes dazzled by the constant strobe of lightning and my feet sloshing through mud and tangled long grass I pushed my way off the road and into a small thicket of thin boled trees. The trees were lashing themselves into a frenzy and their boughs gave me no succor. But I had seen nothing I could use for shelter along the plains I had gazed upon earlier. I hoped beyond hope that there were some giant oak or other strong tree that I could crouch beneath until the worst of the storm passed.

I began to despair as the minutes slipped by and I found nothing by the dazzled dots in my vision from the constant flash of electricity and the shifting trunks of weakened trees. The rain was becoming worse as time passed, sapping me of energy even as the howling gale winds drew out even the reserves that got me through so many wars and battles. This seemed suddenly no natural storm and that its coming had been to kill me. Of course I knew this to be silly, but at the time, the thought had crossed my mind that I had angered some god of the wilds.

As I was cursing my luck and wondering if perhaps nature could do what no mortal creature nor dastard necromancer could do before, I stumbled hard into what seemed a pothole beneath my claws. As I came to my fore claws on the muddy grounds I realized that the pit I had stepped into was but the edge of a much larger hole in the earth. Five feet wide at its largest point it seemed to sink into the ground some distance, the flashing of lightning giving me a glimpse that it fell into a sharp downward angle and disappeared into darkness beyond. Not wishing to look fortune in the face and spit, I threw all caution to the biting winds and wriggled my way into the hole.

Arm over arm I crawled in near blackness into the dank hole. I could feel mud seeping past my scales as I wormed my way into the tunnel, and grumbled at the anticipation of the amount of scrubbing it would take to clean myself fully when this endeavor was over. I continued deeper, finding more compact and less damp dirt further in, though it did nothing for my current condition. I of course could see little ahead of me, and was so cramped in the tunnel I could not turn around to see what may lie behind me. I hoped that this natural tunnel would open up further on up, and I was not to be disappointed.

After about fifty more feet of crawling inch by dirty inch I dropped from the tunnel and into an open space with a curse to all damned nature and the smack of scale on packed rock and dirt. I was unhurt of course, but the fall had given me a good jarring and had played merry hell with my mood by that point. Sniffing the air all I could get was the smell of earth and the sickly smell of rot, which I could only attribute to dead or drowned plant matter in or along the tunnel I had come through. Working by feel, I rooted around in the backpack provided to me buy the happy townsfolk of Tryle, and found quickly the flint and steel that had followed me from all the way in the Desert of Alvor, to here and all the horrors and adventures I had endured.

Scavenging in the dark is something I had become accustomed to and even to this day I hold it as an important skill to learn. I achieved enough dry brush to create a small bundle, striking flint and tinder together to create the spark needed to make a fire. It took many tries, and my ill temper grew quickly. But I knew to survive down here I would need to be able to see. I finally got a spark to take to the tinder and illumination threw crazy shadows throughout the cavern I inhabited before I scrambled for my lantern, placing the tiny blazing ball into the central well to light the wick within. Blazing brilliance surrounded me now like a nimbus from the lantern and I could truly see where I had arrived.

On cursory inspection the cavern was quite large, the walls seeming to have taken their shape by natural means. Perhaps long ago this chamber had been filled with water which had shorn away dirt and rock alike in the fullness of time. A tunnel ran off to what I assumed was the south, though this was only based on my orientation on the surface which could be suspect after my fall. I looked up and glimpsed the natural tunnel with which I entered, and counted myself lucky that it had led to this haven rather than to some underground river.

While some might have been content to make camp in the chamber, I knew from my survival trainings that taking for granted the safety of caves was a bad idea. I had to explore its depths fully or at least for a good distance to ensure no unseen peril remained within. The worst I could imagine at that time was a bear or some other cave dwelling beasts. Perhaps a pack of wolves or wildcats, though I now know wildcats are solitary creatures. At the time I imagined them quite like lions. Yet the truth of the contents of that dank cave was, and lead me to things, far more dangerous than average beasts.

As I continued down the well worn tunnel I could make out a sound that seemed to be rising and falling by unnatural means. All things in the natural world worked on properties lacking uniformity. Nothing was a straight line, as the curving tunnel showed to me. No noise repeated at a pattern except by creatures that could exert their wills over the formlessness of nature. And to this I attributed the sounds which came and went, almost as if a gusting breath which inhaled and exhaled in a slow rhythm. The sound though was louder than any breath I had heard in many years, and as I crept down the tunnel, and the sound came louder and louder, I knew something of great proportions must lie ahead.

I was not to be disappointed in my assumption. With my torch held before me to light my path I found myself entering a chamber far larger than the one I left shortly before. I could almost not attribute its size to reality, since for a moment I thought perhaps it opened up to empty sky far above. Yet reason reasserted itself as it was dry in the cavern, and I made the base assumption that the tunnel I had so recently exited had sloped downward without my noticing. The meager flame of my torch could not cast light upon the ceiling or any of the walls, so massive was the cavern. But it did alight something much more shocking.

For before me was the source of the sound I had attributed to breath. And so it was for the breath was created by a dragon! Even curled up in slumber the creature was massive, its single outstretched claw bigger than I was. So large was its maw that it could easily take me up and swallow me whole if it had half a mind. Its scales were dull and white, and from old association I knew that to be an indication of age. Young dragons were resplendent and shimmering in their scaled hues, while the older and wiser dulled and became more monochrome as the sleeping eons passed them.

So taken aback by the sight, I didn't even think to turn around and retreat. The dragon was obviously sleeping, its breath low and even. Its eyes were sealed shut in slumber and its great flanks rose and fell with the fullness of each breath. Its wings were folded back, doubled and tripled up in their resting position, much as mine had been before my wings were crippled. Seeing the magnificent wingspan and remembering with sudden and complete clarity the pain and shame of the loss of my precious wings, I gasped. Though the sound was low and I covered it as best I could, dragons slept lightly.

With a low groaning growl which shook my very marrow the massive head of the dragon turned in my direction, though its eyes remained shut. Its clawed forelimbs shook off the pains of sleep as it dug its talons into the earth beneath its body, gaining purchase as its head rose high before me. Its wings opened in slow testing, gusts of wind pushing at me as it beat the air in its waking. The growl slowly became words, spoken in the sibilant hiss that almost sounded like my home tongue. The syllables were longer and more archaic, but its meaning was clear as any other language to me.

“Who dares enter my lair? My eyes no longer view the world, though my nose and ears work better for the loss! I know you are there! Speak or I will crush you underfoot like an ant!” The ancient reptile spoke in a thundering tone, a voice filled with power and demanding obeisance.

“Lord Dragon, who was once kin to my fallen people, I beg forgiveness for my trespass for I knew not that this was your home. By your honor and your glory, I ask you spare me in my ignorance if not for the loyalty our kin once showed one another!” I had decided then to speak in the old ways, injecting as much of the flowery court speech as I could. In the times that I had spoken to dragons in my youth, I had found that they seemed to enjoy the rolling sibilant of the High Speech.

“You speak of kin little creature? Kin to the great dragons? What kin do you speak of? Who would dare claim closeness to our blood?” The dragon sounded less demanding and more confused now, surprised to hear such speech from a biped I imagine.

“Lord Dragon, permit me the honor of sharing my heart name with you. I am Uliganderek Ssatherin, of the Shissthar Kindred. Once, long ago, your people and mine were as brothers, though the Shissthar Dominion is no more.” The dragon could not see me, but I knew it could hear the sincerity I put into my voice, and perhaps the sorrow which went along with repeating something that I had not repeated in over three hundreds years.

“Shissthar? You are far from home little brother. I remember your people well, and remember the oaths and honor of your blood. I will forgive your trespass, for the offering of boon.” The dragon lowered its head, bringing it level with me as it folded its claws beneath its long neck.

“It is offered without question Lord Dragon. You have but to ask, for I remember well the old ways.” I would have sighed in relief if it wouldn't have offended the old dragon. A boon for my life was an excellent deal, or I thought at the time.

“Good, now I welcome you to my sparse lair little brother. I offer the hospitality and protection as is custom for old allies. For the honor of your heart name I share my blood name. I am La'kullik, Shining Lance of the Fourth Wing. Under the gaze of Revluen and by the bonds of our kin blood.” The old dragon, I had noticed suddenly, never opened his eyes even as he seemingly gazed at me so levelly.

“Fourth Wing? Then you were of Alagaret's brood?” I asked as I slowly knelt on the rock of the cavern, as was custom for meeting with dragons.

I should at this point mention to those who do not know the proper etiquette for dealing with dragons that there is a vast and seemingly endless array of things that may upset those dragons not used to dealing with barbarous bipeds, as they know them. Sitting on your rear is a big one, as it signifies to them that you are taking their protection for granted. One must always be prepared to aid a dragon in defense, otherwise you risk insulting them. Also, their names are incredibly important. If you meet a dragon, and they give you the honor of their blood names you have two options. You can either use their blood name in full or you can use the title which they use for themselves in their broods.

Thusly in my situation with the dragon I now speak of I could either call him La'kullik, which is difficult for those without forked tongues to pronounce properly, or I could call him Shining Lance. The name he holds in his brood is just as important as his draconian name, as it marks him a part of a whole rather than a singular entity. Though many dragons lead solitary lives, they will always hold tightly to themselves the memories of their brood. Also if you wish to truly flatter a dragon, and you are absolutely sure you can pronounce it properly, saying a dragon's full name and brood title is an excellent way to go.

“You remember well little brother Uliganderek. Few knew of the Fourth Wing's brood mother. You must have been close to wretched Qutlemaluk the Traitor.” The dragon's lips curled at the speaking of the old Emperor's name, and there was such revulsion and hate, it shocked me. I have never heard a dragon speak the word traitor before, and it was like a hammer blow to hear such a wretched word from ancient lips.

“I was Protector and the Master of the First Guard. In truth noble La'kullik Shining Lance of Fourth Wing, for by your generosity I must speak truth, I am kinslayer. The Emperor's blood stains my soul, though I know not why you speak of traitorism.” I replied haltingly, unsure of how much to reveal to the great dragon.

“Then you are loved of the Wings, Uliganderek. For your Emperor sullied the name of your people, raised the ire of great Seddrinth, and spat on the old alliances of our kin.” La'kullik slowly sprawled a little, as was the custom for dragons speaking to bipeds. Because of height difference he felt it necessary to lay down and have his head on equal level.

“La'kullik,” I spoke his name alone, my curiosity and shock overriding my desire to flatter. “What do you speak of? The Shissthar were only ever told that the dragons would not come to our aid. We thought you had abandoned us in our last moments, careless of our plight.”

With a breath of brimstone heat and a growl of titanic proportions the great white dragon rose up. Its lips curled into a savage snarl, its wings opening and closing quickly, winds buffeting at me relentlessly. Had it not been for my tail I would have fallen to my back under the gale of his rage. And rage it was, for his voice boomed loud and proud, shaking the earth and rock around us as he thundered.

“Careless? Wretched Emperor with fouled blood would even sully us to that end?! We wanted nothing more than to swoop down and tear open the great machines of the dwarves! Nothing would have given me so much pleasure as ravaging their human knights and prying their armored skins from their weak forms! Even the elves would not stand before our rage had not your Emperor sullied your peoples good name, your honor, and cast his acid words upon the bonds and loyalties of our twined kin!” The dragon's eyes slowly opened, and I could see that they held no pupil or iris. His eyes were a milky white not unlike the color of his scales and showed to me that he was truly blind. I did not at the time understand that his other senses created a sort of picture within his mind that allowed him to “see”. The opening of his eyes was simply a reaction to the rage which flowed off of his scales like rain. He bristled, his scales giving a soft rustling noise, before he shook his head seemingly to clear his mind of the fog of rage and hate. Left now was only a melancholy which I had felt so often.

“Lord Revluen who guides the blood took my sight little brother Uliganderek, for I could not witness the fall of your kin. I was so shamed by that last day I fled and never returned to my people, who chose to damn a race for the weakness of one. Your Emperor came to Great Seddrinth in his stronghold and commanded we crush the warmbloods in his name. We tasted madness on his soul, treachery on his scales, and lies on his breath. Great Seddrinth was furious and barely allowed your mad Emperor to leave with his life. He declared that all Wings would remain and not aid your kin. We were required by our blood oaths to obey, though many of us chafed at such commands. I watched with others, while your cities fell and your blood stained the earth. To my shame, I asked Revluen to take my eyes that I might not see, and that Seddrinth might not follow if I fled. Here I have remained, waiting for the end. Here I have lingered, shamed by my oaths and kin.”

The tale of the great dragon was almost enough to bring me to tears. My entire life, I had thought that in my hubris I had slain my Emperor without purpose or reason. I had thought that I had grown weary alone and that I had lost my path of duty. Yet here was one of the lost allies of my people, telling me that Qutlemaluk had betrayed our blood long before that last day. He had gone alone to our allies and dishonored our people in attempting to force what would have come without urging. The dragons would have come to aid, but his madness had so corrupted his thoughts, he must have thought that without his forcing, they would abandon us.

Those who are reading these words should understand something of the Shissthar. There was nothing more important to my people than duty and honor. Life, liberty, and justice for the warmbloods means the most. But they meant little to my fallen people in the face of their oaths. In telling some of my old stories of the Empire warmbloods have told me that my people were cold and unfeeling. Some have even said that my former home was a den of slavers and murderers. Yet in truth, it is only because a warmblood cannot see what my people saw. That life means nothing without honor, and it is better to die with it intact than to live on in shame. That liberty is a fallacy, because in truth you always pay homage, whether hidden or in full view to another. That justice means nothing without duty, because if all people know their duty there needs be no justice.

I have learned more of the warmbloods over these ensuing years, understood more about what and why they are. I understand now what they hated of us, what they feared of us. An alien Empire which came from the skies, reaping blood and sacrifice from those who wanted only their lives. We thought we were noble, culling the weak to make them strong and worthy of honor. But truth lies with victors. And the warmbloods reigned in those elder days, as they do today.

The great dragon was silent for a long time ,allowing me time to process what he had told me. I think even then he understood that I was lost and adrift, without anchor to keep me steady. In that moment, as many moments before and after, I contemplated ending my exile. Cutting short the near limitless coil that was my life and joining my people in death. Did not the universe seem to so capriciously tear my species apart? Had not the world seemed to deem my kin unworthy of existence? Perhaps the cold embrace of death would have been a boon, shepherding me to something greater.

“You are of course troubled little brother.”  La'kullik intoned in his rumbling voice. “I am sorry if the truth offends you. Qutlemaluk damned your people to their destruction, you should have no shame for murdering him. Had I known there was one Shissthar willing to stand before a mad tyrant, I may have had the strength to stand as well. You may rest little brother, in my care without fear. When you wake, we shall speak of your boon.”

“Please, La'kullik, rest is far from my mind. I wish to ask of what has passed in the world since I left. I have wandered alone amongst the warmbloods who focus on nothing but themselves. In these waning years, I must know what has happened. Has the Empire been remembered? Has the alliance of the warmbloods endured? Are there any of the Shissthar blood left?” The words flowed past my lips without cease, for here was someone who could give me the knowledge I had yearned for for over three hundred years.

“I am sorry little brother, there are laws I must uphold. I cannot tell you the answers to the questions you wish to ask. Should you complete my boon, I can answer you one question, but now is not the time for that. The storm must abate, and then we will discuss your duty.”

With that, the conversation was done. Taking a moment to curl his massive body back into a tight ball, my host rested his head upon his tale and his breathing slowly evened. I had no wish to disturb his slumber, for I had already done much to intrude. Instead I found myself a small area to lie upon the ground, my pack as my pillow. I lay in the darkness, after I blew out my lantern. My mind was awhirl with thoughts of what I had learned, what I may yet still learn from the ancient which snored beside me.

A chance to have one of my questions answered, to pay back the boon to a great ally, and the chance to maybe finally redeem my people. These were the things that sang to me as I dropped into slumber as well, aided by the rhythmic breathing of the dragon. The next chapter of my story was unfolding, and now finally, I might find redemption.