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denimbex1986 · 10 months ago

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'There’s a scene in Andrew Haigh’s new film All of Us Strangers that felt a bit like watching my own life in flashback. It takes place in the Whitgift Centre in 1980s Croydon, south London, where key parts of the film were shot. Also included is Haigh’s actual childhood home in nearby Sanderstead, where he lived until around the age of nine, before his parents divorced and he moved away. The scene in question lasts only a few seconds as a young boy (Adam) crosses the sombre shopping mall. But it was enough to transport me back to my own experience as a young kid growing up in the same London borough, a few years after Haigh’s time there.

In the 80s and 90s, Croydon felt like an incredibly oppressive place to grow up in. Head down there today, and you’ll find that the shopping centre hasn’t changed much, save that it’s largely lined with discount stores rather than the popular high-street names that once filled it. Meanwhile, the sense of alienation that comes with being a young person in this incongruous suburb tacked onto the southwest of sprawling megacity London feels hauntingly familiar.

“It’s those English suburbs, they’re very, very conservative. They always were,” Haigh says when we meet for our interview in Soho on an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon. “Back then, they were not a pleasant place for someone that’s different to grow up.”

In All of Us Strangers, young Adam is beginning to realise that his sexuality is setting him apart from the comforting familiarity of his beloved parents’ world. Sadly, this is not an experience unique to the 80s, but one that resonates with LGBTQ+ people even now.

The grown-up, contemporary-era version of Adam is played by Andrew Scott. The Fleabag star plays a lonely gay man that is struggling to let go of the past in order to find happiness and move forward. One day, Adam meets the younger and far more outwardly free Harry — exceptionally played by Paul Mescal — who lives in the same apartment block. They begin an intoxicating affair that at last allows Adam a sense of connection and freedom he has denied himself.

You’ll likely know Haigh’s work from his 2011 breakout romantic drama Weekend, starring Chris New and Tom Cullen, which resonated with audiences on both sides of the Atlantic. Its frank depiction of an overnight affair between two gay men captured the attention of a community that responded well to seeing a sexual and emotional relationship being handled in such a refreshingly candid way on screen. The film’s commercial and critical success opened doors for Haigh in the US. HBO courted him to create Looking, the cult TV series starring Jonathan Groff, Russell Tovey, and Murray Bartlett. But it’s the intense and challenging All of Us Strangers that has propelled the director back into the spotlight.

“When I wrote [All of Us Strangers], I did feel like my intention was to tell an experience of a very specific generation of gay men,” says Haigh. “I think it’s been called by other people the ‘middle generation’, the generation of gay men that came into their sexuality, or came to understand their sexuality, while AIDS was affecting and killing so many people. So, you’re not in the generation before, who grew up coming into sexuality before AIDS, and you’re not in the generation who came after, where there is now medication, and it’s no longer a death sentence.

“Coming out in the 90s, in the shadow of AIDS and HIV, to be gay and to have gay sex equated with death, disease, and social isolation. I remember growing up thinking there was literally no future for me: ‘I cannot be a gay person in the world.’ That carries a lot of shame and a lot of self-hatred. It takes a lifetime to get rid of that,” he reflects. “You don’t have to scratch the surface very far to feel how you used to feel.”

While legislation may allow gay people greater equal rights, Haigh underscores that social attitudes are still a way behind. The wounds of growing up in the years post-AIDS are still raw. “Today, straight people have decided it’s OK now. They’ve decided that now we’ve got gay marriage, that it should be fine for us now. And they’ve forgotten how they used to treat us. We haven’t forgotten; we can still remember,” says Haigh, his calm and measured tone belying a defiant message. “We’re being told we should be happy. It doesn’t mean we are actually fully embracing who we are.”

On shame, Haigh highlights how it never just vanishes. “We’re supposed to have got rid of it, but of course, it still lingers. It doesn’t go away, but you can soften it and deal with it. But I also feel like that’s not necessarily a queer thing. Any kind of difference can make you feel isolated and alone. And lots of people have things that make them different.”

In terms of realising his own sexuality, Haigh remembers finding other men attractive as a kid. “There was always something about boys that I wanted to be around. I’d see a teenage boy and be like, ‘Why am I staring at that person’s hairy legs?’” says Haigh of those early impulses. On a trip to London, he was confronted with a poster about HIV featuring a man and a woman. “It was like, ‘Which do you prefer?’ I remember thinking, ‘I definitely prefer that picture of that man.’ It was the first time I really realised. It’s of no surprise that those things became connected.”

Closeting himself through school and university, Haigh had girlfriends to hide his identity. After university, he found himself living in London. ‘I cannot do this any longer,’ he told himself. “I was wandering around Soho after work looking in the windows of sex shops and wanting to buy a porn video, finally plucking up the courage to buy one. Then, sneaking it back to my flat and watching it and being like, ‘Oh my God, I know what it is that I want.’”

With his newly accepted sexuality, Haigh did what most gay men in the 90s did: he hit the scene, from Heaven to Popstarz and Wig Out at The Ghetto. “I remember going to G-A-Y in the Astoria and seeing what felt like a thousand gay people all in one room, and I was like, ‘Fuck. Oh my God, all of these people are like me.’ It makes me a bit sad that some people maybe don’t experience that now, because those things don’t exist in the same way.”

It was through London’s gay scene that Haigh came across his first film subject: an escort named Pete, who would become the focus of his semi-dramatised 2009 documentary film, Greek Pete. The film’s naturalistic style was the perfect precursor to Weekend, which felt relatable to so many gay men for its forthright take on love-at-gay-sight, and the giddy highs that come with exploring somebody new, and how you can give of yourself to them so unreservedly. “You have a chance, don’t you, to redefine yourself when you meet someone new,” says Haigh, “and you don’t have so much baggage that you have with friends and family. You get a chance to be like, ‘Actually, I’m going to say this thing about me or express this feeling,’ which you might not have ever said to anybody before.”

Arriving over a decade later, All of Us Strangers is viewed by Haigh as having a conversation with his breakthrough second film. “I’m 12 or 13 years older than when I wrote Weekend. I’ve changed, and my understanding of my own queerness has changed and developed,” muses Haigh of the two films’ thematic connections.

“I wanted to expand things that I had been thinking about for a long time. People had always asked if I was going to do a sequel to Weekend, and it just never made sense to me. Weekend is crazy because I had no concept that that film would be seen by people. Or, I think if I did know, I probably would have been more timid at the time about certain things.” Where Weekend may have been audacious for its time, the years since have allowed Haigh to fully release the restraints in All of Us Strangers.

There are many complex, intertwining layers in his universally lauded new film, All of Us Strangers: addiction, shame, grief. While they all pull at the characters, it never at any point feels excessive. Striking that balance was pivotal to making the film feel authentic. “I knew that it was about a lot of things all working together, and all of those things come from a similar place, essentially,” says Haigh. “The grief of losing a parent, the trauma of that, and also the trauma of growing up in a time, and the grief that your childhood wasn’t what you wanted it to be. I wanted the film to feel like there were so many things wrapped up together that linked to other things that can lead to addiction, that can lead to pain, to someone shutting down and not allowing anyone into their lives.

“They’re wrapped up together in a way that you can’t tell where the edges of all of those things are. They’ve all become this knot, essentially. What’s driving the film is the only way to soften that is to find people that care about you. And perhaps, more importantly, how you do that for other people. Adam and Harry, they realise that they need to do things for each other. That being there for someone else is as important as them being there for you. I think sometimes you can be quite selfish with love, expecting that you need to be loved, without realising you actually need to make sure that you’re giving that to someone else.”

The uncanny isolation of the characters is even more tangible seeing as the film was written during the Covid pandemic. “There’s an element of that, of being locked literally inside your house, but also into yourself. And I think when you focus in on yourself, the past comes back. Relationships from the past come back,�� observes Haigh.

Another way All of Us Strangers sets itself apart from the director’s filmography is the unnaturalistic cinematography and vivid lighting that fills many of Scott’s scenes with Mescal. “I knew that the only way for this film to work was if it felt slightly shifted from reality,” says Haigh. “I wanted it to exist on a slightly different plane. You had to feel like you were somehow suspended. I wanted to be plunged deeper into some kind of psychological state.”

The actors are similarly beguiling in their roles. Mescal excels as Harry, bringing an effortless toughness and tenderness in equal parts. “I wanted this character to be someone who you felt like his version of falling in love was caring for that other person. That’s what you see unfolding. His version of love is: ‘I care about you, and I want to help you, and I want to know you,’” says Haigh of messy Harry. “Paul’s a really compassionate person. He genuinely cares about people, and is emotionally engaged in other people’s struggle. You feel that. His performance is really beautifully judged in terms of that.”

Mescal was fully aware that the role would only work if it didn’t compete with that of his on-screen partner. “He’s a very generous person and a generous actor. He knew that this is a film essentially about Adam, and he’s a supporting role in that. That’s not easy for an actor. They know they are supporting, but they know they need their role to be important, too.”

Scott’s portrayal of Adam is similarly enthralling. The character’s inner conflict is tortured, and Scott pours himself into the role, but never once does it feel unwarranted. Scott plays Adam delicately in moments, then viscerally in others. “I know that he felt so connected to the material,” says Haigh of Scott. “When I started giving the scripts to people, they’d say, ‘This feels like it’s written for me and about me.’ And Andrew felt that. This is a film about the past bleeding to the surface. When you see it in Andrew coming to the surface, it’s genuine. It’s a beautiful performance, and it feels so real.”

Haigh applies a considered touch to the more intense scenes, which never feel like they’re being played for a reaction. In different hands, with a different actor, a different director, they could have failed. “There’s lots of sadness in the story,” says Haigh. “I was like, ‘OK, I want people to have an emotional reaction to it. But I don’t want them to feel completely manipulated into that emotion.’ You’re trying at every stage to work out, ‘Does this feel genuine?’”

From the older married straight couple played by Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay in 45 Years (for which Rampling was Academy Award nominated) to All of Us Strangers, solitude and loneliness are consistent themes in much of Haigh’s work. If the British are renowned for their emotional reservedness, Haigh would be something of an auteur of the British condition on film.

Something the director is not shy to confront is how society also forces us to seek the comfort of others to mask loneliness. “We feel like that is the solution. But if you’re still hiding it, you’re still hiding it. And you can be very alone in relationships. You can be very alone with all of your friends,” he says. “But also the essence of being human is that we are essentially alone in the world. And our whole life is about dealing with that until the day we die, when you’re essentially alone again. It’s a greater existential question that will never go away, and we pretend it has. ‘Oh, no. I’m happy, everything’s great, we’re all good.’ We’ll buy things, we’ll do stuff, we’ll have fun. We’ll go and have a nice meal in a restaurant. It doesn’t escape the essential aloneness.”

On telling queer stories, Haigh is aware that LGBTQ+ people have been starved of on-screen representation for so long that people have a tendency to lash out at anything that either does not mirror their experience or presents them less than positively. “People can react with real vitriol, real hatred. I understand it when you’re desperate for representation, you want that representation to be you, essentially,” says Haigh about reactions to series like Looking or Russell T. Davies’ actually rather good Cucumber.

Haigh continues, “But it’s not you. It’s representing the person that’s made that show. It feels like that might be changing now. I feel like people are starting to be a little bit more compassionate to difference within the community, rather than it needing to be a strict representation of them.”

Part of these extreme reactions, Haigh says, is also down to the disparity between generations. “There’s a lot of anger from a younger generation against my generation. I’m like, ‘You’ve only just come out, please. We’ve dealt with our own shit.’ You just wish that everybody could realise that we’ve actually all been through the same fucking shit. We should as a community be supportive of each other. Even if we are very different and have different viewpoints on our lives.”

When it comes to those perspectives, there really is only one that Haigh can be responsible for: his own. It’s served him well. Over five remarkable films and his television work, he’s gradually unpicking what it means to be alone in a world that moves on regardless of our feelings, and what it also means to exist in the context of being loved in the same.

Haigh’s under no pretence that the medium of directing is a mirror through which he interprets his life. “It reflects my concerns, my ideas, my thoughts. I never want my films to be narcissistically about me. I’m not interested in that. But the films are an expression of how I see things,” he says as our conversation finds its natural conclusion. “It’s often what I find quite difficult, because [in terms of fame] I don’t want to be necessarily ‘in the world’. But I’m also making films that go into the world in a big dramatic way. So, there’s a tension there, and that triggers a lot of emotional things in me. But it definitely is, it’s a mirror, without a doubt.”'

#Andrew Haigh #Andrew Scott #Paul Mescal #All of Us Strangers #Cucumber #Weekend #Fleabag #Looking #Russell Tovey #Greek Pete #Charlotte Rampling #Tom Courtnay #45 Years #LGBTQ+

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herinsectreflection · 4 years ago

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Faith, Buffy, Dreams, and Secret Kisses

This is one of my favourite scenes in the series. Partially because it’s just my personal jam - I admit that I am Fuffy trash, and I have a real love for dream sequences. Buffy had great dream sequences, but this is where they take a step up. It’s a precursor to Restless in this regard and others. It feels weighty and meaningful, but also a little off and incongruent with itself, in that way that only dreams are. Lines are exchanged that don’t quite follow as direct responses to each other, clashing in interesting ways. It’s packed with foreshadowing, metaphor, and other juicy things. And beyond that, it’s a conclusion to Buffy’s entire arc this season about dealing with her shadow self, and it leads to what I think is the single most romantic moment in the series. I want to talk about this scene and unpack some of what I think it’s saying.

First of all, let’s talk about the setting. We’re in Faith’s apartment, bought for her by the Mayor. Essentially, the villain’s lair, where the two Big Bads plotted their evil plans against our hero. But it’s also a set where we saw most of the bonding and semi-familial love between Faith and the Mayor. A place of both evil and love. And for Buffy, a place of trauma. This is where she makes the decision and takes the action to kill another human. I don’t think she was unjustified in doing so, but it’s still an immensely traumatic act for her, and I think she loses a little part of herself when she does it. The location is very much a reflection of Faith, and Buffy’s relationship to her. I don’t think Buffy loves Faith romantically at this point, but I think she cares about her, and remains concerned about her, and I think it’s fair to call that a kind of love. Faith is also evil, a figure of betrayal but also temptation to the “dark side”. And she is also a figure of trauma, clear deep-seated trauma that she fails to resolve, and just gets worse over the course of the season. Buffy is essentially inside her own relationship to Faith, inside a stadium of sin, trauma, love, and shattered glass. Faith looks out of the broken window that they fought through, and we are reminded that their relationship too is broken, unrepaired, littered with the detritus of conflict. There’s no going back from this - even in dreams that window remains broken, and their relationship will always have this damage.

The props too are an interesting choice. TPN’s video on Graduation Day pointed out the painting of a giant snake with a man’s head on the wall. More conflicting feelings here - the Mayor is Faith’s closest connection to humanity and love right now, and also the reason for her betrayal of Buffy. Her redemption and damnation. We also see boxes of various things piled up - including the crossbow that Faith stole in Bad Girls. The image of packing up a room into boxes makes me think of moving away as a student. We must remember that Buffy is graduating today, on the verge of packing her life away and taking it somewhere else, and this reminds us of that.

The first thing of real substance we see is the cat, which jumps up on Faith’s bed. This is one of the aspects of this dream in direct conversation with Restless, where a cat symbolises the Slayer - a specifically feminine, solitary predator that stalks the night. In Restless, we cut to Miss Kitty stalking the camera from shots of the First slayer stalking Willow. Here though, the intercut images are between the cat and Faith, lying bruised and helpless in a hospital. The cat (and the Slayer) is, as far as Buffy is concerned, not a danger but a creature in need of help.

Buffy: "Who's going to look after him?" Faith: "It's a she. And aren't these things supposed to take care of themselves?"

They’re very clearly talking about their respective approaches to slaying, and to life in general. Buffy tries to encourage ties to humanity, telling Faith back in Revelations that she is on Faith’s side. Faith retorts that she alone is on her side, and she repeats that sentiment here. But Buffy is obviously proved right - Faith is lying almost dead because she rejected all help and care.

Buffy: "A higher power guiding us?" Faith: "I'm pretty sure that's not what I meant."

If the cat is the Slayer in this conversation, then the “higher power guiding us” could refer to the Watchers. It makes sense that Buffy delivers this line with a little wry smile, given that she’s just resigned herself from the Council. This allows a little bit of ambiguity in their debate - Buffy has taken on a little bit of Faith’s advice in emancipating herself and so making herself as the Slayer more self-reliant. The show agrees that that too is the right move. A little independence is good and healthy. What Faith means when she talks about “taking care of herself” is not self-reliance or independence, but emotional hardness and self-marooning to avoid hurt. This is something that Buffy will continue to struggle with for the rest of the series. Faith is kind of right when she states that the Slayer is alone and must take care of herself, and it’s up to Buffy to find a healthy way of dealing with that.

"Oh yeah. Miles to go - Little Miss Muffet counting down from 7-3-0.”

The scene shifts a little, and we get some foreshadowing for Dawn (Little Miss Muffet), and for Buffy’s death (730 days from now). This is done with the the lighting too, as Faith faces the camera, and the light of the dawn hits her face, in a shot extremely similar to the end of The Gift.

Interestingly, Faith is repeatedly used in this way. In This Year’s Girl, Faith talks about “little sis coming” as she and Buffy make the bed in her first dream. In Restless, that scene gets a callback (”Faith and I just made that bed”), in a scene that ends with the most anvilicious foreshadowing (”Be back before dawn”), as well as a callback to the 7-3-0 line (”Oh, that clock’s all wrong”). In Graduation Day, Faith refers to Buffy as being “dressed up in big sister’s clothes”, however to me Faith has always felt more as being the “little sister” in this relationship. She looks up to Buffy yet is also deeply jealous of her. She wants to be Buffy, to have her friends, her life, the love of her mother. She’s kind of a precursor to Dawn in this respect, so it makes sense that she’s a prophet for her coming.

Slayers having prophetic dreams is well-established, so it makes sense that a dream shared by two slayers would allow them to prophesise a little further ahead in time. Faith hints at this, remarking "Sorry, it's my head. A lot of new stuff.". You have to wonder what other “new stuff” Faith is becoming aware of. Perhaps a new perspective on everything Buffy’s been saying all season. Sharing a mind temporarily is often helpful in seeing another’s point of view. Faith does seem unusually thoughtful as she looks out of the broken window and remarks "They are never going to fix this, are they?".

This is perhaps my favourite line in the scene. It’s a slight mislead, as it comes right as we get a flash of the cat-as-Faith in the foreground. So we assume it’s a reference to her own injuries, which she is expected to never recover from.

But the Faith that’s talking isn’t looking at her own body. She’s looking at the broken window. The symbol for her broken relationship with Buffy. She has become us, the audience, looking at Buffy and Faith and saying “boy, those crazy kids really are never going to work it out, are they?”. It’s true for Faith, it’s true for Faith&Buffy, and it’s true for Buffy herself. When that knife entered Faith’s gut, all three were irrevocably changed forever. You can never put back the life you had before after it’s broken like that. All you can do is take what you can work with, and try to make something new.

Buffy: "What about you?" Faith: "Scar tissue. It fades. It all fades." Buffy confirms that the previous line was not about Faith specifically by asking “what about you”, in a lovely expression of concern. After everything, Buffy does still care about Faith. Faith’s reply of “scar tissue” is an obvious reference to the literal wound she is now carrying (emphasised by the shot of the knife that Buffy sees afterwards), but it’s interesting that she gestures to her face when she says this. It feels like a reference to her entire self. If we accept Faith as Buffy’s shadow self, then “scar tissue” is an accurate description of her. As Buffy herself says, Faith is who she could be if her life was worse (or, perhaps, who she would be if she allowed the tragedies of her life to rule her). She is the part of Buffy’s unconscious self that is revealed after receiving violence. She is the physical proof of trauma. The self that remains after pain.

Buffy: “Is this your mind or mine?” Again, hitting that note of symbiosis; emphasising how inextricably tied these two characters are. The lines between their psyches are blurred to the point of no longer existing. This is such an intimate moment, almost sexual, with Buffy and Faith unable to tell where their own mind ends and another begins. Imagine the intimacy of that - entering another’s mental space and allowing them into yours, so wholly that they become one and the same. It becomes a mutual recognition of unity and shared pain, and an affirmation of the eternal divisions between them.

I love the ambiguity of the “human weakness” line too. One way we are invited to read it is that Faith is doing a heel-face turn, and intentionally giving Buffy the means to defeat the Mayor. But we’re not allowed anything that easy, to wash away Faith’s sins with a quick redemption before the climax. Faith has miles to go before she can achieve that. It’s just as likely that Faith is talking about herself, and the human weakness that led her down a dark path, or that Buffy is talking about Faith through the Faith in her head, or Buffy is just working it out on her own, etc, etc. This is the information that saves the world, and I like that it remains an unknown. A permanent “maybe”, just as Buffy and Faith’s relationship is.

Buffy: "How are you going to fit all this stuff?" Faith: "Not gonna. It's yours." Buffy: "I can't use all of this!" Faith: "Just take what you need. You're ready?"

As the scene reaches its climax, we see the most obvious recitation of the season’s themes. S3 is about Buffy coming into conflict with her own shadow self, and here the show tells us how she does that - by taking what she needs. I mentioned earlier that we saw the crossbow from Bad Girls, from the “want/take/have” scene. Here, Faith is telling her the same thing, but in a more healthy way. She cannot just hedonistically consume everything like a crazed id-monster, but she also cannot deny herself things that she needs.

Most importantly, the “stuff” they are referring to is Faith’s, but as Faith says, it’s also Buffy’s. Everything that Faith is, Buffy is too, because she is her shadow self. Buffy must recognise this, accept it, and incorporate the shadow self into her own identity. She cannot be consumed by the shadow self and simply become Faith, allowing her shadow to consume her conscious personality (”how are you going to fit all this stuff?”). Instead she must recognise her dark mirror, and take the healthy parts, and integrate them into herself as an individual (”take what you need”).

It is at this point of healing and merging between Buffy’s self and shadow self that Faith reaches out, almost touches her in an action that feels so tender, and Buffy becomes conscious. She literally becomes her conscious self by making peace with her dream (unconscious self). She stands up, and walks over to Faith’s bed. This is the moment that their relationship all season has been leading to. She leans over, and places a kiss on her forehead.

This kiss is everything. It’s an act of thanks, as Buffy realises Faith may have given her what she needs to save the day (at the cost of Faith’s one familial figure). It is an act of service, as Buffy literally gives Faith the kiss she asked for when they started to fight in Graduation Day. It could also be an act of forgiveness. We know from I Only Have Eyes For You that forgiveness, Buffy learns, is done not because somebody deserves it, but because they need it. Faith at this point probably does not deserve it, does not want forgiveness (she wants to be punished), nor can she recognise it in her current state, but Buffy gives it anyway, adding another layer of heartbreak. It is given not for any purpose, but for its own sake.

Above all though, this is an act of recognition. We must consider the previous forehead-kiss that these two shared, back in Enemies, and Faith’s words directly before: “What are you gonna do, B, kill me? You become me. You're not ready for that, yet.” And in Graduation Day, just after Buffy stabs her: “You did it. You killed me.” And her words in the dream, just a few seconds ago: “You're ready?"

Now I don’t think that Buffy stabbing Faith to save Angel is morally equivalent to Faith voluntarily killing people to help an evil guy become a big snake. I don’t think the show wants us to think that either. But the line is firmly blurred. Angel says in Consequences that the act of taking a life will change Faith irrevocably, and Faith agrees. She sees herself as tainted from that point on, and if Buffy took her life, she would be tainted too. And though it’s understandable and morally defensible, there’s no doubt that a part of Buffy - her innocence - dies on that balcony when she sticks that knife in. That act is forever. The choice to do violence is permanent.

So when Faith says “you killed me”, she is saying “you have become me”. She identifies a common nature in them. And when Buffy kisses her, returning it in the exact same way as when Faith first said those words, she is saying “I know”. She recognises and responds to Faith’s mirror by holding up one of her own. She matches similarity with similarity. She is finally “ready” to assimilate her shadow self, and does it by telling her shadow self that she sees her, and that she was right.

The beautiful part of all this is that it is silent. Faith would’ve been aware of their unification in the dreamscape, since it was happening in both of their heads, but she has no way of knowing about this. I wonder if Buffy would ever tell her. I doubt it. This is the core of the Faith/Buffy tragedy. This is why I find this relationship so compelling. Buffy performs this act of recognition and devotion entirely in secret. It is a stolen kiss and a private confession. A whisper made to a sleeping lover. A letter written, sealed, stamped, and set on fire. It is an act of love and tenderness made entirely for its own sake, without witness or reward.

This is the single most romantic moment of the show for me. In this show that in many ways about how when nothing you do matters, all that matters is what you do, what could be more romantic than this gentle kiss that changes nothing against this aching hole of violence and betrayal between them, but exists anyway, just because Buffy felt it needed to be done. It’s a silent moment that nobody but Buffy and us are privy to. Neither Faith nor the rest of the world will ever know it happened, but I know I for one will never forget.

#btvs #buffy summers #faith lehane #graduation day #fuffy #s3 #meta

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patriotsnet · 4 years ago

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Did Republicans Riot After Obama Was Elected

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/did-republicans-riot-after-obama-was-elected/

Did Republicans Riot After Obama Was Elected

Undocumented Kids Are Saved By Obamas Executive Order Daca Which Would Put A Halt To Deportation For Those Whod Entered The Country Before Age 16 And Yet In A Bid To Get The Gop To Come Over To His Side On Immigration Reform The President Has Also Deported A Record 15 Million People In His First Term

A Family Caught in Immigration Limbo

When Belsy Garcia saw her mother’s number appear on her iPhone on the afternoon of June 15, she felt what she calls the “uncomfortable fluttering” sensation in her chest. She knew that daytime calls signaled an emergency. The worst one had come the previous year, when her sister told her ICE agents had placed their father in federal custody.

Garcia was attending Mercer University in Macon, Georgia, when her father was marched out of her childhood home. As an undocumented immigrant — like both of her parents, who are from Guatemala — she couldn’t qualify for loans. She financed her education through scholarships and a stipend she earned as a residential assistant. Now she wondered if her mother was calling to say her father had been deported, which might force her to leave school to become the family’s breadwinner.

But this call was different. “Go turn on the television,” Garcia’s mother said. “You’re going to be able to work, get a driver’s license.”

Onscreen, President Obama was announcing the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. Undocumented immigrants who had arrived in the United States as children could apply for Social Security numbers and work permits. Garcia qualified: Her parents had brought her to this country when she was 7 years old. DACA transformed her into a premed student who could actually become a doctor. “It was like this weight was lifted,” she says. “All of that hard work was going to pay off.”

In The Next Hundred Days Our Bipartisan Outreach Will Be So Successful That Even John Boehner Will Consider Becoming A Democrat After All We Have A Lot In Common He Is A Person Of Color Although Not A Color That Appears In The Natural World Whats Up John Barack Obama White House Correspondents Dinner

And Then There Were Three

The first woman to argue a case before the Supreme Court did so in 1880. It would take another 101 years for a woman to sit on that bench rather than stand before it. Even then, progress was fitful. Over the 12 years that Sandra Day O’Connor and Ruth Bader Ginsburg served together, their identities evidently merged; lawyers regularly addressed Ginsburg as “Justice O’Connor.” When O’Connor retired in 2006, she left the faux Justice O’Connor feeling lonely. Ruth Bader Ginsburg warned of something far more alarming: What the public saw on entering the court were “eight men of a certain size, and then this little woman sitting to the side.” They might well represent the most eminent legal minds in America. But there was something antiquated, practically mutton-choppy, about that portrait.

How many female justices would be sufficient? Nine, says Justice Ginsburg, noting that no one ever raised an eyebrow at the idea of nine men.

Seal Team Six Kills Osama Bin Ladenraiding His Secret Compound In Abbottabad Pakistan While Obama And His Top Advisers Watch A Live Feed Of The Mission From The White House Situation Room The Picture Of The Assembled Becomes The Last Supper Of The Obama Era

Poop Feminism

For me, it’s one moment. All the bridesmaids have come to the fancy bridal shop to see Maya Rudolph try on wedding dresses. This should be a familiar scene: The bride emerges from the changing room and … This is the dress! The friends clap. The mother cries. Everyone is a princess. Go ahead and twirl!

But when the bride emerges in Bridesmaids, almost all of her friends have started to feel sick. Sweat coats their skin. Red splotches creep over their faces. They try to “ooh” and “aah,” but it’s already too late. It starts with a gag from Melissa McCarthy, followed by another gag. Then a gag that comes simultaneously with a tiny wet fart. It’s the smallness of the fart that’s important here. It’s the kind of fart that slips out — a fart that could be excused away, a brief, incongruous accident. Women don’t fart in wedding movies, and women certainly don’t fart at the exact moment that the bride comes out in her dress. This can’t be happening. Melissa McCarthy blames the fart on the tightness of her dress. We breathe a sigh of relief.

Then sweet Ellie Kemper gags, and the sound effect is surprisingly nasty. Ellie’s face is gray. Melissa’s face is red. They look bad. They are embarrassed. How far is this going to go?

The camera cuts. We are above now. We look down from a safe perch as the release we have been anticipating and dreading begins. It is horribly, earth-shatteringly gross. A woman has just pooped in a sink. The revolution has begun.

The Government Acquires A 61 Percent Stake In Gm And Loans The Company $50 Billion The Auto Bailout Will Eventually Be Heralded As A Great Success Adding More Than 250000 Manufacturing Jobs To The Economy

The Auto Industry Gets Rerouted

“The president was very clear with us that he only wanted to do stuff that would fundamentally change the way they did business. And that’s what we did. There were enormous changes. For example, General Motors had something like 300 different job classifications that the union had. If you were assigned to put the windshield wipers on, you couldn’t put tires on. And we wiped all that stuff out. We basically gave back management the freedom to manage, to hire, to fire. People stopped getting paid even when they were on layoff. We reduced the number of car plants so that there wasn’t so much overcapacity. So now, when you have 16 million cars sold , they’re making a fortune.”

Black Lives Matter Activists Are Arrested In Baton Rouge Louisianaprotesting The Murder Of Alton Sterling; More Than 100 People Are Detained In St Paul Minnesota Protesting The Murder Of Philando Castile

What Is the Point of a Quantified Self?

Melissa Dahl: The Fitbit was introduced at a tech conference eight years ago. It’s kind of incredible to realize that, before then, this idea of the “quantified self” didn’t really exist in the mainstream.

Jesse Singal: I feel like it’s the intersection of all these different trends: Everyone plays video games these days. You got smartphones everywhere. And people are realizing that solutions to the big problems that lead to sleeplessness and anxiety and bad eating — unemployment and income inequality and yada yada yada — aren’t gonna get solved anytime soon.

MD: That’s interesting, because all of this self-tracking is also, according to some physicians, giving people more anxiety! A Fitbit-induced stress vortex.

Cari Romm: It feels like productive stress, though. I’m talking as a recovered Fitbit obsessive, but it does make you look at Fitbit-less people like, “You mean you don’t care how many steps you took today?”

MD: Oh, God. I don’t care. Should I care? Sleep is the one thing I obsessed over for a while. Which does not really help one get to sleep.

JS: Do you think an actually good and not obsession-inducing sleep app could help, though?

MD: There’s some aspect to the tracking idea that really does work. I mean, it’s just a higher-tech version of a food journal or sleep journal, right? Ben Franklin 300 years ago was tracking his 13 “personal virtues” in his diary.

JS: Would Ben Franklin have been an insufferable tech-bro?

Officer Darren Wilson Fatally Shoots Michael Brownin The St Louis Suburb Of Ferguson Sparking A National Protest Movement And Setting Off Unrest That Will Remain Unresolved Two Years Later

On the Triumph of Black Culture in the Age of Police Shootings

In the two years since Mike Brown was fatally shot by the police in Ferguson, and the video footage of his dead body in the street went viral, we have seen the emergence of a perverse dichotomy on our screens and in our public discourse: irrefutable evidence of grotesquely persistent racism, and irrefutable evidence of increasing black cultural and political power. This paradox is not entirely new, of course — America was built on a narrative of white supremacy, and black Americans have simultaneously continued to make vast and essential contributions to the country’s prominence—but it has become especially pronounced. And it’s not just because of the internet and social media, or the leftward shift of the culture, or black America’s being sick and tired of being sick and tired. In fact, it is all of these things, not least two terms with a black president. In the same way that black skin signals danger to the police , his black skin, to black people, signaled black cultural preservation. African-Americans didn’t see a black man as the most powerful leader in the free world; we saw the most powerful leader in the free world as black. This is what comedian Larry Wilmore was expressing at the 2016 White House Correspondents’ Dinner when he said, “Yo, Barry, you did it, my nigga.” It was a moment of unadulterated black pride.

Militants Attack American Compounds In Benghazi Libya Killing Us Ambassador Chris Stevens And Three Other Americans There Will Eventually Be Eight Congressional Probes Into The Incident

“I Know I Let Everybody Down”

“Before the debate, David Plouffe and I went in to talk to him and give him a pep talk and he said, ‘Let’s just get this over with and get out of here,’ which is not what you want to hear from your candidate right before the debate. We knew within ten minutes that it was going to be a debacle. We had armed him with a joke — it was his 20th anniversary, and he addressed Michelle — and it turns out Romney was expecting just such a line and had a really great comeback. And Romney was excellent — just free and easy and clearly well prepared and showed personality that people hadn’t seen before. Obama looked like he was at a press conference.

We had a meeting at the White House and he said, ‘I know I let everybody down and that’s on me, and I’m not going to let that happen again,’ and that was his attitude. We always had debate camps before, where we’d re-create in hotel ballrooms what the set would look like, and all of the conditions of the real debate. When we went down to Williamsburg, Virginia, for the next debate camp, he seemed really eager to engage in the prep. We had a decent first night. That was on Saturday. On Sunday night, Kerry, playing Romney, got a little more aggressive and Obama a little less so; it looked very much like what we had seen in Denver. It was like he’d taken a step back.

Scott Brown Is Elected Massachusetts Senatorturning Ted Kennedys Seat Republican For The First Time Since 1952 And Suddenly Throwing The Prospect Of Passing Obamacare Into Jeopardy

Plan B

“I’m talking to Rahm and Jim Messina and saying, ‘Okay, explain to me how this happened.’ It was at that point that I learned that our candidate, Martha Coakley, had asked rhetorically, ‘What should I do, stand in front of Fenway and shake hands with voters?’ And we figured that wasn’t a good bellwether of how things might go.

This might have been a day or two before the election, but the point is: There is no doubt that we did not stay on top of that the way we needed to. This underscored a failing in my first year, which was the sort of perverse faith in good policy leading to good politics. I’ll cut myself some slack — we had a lot to do, and every day we were thinking, Are the banks going to collapse? Is the auto industry going to collapse? Will layoffs accelerate? We just didn’t pay a lot of attention to politics that first year, and the loss in Massachusetts reminded me of what any good president or elected official needs to understand: You’ve got to pay attention to public opinion, and you have to be able to communicate your ideas. But it happened, and the question then was, ‘What’s next?’

Sheryl Sandbergs Lean In Hits Bookstores Making The Feminist Case That Women Should Be More Aggressive And Ambitious In Their Careers And Making Feminists Themselves Very Angry

The “Mommy Wars” Finally Flame Out

After decades of chilly backlash, we find ourselves, these past eight years, in an age of feminist resurgence, with feminist websites and publications and filmmakers and T-shirts and pop singers and male celebrities and best-selling authors and women’s soccer teams. Of course, as in every feminist golden age, there has also been dissent: furious clashes over the direction and quality of the discourse, especially as the movement has become increasingly trendy, shiny, and celebrity-backed.

Perhaps the most public feminist conflagration of the Obama years came at the nexus of policy and celebrity, of politics and pop power. It was the furor over Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg, who gave a viral 2010 TED Talk about women in the workplace who “leave before they leave” — who alter their professional strategy to accommodate a future they assume will be compromised by parenthood — which led to the publication of her 2013 feminist business manifesto, Lean In.

It’s a lesson of the Obama era: One approach to redressing inequality does not have to blot out the others. Sometimes, attacking from all angles is the most effective strategy.

Texas State Senator Wendy Davis Laces Up Her Pink Running Shoes And Spends Ten Long Hours Attempting To Filibuster A Billthat Wouldve Imposed Statewide Abortion Restrictions

“The Concept of Dignity Really Matters”

“I was given an enormous degree of latitude. I did communicate with the White House counsel on occasion about high-profile cases, but it was much more in the nature of just giving them a heads-up, to calm any nervous feelings they might have. There’s only one exception to that, and it was on marriage equality, in the Hollingsworth v. Perry case in 2013. We were contemplating coming in and arguing that it was unconstitutional for California to refuse to recognize the legal validity of same-sex marriages. But we didn’t have to do it . And because it was a discretionary judgment, and it was such a consequential step, that was the one matter where I really sought out the president’s personal guidance. I wanted to make sure the president had a chance to thoroughly consider what we should do before we did it. It was really one of the high points of my tenure. It was a wide-ranging conversation about doctrinal analysis, about where society was now, about social change and whether it should go through the courts or through the majoritarian process, about the pace of social change, about the significance of the right at stake. He was incredibly impressive.

A Golf Summit Between John Boehner And Barack Obama Stirs Hopethat Perhaps The Two Parties Will Come To A Budget Agreement And Forestall A True Crisis Secret And Semi

A Grand Bargain That Wasn’t, Remembered Three Ways

“The president of the United States and the Speaker of the House, the two most powerful elected officials in Washington, decided in a conversation that they both had to try to make something happen. Maybe it would be the way it worked in a West Wing episode in a world that doesn’t work like a West Wing episode. That’s how it started — two individuals saying we’re going to try. I think they both shared a belief in the art of the possible, and they both did not think compromise was a dirty word.

When our cover was blown — a Wall Street Journal editorial came out saying that Boehner and Obama were working on this and attacking the whole premise — that was devastating. It resulted in Cantor being a part of the talks. Cantor and Boehner came in, and I think it was a weekend private session with the president in the Oval Office, and they were talking about the numbers. At one point Cantor said, ‘Listen, it’s not just the numbers. There’s concern that this will help you politically. Paul Ryan said if we do this deal, it will guarantee your reelection. If we agree with Barack Obama on spending and taxes, that takes away one of our big weapons.’ There were so many obstacles, some of them substantive — how much revenue, and what about the entitlements? — but there was also this overlay of ‘This is going to help Obama.’

Illustrations by Lauren Tamaki

The Obama Administration Unveils Its Plan For Regulating Wall Streetwhich Is Then Introduced In Congress By Senator Chris Dodd And Representative Barney Frank

MJ=JC?

Lane Brown: Michael Jackson’s death was a big deal for lots of obvious reasons, including the surprising way it happened and the fact that he was arguably the most famous person on the planet.

Nate Jones: He was an A-lister with an indisputable body of work; he was 50 years old, his hits were the right age — old enough that every generation knew them, but not too old that they weren’t relevant anymore.

LB: But it was also the first huge celebrity death to happen in the age of social media, or at least the age of Twitter.

NJ: MJ’s death came alongside the protests in Iran, which was when Twitter went mainstream.

LB: It also meant that so much of the instant reaction was to make it all about us.

Frank Guan: In a lot of ways, the culture prefers the death of artists to their continuing to live. Once an artist gets launched into the stratosphere, there’s no way to come down, and that permanence becomes monotonous. They run out of timely or groundbreaking material and the audience starts tuning out. At some point, their fame eclipses their art, and then the only way to get the general audience to appreciate them anew is for them to die.

LB: People seem to like the grieving process so much that even lesser celebrities get the same treatment.

Congresswoman Gabby Giffords Returns To The House Floor For The First Time Since Being Shot In A Massacre In January Casting A Vote In Favor Of The Debt

A Rare Moment of Unity

“I was doing intensive rehabilitation in Houston at the time but was following the debate closely, and I was pretty disappointed at what was happening in Washington. I’d seen the debate grow so bitter and divisive and so full of partisan rancor. And I was worried our country was hurtling toward a disastrous, self-inflicted economic crisis. That morning, when it became clear the vote was going to be close, my husband, Mark, and I knew we needed to get to Washington quickly. I went straight from my rehabilitation appointment to the airport, and Mark was at our house in Houston packing our bags so he could meet us at the plane.

That night, I remember seeing the Capitol for the first time since I was injured and feeling so grateful to be at work. I will never forget the reception I received on the floor of the House from my colleagues, both Republicans and Democrats. And then, like I had so many times before, I voted.

I worked so hard to get my speech back, and honestly, talking to people who share my determination helped me find my words again. I’ve been to Alaska, Maine, and everywhere in between. Best of all, I got back on my bike. Riding my bike once seemed like such a huge challenge. It seemed impossible.”

Miley Cyrus Twerks At The Mtv Vmassetting Off A Controversy About Cultural Appropriation That Soon Ensnares Seemingly Every White Pop Star On The Planet

• Karlie Kloss wears a Native American headdress and fringed bra at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.

• Justin Timberlake is accused of appropriating black music when he tells a black critic “We are the same” after praising Jesse Williams’s BET Humanitarian Award speech about race and police brutality.

• DJ Khaled gets lost on Jet Ski, snaps the whole time.

• Two UW-Madison students snap their meet-cute as the entire student body cheers them on.

• Playboy Playmate Dani Mathers films and mocks an anonymous woman in the gym shower.

• A Massachusetts teen records the sexual assault of a 16-year-old girl. The video is later seen by a friend of the victim.

Prior To Going To War In Iraq Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld Optimistically Predicted The Iraq War Might Last Six Days Six Weeks I Doubt Six Months

What’s more, Vice-President Dick Cheney said we would be greeted as liberators by the Iraqi people after we overthrow Saddam.

They were both horribly wrong. Instead of six weeks or six months, the Iraq war lasted eight long and bloody years costing thousands of American lives. It led to an Iraqi civil war between the Sunnis and the Shiites that took hundreds of thousands of Iraqi lives. Many Iraqi militia groups were formed to fight against the U.S. forces that occupied Iraq. What’s more, Al Qaeda, which did not exist in Iraq before the war, used the turmoil in Iraq to establish a new foothold in that country.

The Iraq war was arguably the most tragic foreign policy blunder in US history.

In 2012 Republicans Predicted That Failure To Approve The Keystone Pipeline Would Send The Price Of Gasoline Sky High And Kill Large Numbers Of Jobs

Despite the fact that the Keystone Pipeline was not approved, the price of gasoline continued to drop below $1.80 per gallon, millions of new jobs were created and unemployment dropped from 8% to 4.9% by early 2016. The most optimistic predictions say that the Keystone Pipeline would only create a few dozen long-term jobs and would do nothing to lower the price of gasoline.

Eric Cantors Stunning Primary Loss Suggests No Politician Is Safe From The Rage Of The Tea Party Not Even The Tea Partys Canniest Political Leader

From Party’s Future to Also-Ran in a Single Day

On the day his political career died, Eric Cantor was busy tending to what he still believed was its bright future. While his GOP-primary opponent, David Brat, visited polling places in and around Richmond, Virginia, Cantor spent his morning 90 miles away at a Capitol Hill Starbucks. He was there to host a fund-raiser for three of his congressional colleagues — something he did every month, just another part of the long game he was playing, which, he believed, would eventually culminate in his becoming Speaker of the House.

The preceding five years had brought Cantor tantalizingly closer to that goal. In the immediate aftermath of Obama’s election, he’d rallied waffling House Republicans to stand in lockstep opposition to the new president’s agenda. In 2010, he’d helped elect 87 new Republican members, giving the GOP a House majority and making Cantor the House majority leader. He became the champion of these freshmen members, stoking their radicalism during the debt-ceiling fight and working to undermine Obama and John Boehner’s attempt to strike a “grand bargain.” His alliance with the ascendant tea party was strategic — it gave him leverage not only over Obama but over other Republicans who might also have had aspirations of becoming Speaker. It never occurred to him that the wave he was trying to ride might crash on him instead.

In 1993 When Bill Clinton Raised Taxes On The Wealthiest 15% Republicans Predicted A Recession Increased Unemployment And A Growing Budget Deficit

They weren’t just wrong: The exact opposite of everything they predicted happened. The country experienced the seven best years of economic growth in history.

Twenty-two million new jobs were added.

Unemployment dropped below 4%.

The poverty rate dropped for seven straight years.

The budget deficit was eliminated.

There was a growing budget surplus that economists projected could pay off our national debt in 20 years.

Republicans Predicted That We Would Find Iraqs Weapons Of Mass Destruction Even Though Un Weapons Inspectors Said That Those Weapons Didn’t Exist

The Bush administration continued to insist that WMDs would be found, even when the CIA said some of the evidence was questionable. As we all know, the WMDs predicted by the Bush administration did not exist, and Saddam Hussein had not resumed his nuclear weapons program as they claimed. Ultimately, both President Bush and Vice President Cheney had to admit that there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

Republicans Predicted That President Obamas Tax Increase For The Top 1% In 2013 Would Kill Jobs Increase The Deficit And Cause Another Recession

You guessed it; just the opposite happened. In the four years following January 1, 2013, when that tax increase went into effect, through January 2017, unemployment dropped from 7.9% to 4.8%, an average of more than 200,000 new jobs were created per month, Wall Street set new record highs, and the budget deficit was cut in half.

Over 5.7 million new jobs were created in the first two years after that tax increase. That’s more jobs created in two years than were created during the combined 12 years of both Bush presidencies.

In 2001 When George W Bush Cut Taxes For The Wealthy Republicans Predicted Record Job Growth Increased Budget Surplus And Nationwide Prosperity

Once again, the exact opposite occurred. After the Bush tax cuts were enacted:

The budget surplus immediately disappeared.

The budget deficit eventually grew to $1.4 trillion by the time Bush left office.

Less than 3 million net jobs were added during Bush’s eight years.

The poverty rate began climbing again.

We experienced two recessions along with the greatest collapse of our financial system since the Great Depression.

In 1993, President Clinton signed the Brady Law mandating nationwide background checks and a waiting period to buy a gun.

Apple Announces That It Has Sold 100 Million Iphoneswithin A Few Months It Will Overtake Exxonmobil As The Most Valuable Company In The World

Earthlings Gain a New Appendage

What if we had the singularity and nobody noticed? In 2007, Barack Obama had been on the trail for weeks, using a BlackBerry like all the cool campaigners, when the new thing went on sale and throngs lined up for it. The new thing had a silly name: iPhone. The iPhone was a phone the way the Trojan horse was a horse.

Now it’s the gizmo without which a person feels incomplete. It’s a light in the darkness, a camera, geolocator, hidden mic, complete Shakespeare, stopwatch, sleep aid, heart monitor, podcaster, aircraft spotter, traffic tracker, all-around reality augmenter, and increasingly a pal. At the Rio Olympics you could see people, having flown thousands of miles to be in the arena with the athletes, watching the action through their smartphones. As though they needed the mediating lens to make it real.

This device, this gadget — a billion have been made and we scarcely know what to call it. For his 2010 novel of the near future, , Gary Shteyngart made up a word, “äppärät.” “My äppärät buzzing with contacts, data, pictures, projections, maps, incomes, sound, fury.” Future then, present now. His äppäräti were worn around the neck on pendants. Ours are in our pockets when they aren’t in our hands, but they also sprout earbuds, morph into wristwatches and eyeglasses. Contact lenses have been rumored; implants are only a matter of time.

Let’s face it, we’ve grown a new organ.

Republicans Said Waterboarding And Other Forms Of Enhanced Interrogation Are Not Torture And Are Necessary In Fighting Islamic Extremism

In reality, waterboarding and other forms of enhanced interrogation that inflict pain, suffering, or fear of death are outlawed by US law, the US Constitution, and international treaties. Japanese soldiers after World War II were prosecuted by the United States for war crimes because of their use of waterboarding on American POWs.

Professional interrogators have known for decades that torture is the most ineffective and unreliable method of getting accurate information. People being tortured say anything to get the torture to end but will not likely tell the truth.

An FBI interrogator named Ali Soufan was able to get al Qaeda terrorist Abu Zubaydah to reveal crucial information without the use of torture. When CIA interrogators started using waterboarding and other enhanced interrogation methods, Zubaydah stopped cooperating and gave his interrogators false information.

Far from being necessary in the fight against terrorism, torture is completely unreliable and counter-productive in obtaining useful information.

In 2008 Republicans Said That If We Elect A Democratic President We Would Be Hit By Al Qaeda Again Perhaps Worse Than The Attack On 9/11

Former Vice-President Dick Cheney stated that electing a Democrat as president would all but guarantee that there would be another major attack on America by Al Qaeda. Cheney and other Republicans were, thankfully, completely wrong. During Obama’s presidency, we had zero deaths on U.S. soil from Al Qaeda attacks and we succeeded in killing Bin Laden along with dozens of other high ranking Al Qaeda leaders.

Game Of Thrones Arrives On Televisionwith An Assemblage Of Dragons Torture Nudity Incest And Despair A Show The Whole Family Can Enjoy

Explaining Kale

ADAM PLATT: Many things in Foodlandia, these days, have a political element to them, and if you want to emblazon a flag to be carried into battle, you could do worse than a bristly, semi-digestible bunch of locally grown kale.

ALAN SYTSMA: To eat kale is to announce you’re a person who cares about the matters of the day.

AP: The idea of kale is much more powerful than kale itself. In short order it went from being discovered, to appreciated, to being something that was parodied. Frankly, I’m all for the parody.

AS: The same thing happened to pork. Remember bacon peanut brittle? Bacon-fat cocktails? There’s bacon dental floss.

AP: Ahhh, bacon versus kale. The two great, competing forces of our time.

AS: Do you think one gave way to the other?

AP: What we’re really talking about is artisanal bacon, and the more sophisticated-sounding pork belly, made from pigs that were lovingly reared at upstate farms and fed diets of pristine little acorns. Bacon is the great symbol in the comfort-food, farm-fresh-dining movement, a kind of merry, unbridled pulchritude. Kale is the righteous yin to pork’s fatty, non-vegan yang.

AS: But pork has an advantage: People like the way it tastes.

AP: That’s a huge advantage, one that will hopefully see it through to victory.

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johaerys-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 7: Painted Constellations of High-Flying Birds is up! The boys’ first time on Mount Pelion, from Achilles’ POV :)

Read here or on AO3!

*******

The first light of dawn filtered through his eyelashes, waking him.

Achilles opened his eyes slowly, merely a slit at first, then wider as he took in his surroundings. It was still early, and the world was just starting to rouse from its slumber. The jagged edges of the rose quartz crystals glittered in the light, shimmering rays of rosy sunshine that fell on the smooth cave floor and polished walls. In the distance, the song of a morning lark drifted with the morning breeze.

Beside him, Patroclus breathed, slow and steady.

He shifted to his side, shoulder digging in the soft mattress of the pallet. The pallet they shared. Odd, that they used to sleep apart before. His room back in the palace, with its two separate beds, its gilded nightstand, the rich rugs and tapestries on the walls seemed like a distant dream to him. He hadn’t missed it. The everyday luxuries that he’d once taken for granted felt superfluous to him now, the duties of a prince boring and stifling. He would gladly see his father again, but even so, he didn’t long to return. Patroclus would be the only one he would miss, he realised, had he not come after him.

Patroclus was with him now, though, close enough to touch. His chest was rising and falling with his gentle breaths, his eyelids fluttering in his sleep. Lips moving soundlessly, in some distant dream conversation. Patroclus never lay very still, or very silent, when he slept. Sometimes, Achilles would wake up in the middle of the night to find him smiling, or humming, or sighing under his breath. He often stayed awake then for a little while, simply watching, simply listening, letting his even breathing lull him back to sleep.

Odd, that he’d ever thought of leaving him behind.

Suddenly, the world outside the cave came to a standstilll. The birds went silent. The wind calmed, the leaves on the trees stopped rustling. Achilles knew well what that meant. He carefully pushed the blanket off him and rolled upright, padding towards the mouth of the cave. The skins fell shut behind him with a whisper, and he blinked once to help his eyes adjust to the light.

“My son,” his mother said, holding her hand out to him.

He took it and followed her to the small clearing they usually went to talk. The babbling brook beside them gurgled merrily as it ran over the polished river stones. Achilles sat on a flat rock, drawing shapes on the soft sand with a long piece of driftwood. Achilles enjoyed spending time with his mother, and he looked forward to his moments with her, yet that day his mind kept drifting away. He listened absently, with half an ear, as his mother talked about this and that, about the gods and their plans, about Phthia and the castle, about his destiny. His fate.

Such a strange thing it was, to have one’s future laid out before them. Most people didn’t know what was to come, not until it was too late. He wondered what Patroclus would do, were he to receive a prophecy like that. Patroclus had never blindly submitted to his fate, not once, as long as he’d known him. Always pushing at its edges, testing its limits, even when he barely realised it himself.

Tough yet soft. Gentle yet defiant. All his subtle incongruities. The strength, the fragility of him. Achilles smiled, despite himself.

“You are distracted today,” he heard his mother say. “What is the matter?”

With a sharp breath, Achilles turned to her, meeting her piercing gaze levelly. “Mother,” he said. “I’d like to ask you something.”

She can’t see us here.

The thought latched itself onto his heart, making it hop in his chest. He didn’t waste a moment before returning to the cave after his mother was gone. He felt giddy, restless, a touch light-headed. She couldn’t see them there. How had he not thought to ask her before? He had to tell Patroclus. He would want to know. Wouldn’t he?

A wild thought crossed his mind. He could kiss him now. He could kiss Patroclus, and his mother would never know. His pulse thumped excitedly in his throat. He imagined kissing Patroclus, the flush that would creep up his cheeks, the surprise in his eyes, the wonder. He imagined him smiling at him, a little breathless, then leaning in to catch Achilles’ lips in a kiss of his own. It would be heavenly, wonderful, sublime; everything he’d ever wanted.

It felt too much to ask.

The entrance of the cave was just in view. It was still early, and Patroclus would be asleep. If he went in now, he would find him curled on his side, clutching Achilles’s pillow, seeking the warmth he’d left behind. Achilles would tickle his ear, or touch his nose to wake him, and Patroclus would open his eyes and gaze at him in silent confusion for a breath before his lips would widen in a smile. Lips he’d kissed, once, years ago.

He wondered whether Patroclus still remembered that.

Achilles ducked as he passed under the hanging branches of a jasmine tree. It was in full bloom, the fragrant white blossoms heavy with morning dew. Patroclus liked the scent of jasmine. Back in Phthia, he would always place them in his clothes chest, tuck them in between the folds of the fabric to retain the scent. Jasmine and gardenias and myrtle blossoms, sometimes a sprig of rosemary too. Something he’d seen his tithene do, he’d told Achilles, the woman that had helped raise him in Opus. He always smelt like spring, even in the depths of winter.

Twirling a sprig full of jasmine flowers between his fingers, Achilles entered the cave and carefully sat at the edge of the pallet, beside Patroclus. He liked watching him when he slept, when there was no danger of being caught. He let his gaze glide over his deep set eyes, the delicate slope of his nose, the bow upper lip, the full bottom lip. The subtle curl at the edges of his mouth that always made him look thoughtful, as did the tiny, tiny wrinkle between his arched brows. Achilles held the jasmine flowers underneath Patroclus’ nose, biting his lip in anticipation. In a moment, his nostrils would flare and widen. Then, his brows would gather. And then his eyes would open, and-

Thick and dark eyelashes fluttered, revealing gentle, honey brown eyes.

“Good morning,” Achilles whispered.

Patroclus’ lips widened a soft, slow spreading smile. “Good morning,” he replied in his hoarse, sleep-laced voice, pushing himself up on his elbows. “What’s this?”

“It’s for you.” He held it upright with the tips of his fingers. “Aren’t you going to take it?”

Patroclus huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes shining in delight as he plucked the blossoms. “Thank you.”

“The jasmine trees are blooming. I thought of you.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” Achilles shifted on the pallet, laced his fingers together on his lap. His pulse had quickened, and it felt like he had just run a mile although he was sitting perfectly still. He cleared his throat. “I saw my mother today.”

Patroclus sat beside him, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. “I know. You were up early.”

“She told me something.”

“What was it?” He uttered the question quickly, in a single breath, worry creasing his brow.

She can’t see us here.

The words lay at the tip of Achilles’ tongue, yet he couldn’t breathe them into being. His heart beat faster and faster, until it was a steady, rapid thrum in his chest. And Patroclus kept watching him. Always watching him, waiting, patient. Gentle. So gentle.

Achilles reached out, his fingers closing about Patroclus’ forearm. Velvet smooth skin, reed slender bones, a quiet pulse beating underneath his fingertips. He dabbed his lips with his tongue, taking a deep breath. “She told me-”

The soft clop of Chiron’s hooves outside the cave made him stop abruptly. Patroclus’ gaze left Achilles’ to drift to the source of the sound, and the world suddenly seemed dimmer, cruder, jagged edges that dug into his skin. The centaur called their names in his deep, steady voice. His voice was always a comfort, yet now Achilles could barely stifle the irritation that sparked inside him. He shot up from the pallet and walked outside, the pelts snapping behind him.

“Chiron,” he said, somewhat more sharply than he’d intended. Patroclus wasn’t far behind.

“These herbs need to be pounded into a paste before they wilt,” the centaur told them, handing them each a basket full of rosemary and chamomile, dandelion and nettle. He walked towards the cave, and they both followed him, albeit reluctantly. Patroclus shot him a glance over his shoulder, curious and examining.

The notes from his lyre coiled around him, sweet like birdsong, vibrating in the enclosed space. Achilles found no comfort in the music, in the simple act of playing, like he usually did. His mind was elsewhere.

Achilles glanced away. What he had to say, it would have to wait.

What he had to say, it couldn’t wait any longer.

The moment he saw the centaur’s eyelids drooping, his breaths deepening, Achilles stood up, setting his lyre to the side. “Patroclus and I should leave you to your rest, Chiron.” He avoided Patroclus’ inquisitive glance as he turned towards the cave. What he had to say, he had to say to him alone, yet when Patroclus looked at him like this, he doubted his own ability to control himself.

Achilles hurriedly washed his face and neck over the small wash basin. He took his clothes off and slithered under covers, eyes set on the ceiling above him. His fingers were tapping a steady rhythm on his stomach when Patroclus entered the cave, footsteps careful and precise, a doe making its way through lush forest land. Achilles listened absently to the water droplets falling in the basin as Patroclus washed himself as well, watched the muscles of his back moving under his skin. Soft skin, smooth like rose petals. Begging to be touched.

“My mother-” he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “My mother can’t see us here.”

“Hm?”

His gaze snapped to the ceiling when Patroclus turned around. Achilles wetted his lips.

“I asked her if she can see us here.” He took a breath. “She says, she cannot.”

“Oh.” Patroclus stood very still. It felt like a lifetime later that he set the washcloth down and approached the pallet with measured steps. Achilles studied the painted constellations on the cave wall with keen interest as Patroclus undressed himself, listened as he folded his tunic and laid it to the side. He slithered under the covers beside him, and Achilles’ skin prickled when the cool air touched it. Soon, the warmth from Patroclus’ body reached his own, like a gentle embrace.

Neither of them moved. Achilles counted his heartbeats in the silence, the flow or Patroclus' breaths. Everything was perfectly still, save for Achilles' blood that coursed swiftly beneath his skin, hot to boiling.

He shifted to his side, and Patroclus turned to look at him. Soft brown eyes, wide in something that looked like fear, like anticipation, met his in the warm candlelight.

Achilles leaned forward.

It was a small, almost imperceptible movement. Achilles closed the distance between them in a single breath, his lips meeting Patroclus' without error. Achilles shivered when his mouth opened under his own on a silent gasp then closed again, sweetly, like a nightflower at the break of dawn. He moved closer, pressing against him. Impatience and wonder coursed in his blood, hot like blazing embers. Patroclus’ hand trembled as it smoothed down the length of Achilles' arm, his sides, gathering him closer still, until it felt like their hearts were beating against each other’s like one.

The covers had tangled around their legs, and Achilles tossed them aside. He suddenly couldn't bear the feel of fabric on him. He wanted nothing else but Patroclus’ skin on his skin, his hands on him, his breath mingling with his. Countless times had Achilles seen him bare, many more his gaze had traced the lines of his body, the stretch of his skin over his muscles, the line of soft dark fur that trailed down his stomach, his navel. His hands followed those same pathways, pathways that he knew by sight as well as his own; now he was learning them anew by touch, by smell. Patroclus’ need was as palpable as his own, and the thought alone warmed Achilles to his core.

He reached down between them and took him in his hand, his palm curling around the hardened length. Patroclus sighed, arching into his touch. A blush crept up his chest, his neck, pink and honey gold like a sunset. Long fingers tangled in Achilles’ hair, tugging gently; Achilles lapped his own name from Patroclus’ tongue when he whispered it.

“Do not stop,” Patroclus breathed against his lips, trembling. “Don’t-”

“I will not.” Achilles kissed his cheeks, his chin, his eyes, his open mouth. He licked the rapid thrum of his pulse, traced the tendons of his delicate throat with his teeth, flicked his tongue over a dark nipple that pebbled in the cool air. “I’ll never stop,” he murmured into the dip of his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his blood under his warmed up skin.

I won’t stop, he thought, ever again, nor shall I ever let anything stop me from being with you.

They moved in tandem, waves crashing against the shore, then retreating, only to pour forth and meet once more. His hand moved firmly as he watched, entranced, the pleasure in Patroclus’ features, the way it swelled. It brightened his cheeks, made his breath tremble. The moon and stars reflecting in his eyes. It rose and soared, ever higher, until it blossomed in Achilles’ hand. A muffled cry broke free from Patroclus’ lips, only to crash against his own.

No sooner had Achilles released him, their lips bruised and raw from their kisses, than Patroclus’ fingers danced swiftly down his chest, his belly, before closing carefully around him. Achilles lay very still; his pulse was thumping in his ears as those fingers tightened, holding him fast. It was strange, having Patroclus kiss him like this, touch him- hands that had held his own, arms that had wrapped around him when they’d played and fought and wrestled. He could feel his body coming alive under his touch, warmth surging through him in waves. His eyes burnt and he closed them, his hips moving on their own to meet that pressure, that heat. Patroclus lips were on his ear, the side of his neck, the curve of his shoulder.

“Patroclus,” Achilles panted as he pulled his mouth up to his once more, drawing breath from his lungs, “Patroclus-”

His pleasure rose until his body felt like a dam, struggling to keep back a rushing river. Light, white hot and blinding burned behind his eyelids as he shuddered, melting in Patroclus’ arms like wax over a candle flame.

Time stretched languidly around them, fuzzy and indistinct, as they both caught their breaths. They slowly peeled away from each other, and it was only then that Achilles felt the chillness of the night air. His skin was sticky with sweat, his hair clinging to the nape of his neck. He lay on his back and swallowed thickly as a shiver coursed through him. He was suddenly afraid to meet Patroclus’ gaze, to break the silence that had settled between them. In a moment of bravery, he turned to look at him, and found him watching.

“I did not think-” he started, then paused. Patroclus’ eyes were wide, the trembling light of their lamp catching in their corners. “I did not think we would ever-” A long moment passed that Achilles scrambled for words, words true enough to encompass what he felt.

I did not think you’d ever want me, he thought silently, like this, like I want you. That we would ever be here, like this, like I wanted us to be.

“Neither did I,” Patroclus whispered, as if he had heard his thoughts.

“Are you sorry?” The question was out of him before he could stop it.

Patroclus’ answer was quick, immediate and sure, like an arrow. “I am not.”

“I am not either.” Achilles released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as he reached out to him in the half dark, threading their fingers together. He leaned close enough to bury his nose in his hair, to take a deep breath of his smell. Musk and clean sweat, the scent of early jasmine blossoms mingling with that of warm, wet earth.

“Patroclus,” he whispered into his skin, the sounds rolling gently off his tongue. Patroclus hummed and relaxed in his hold, curling against him like a dove in the cup of his palm.

We’ll never be parted, Achilles promised himself, drawing him close as he drifted into a light and blissful sleep. I’ll never let anything keep me from you, never, so long as I draw breath.

#the song of achilles #patrochilles #tsoa #achilles/patroclus #achilles #patroclus #high-flying birds #johaerys writes #tsoa fanfic

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semperintrepida · 5 years ago

Text

The Sellout

one: the meet cruel

Kyra had just started pulling a double shot when trouble swaggered through the door in the shape of a woman: tall, dark-haired trouble, broad-shouldered trouble, trouble wearing a business suit so perfectly tailored that Kyra could smell the money on her all the way from the other end of the bar.

The woman ambled up to the counter without so much as a glance at the menu board, instead letting her gaze sweep over the shop, from the regulars camped at the couches by the windows, to the empty tables in the center of the space, until her eyes finally came to rest upon Kyra herself.

Kyra put on a smile that was at least eighty percent fake and said, "I'll be right with you."

That made the woman nod, a measured movement not at all like the distracted nods most customers gave when told they'd have to wait, and something about it made prickles race across the back of Kyra's neck.

The shot was finished brewing, and Kyra cut the pull and returned her attention to the pitcher of steamed milk resting on the counter. She picked it up and gave it a gentle swirl, then took the cup with the shot from the drip tray and started pouring the milk into it. When the cup was nearly full, she began layering the foam so the ripples of white formed the body and upswept wings of a swan, finishing with a flourish that left a curving neck and the suggestion of a head and beak. There. A Leda in memory of love won and lost.

Kyra brought the cup to the register end of the bar, where she placed it on the pick-up counter and said in a loud voice, "Barney. Get your damn drink." It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the shop was empty except for the usual suspects — and the woman standing on the other side of the counter, who didn't seem the type to wilt before a curse word or two. A raised eyebrow and a quirk at the corner of her lips proved Kyra right.

Barney popped up from the couch with a grin. He liked it when Kyra played grumpy, and he practically danced up to the counter to claim his prize while the woman stepped aside to make room for him.

His eyes took in Kyra's creation, swan and all, and he placed his hand over his heart and said, "Kyra, you honor me," as he always did during his three o'clock moment of happiness. Their little ritual.

The woman watched their exchange with interest. Her stance was wide-legged and relaxed as she waited for Barney to shuffle away with his drink cradled in his hands. Then Kyra turned to her, and when their eyes finally met, another prickle swept across Kyra's neck and down her spine.

Hot. The woman was hot — and not just that but gorgeous, as trouble for Kyra always was. Her hair was tied up in a braid, and the muscled lines of her neck emerged from the crisp collar of her shirt to meet a strong jawline. Full lips. High cheekbones. And light brown eyes flecked with gold, piercing as a raptor's, studying Kyra in a very deliberate display of attention.

She was the kind of gorgeous that made Kyra do stupid things, and an irritated heat rose from Kyra's belly up through her chest, some of it slipping out her voice as she said, "What can I get started for you?"

"I'd love a latte as beautiful as that one," the woman said, her eyes flicking over to the couches, "but unfortunately I need mine to go."

A safe and timid choice, incongruent for someone who radiated confidence and power, but if Kyra had a dollar for every time she'd seen people make odd choices while standing under the hot, track-lit glare of her coffee shop's menu, she'd have enough money to stop worrying about making the rent. "What size?"

"Grande," the woman answered automatically, but then she seemed to catch herself and said, "No, wait. Make it a twelve ounce, please."

Kyra could have unpacked a lot from that collection of answers, but she didn't want trouble to linger in her thoughts any longer than necessary. At least the woman had said please. "That'll be three fifty."

The woman reached inside her jacket and pulled out her wallet, but it was less a wallet than a thin stack of credit cards sandwiched between two similarly-sized plates of metal, with a wad of cash clipped to it. She peeled off a bill and pushed it across the counter. Her nails were short and well-shaped. No wedding ring, but the crown of a watch, large and masculine, peeked out from the cuff of her suit jacket.

Kyra punched the order into the register and made change for the twenty, sliding the coins and bills back across the counter. "I'll have it ready shortly," she said, and she walked back up the bar, picking up a paper cup from the stacks along the way.

Kyra's beloved La Marzocco awaited, its polished stainless steel shining in the light, a marvel of coffee engineering. Three group heads, two steam wands, and enough room that she and Pete could work the morning rush without bumping elbows. The machine had cost her as much as a nice car. It also fed her and put a roof over her head. It was her baby, and working with it brought her joy with every pull.

She felt herself smiling as she twisted the portafilter from the head and knocked the spent coffee grounds into a bin. Then she measured out the beans and started the grinder, wiping the basket in the filter with the cloth that hung from her belt while the grinder whirred.

The woman was watching her, and the weight of that gaze bore down on her and made her shiver despite the warmth thrown off by the machine. She focused on the dose. On the tamp. Not too much force, not too light, the grounds smooth and even, waiting for the heat and moisture and pressure that would combine separate parts into one, delicious moment.

While the espresso shot was pulling, she poured milk into a clean pitcher, then purged the wand and dunked it inside the milk to steam, the pitcher's cold steel warming against her skin as the liquid swirled and foamed. And when it was too hot to touch, she set it on the counter so the foam could rest while she wiped down the wand and lost herself in the familiar motions of crafting a latte.

A minute later, Kyra set the cup in front of the woman, next to the pile of change that sat untouched where Kyra had left it. "Enjoy," she said.

The woman took a sip, and her eyes widened. Then she sipped again, and a slow smile spread across her lips. But instead of taking her drink and leaving, she looked at Kyra and asked, "How long has this place been here?"

"Ten years."

It was interesting, the way the woman's face told Kyra two different stories: her features were open and friendly, but her eyes held calculated intent. "And how's business these days?"

Wariness uncoiled itself from its slumber around Kyra's belly and lifted its head. "Better than it looks at the moment."

"You're a bit far from MLK."

"MLK" was Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and like every MLK in a big city in the US, the name had been bestowed on a street in what had once been an industrial wasteland fifty years ago but was now a busy thoroughfare today. When Kyra first signed the lease for this shop, there was only one brewpub in the neighborhood, and her neighbors were a vacuum wholesaler and a logging equipment distributor. Ten years later, there were seven brewpubs within walking distance and nearly as many distilleries. "This isn't a Starbucks drive-through. Distillery Row brings in a lot of folks on tasting tours. So do all the brewpubs, and there's a streetcar line just up the way. But what would a barista know about foot traffic metrics or exposure value, right? Your eyebrows are already sky-high."

The woman smiled and matched her gaze. "All right. Let's talk about exposure value. What's the premium in cost per square foot for a high visibility retail space in this neighborhood?"

Kyra lifted her chin. "Does that work on everyone?"

"What?"

"The eye contact. The smile."

The smile in question widened a fraction. "And just what do you think I'm trying to do?"

"You're bullshitting me. And I don't know why."

"I'm new in town and I'm curious about this area. And who better to ask than the person who delivers the daily caffeine fix to everyone in the neighborhood. I didn't expect to get my head bitten off." Oh, she was good, how her voice had slipped into a hurt pout at the end. But her eyes gave her away, the hard glint within them almost predatory.

"Are you going to ask to see my manager?"

"Should I?"

"It won't get you very far."

Realization dawned. "You are the manager."

"Think bigger, lamb. I know I don't look like much." With her flannel shirt and black skinny jeans cuffed above a pair of Docs, Kyra knew she looked like every barista in Portland.

The woman took a breath as if she were tasting it, then she grinned and said, "You own this shop."

"Now you're catching on."

"Is this how you treat all your customers?"

"No, just the ones who come in under false pretenses." The words hung in the air between them, and Kyra crossed her arms. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"You haven't helped me at all, but the drink was delicious."

"If you're still sore about it after you get back to your Mercedes, you can put that down as your one star review on Yelp."

The woman laughed and raised her cup in a mock toast. "Well, this has certainly been exciting," she said, heading for the door. "I can't wait to see what happens the next time I come in."

"Next time? I'll be surprised if I see you again," Kyra said, but as she eyed the pile of change sitting untouched on the counter, her gut told her she'd better start preparing for trouble to return.

"Is that wishful thinking I hear?" The woman looked back with a smirk as she reached for the door. "Oh, you'll be seeing a lot more of me, I promise," she said. Then she winked at Kyra and left the shop.

Kyra rolled her eyes and tossed the money into the tip jar.

A whistle pierced the air, then Ellen's voice piped up from the couches. "Who the fuck was that?"

"Someone who just paid twenty bucks for a latte."

"Ooh, Kyra's lucky day. And even after you were such a bitch to her."

"That woman is bad news."

"You say that about every beautiful woman who walks in here."

"This time I'm worried about business, not pleasure." She'd never be able to explain the wariness she'd felt the moment the woman had started asking questions. Kyra had learned long ago to listen to that feeling whenever it stirred.

"That wasn't just a business transaction. She was into you."

"No she wasn't. She came in here looking for something, and that something wasn't me or a drink."

"You're so fucking paranoid sometimes."

One person's paranoia was another person's survival skill. Kyra had spent a childhood predicting the liquor-fueled winds of her father's rage, and that had made a home for wariness to live within her gut, along with host of other tools she used to discern a person's intent, to read the signals they gave off before they acted.

Her father was long dead, but his legacy lived on. These days, she used it to give customers what they wanted when they had no idea what that was. But it also helped her read certain situations, like whenever someone tried to pitch her a new business opportunity, or whenever a man entered the shop in the empty minutes just before closing.

"Ellen, leave her be," Harold said gently. He was the third of Kyra's trio of regulars, a retired history professor who fancied himself a sage. "Kyra has much to do, and I doubt she wants to spend it worrying about the unknowns on the horizon."

He was right, though. Kyra didn't want to think about trouble or her questions, or the fact that her hand-tailored suit probably cost more than the shop's rent each month.

Kyra reached down for the rag she used to clean the countertops, and shivered.

Continued in chapter two...

#kyssandra #kassandra #ac odyssey #modern day au #coffee shop au #enemies to lovers #this is just an excuse for me to write smut with these two in a modern day setting #100% pure grade A indulgence #sorry i'm all out of original thoughts #this will be my love letter to portland - coffee - motorcycles - bourbon - and beautiful women #the sellout

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sylvanfreckles · 4 years ago

Text

For the Greater Good (Whumptober 2020)

Day nine, a little short and a little weird. Trying to get back on schedule after a difficult week.

Summary: “And it’s my job to protect you! So would you stop trying to throw your life away and just let me?”

* * *

“Down!” Dean shoved Sam to the ground and opened fire on the mercenaries that came around the corner.

Sam half-crawled into cover, tugging the control panel for the complex's electrical system with him. “Once the timer is set we're gonna have thirty seconds to clear the building,” he called over his shoulder.

It should have been an easy task. Break into high-security building, rescue captive humans, destroy computer systems. These guys were hunters gone rogue, taking in runaways under the pretense of giving them a home and a purpose only to experiment on them with monster DNA. Trying to create the perfect soldier.

But they'd gone too far. Most the kids hadn't survived the experiment, and the few they could save were outside with Cas as the angel tried to stabilize them. Now that they had been found out, the rogue hunters and their mercenaries were scrambling to evacuate as much of the equipment and data as they could. They had one shot to destroy the whole thing before these guys started over somewhere else.

Jack slid across the floor, face covered in soot and dirt. “I connected the tanks like you said,” he told Sam, a little breathlessly.

“Great,” Sam tried to smile, but had to focus on the wiring work in front of him. He had to set it up to detonate remotely so they wouldn't be caught in the blast, but they couldn't give it much time or the mercenaries might disable the detonator.

“Phone!” Sam called, snagging Dean's phone out of the air almost on reflex. He stripped off the back cover and connected wires between the battery port and headphone jack, which would cause the spark they needed to set off the timer. “That's it, let's go!”

Sam tugged Jack to his feet and bolted for the door, one hand on the kid's back to keep him doubled over. Dean was behind them, still covering them, taking potshots at anyone who stuck their head around a doorway. “Come on!” He snagged Jack's arm and tugged him along, sprinting down the rough corridor to the set of stairs. “When you setting it off?”

“Next landing,” Sam panted behind him. They'd been doing way too much running today. “Then we have thirty seconds to-”

“To get outside, yeah, I know,” Dean shot back. “All right, move it, come on,” he paused on the landing, shoving Jack ahead of them down the hall a little way. “Sammy?”

Sam nodded and dialed Dean's phone. He waited, knowing the first ring would signal the connection to the bomb...but the call went straight to voicemail. He stared at his brother in shock, then redialed.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked.

“I-I dunno,” Sam shook the phone, as though that would help the connection. “It's not going through.”

Dean swore and dug his fingers into his hair. Jack, face serene, squeezed between them to head back down the stairs. “I'll take care of it.”

“The hell you will,” Dean snapped, yanking the kid back. “What are you talking about?”

Jack stared up at him with wide, sad eyes. “I have a lot to make up for.”

“No, Jack, we'll figure something else out,” Sam replied. “We have the grenade launcher, right?”

“There isn't enough time,” Jack said. “It's all right, Sam. This is all right.”

“This isn't how we settle things,” Dean announced. He held up his fist, cocking an eyebrow at Sam.

“Dude, no, we are not gonna rock-paper-scissors for who sets off the bomb!”

“We don't have time to draw straws, Sammy!” Dean shook his head. “It's only fair.

Sam stared in disbelief, but Jack held a fist out like Dean. “It's only fair,” he repeated.

Dean smiled and rested his free hand on Jack's shoulder...then struck him in the face with his closed fist so that the kid went down like a sack of bricks.

“Dean!” Sam caught Jack on the way down, hefting the kid up, dismayed to see his nose already gushing blood.

“No time, Sammy,” Dean rested one hand on Sam's arm briefly. “Get him out of here.”

“Dean!” Sam could only stare as his brother pelted back down the stairs, into the hail of gunfire, to activate the detonator himself. He wouldn't be able to get out in time, he'd go down with the building itself. Tears were already filling Sam's eyes as he hoisted Jack over his shoulder and sprinted down the long hall to the emergency exit, where Cas had taken all the captives out.

The sun was incongruously bright for the tragedy that was about to unfold. Sam stumbled into the light, bending over his knees to drop Jack onto the ground.

“Sam?” Cas was at his side in an instant, holding him up, staring between Sam and Jack in bewilderment. “What happened? Where's Dean?”

“He's...” Sam gestured to the building behind him. He couldn't get the words out, couldn't say it. Dean had stayed behind, had thrown himself down on the line so the rest of them could escape.

Cas stared down the long hall, as still as a stone. “Dean,” he growled out, and Sam looked up in surprised to see that there was fury rather than grief contorting the angel's face.

Then Cas was gone, a swirl of trench coat vanishing down the corridor into the heart of the building.

* * *

Dean ducked from cover to cover down the hall, picking off a couple of the gunmen who had followed them toward the exit. Maybe he didn't have Sammy's technical proficiency, but he could twist a couple of wires together and duck for cover. This wasn't how he'd wanted it to end—he'd been thinking cold beer and warm sand—but some of those kids hadn't even been sixteen yet. If he had to go out like this, taking the sons of bitches that were torturing and killing children wasn't a bad way to do it.

He rolled through the doorway to the control room, rising up to one knee to fire into the men gathered around Sam's detonation device. They disconnected the phone, and now he saw the timer Sam had rigged up on the floor as well.

Okay. No time to duck for cover.

“Dean!”

“Get out of here, Cas!” he bellowed as he dove for the wires. Sure, the explosion probably wouldn't harm an angel, but digging back out of the rubble would be a bitch.

He grabbed the detonation wires, kicked another man in the face, and curled around himself as he touched the wires together. Deeper in the building, the giant nitrogen tanks that kept the monsters in stasis began to blow, one after the other. The floor was shaking beneath him and the men were yelling and running in panic, but he knew there was no more time.

Dean had to wonder if Billie had seen this one coming.

Then, suddenly, Cas was bending over him, pulling Dean up and against his own body, tucking the hunter's head beneath his chin. There was a shimmer in the air around them, and the half-visible shadows of giant, skeletal wings arched out and above and around them.

He stared up, eyes wide, as plaster and beams rained down while the walls and ceiling collapsed, only to be repelled within an inch of the faint barrier above them. Cas was holding him with almost bruising strength, surrounding him with physical and metaphysical protection.

Dean held on as the building shook itself apart, unable to tear his eyes from the shadowy arches of Cas's wings. They looked ragged and twisted, but in that moment in the shelter of his best friend's wings he had never felt more protected.

“Cas?” he whispered, almost reverent, as the debris piled up around them, leaving an small pocket of air were Cas's wings were sheltering them.

Cas made a low sound in his throat that was almost a growl. Then, with a flex of his mangled wings the rubble around them exploded outward like they were the epicenter of another bomb. Fallen beams and machinery had twisted into impossible shapes due to the angel's power, fires had been blown out in an instant, and all around them was the eerie silence of the earth after a thunderstorm.

Their clothes weren't even dusty.

Dean tried to push away from Cas so he could stand up, but the angel merely tightened his grip. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Cas ground out.

“What?” He tried to look up at his friend, but Cas still had him tucked in so tightly he couldn't see more than the angel's collarbone. “You know we had to blow this place, Cas.”

“But why you?”

Dean snorted. “Did you think I was gonna let the kid do it?”

“Why didn't you wait for me?”

Further arguments died on Dean's tongue. Cas's voice was still tight with anger, his body practically vibrating with rage. “We were running out of time,” he managed to protest weakly.

“I would have been fast enough to detonate the explosives, and I would not have been harmed when the building collapsed,” Cas replied. This close Dean could feel the angel's shaky inhale, and he realized that Cas wasn't furious...he was distressed.

“I wasn't thinking, man, I'm sorry,” Dean gently patted at one of Cas's arms. “I just had to stop Jack before he threw his life away. I just...it's my job, right? Gotta protect Jack and Sammy, and...and those kids.”

“And it's my job to protect you!” Cas said, pulling away from Dean to look him in the eye. “So would you stop trying to throw your life away and just let me?”

There were tears in Cas's eyes. Dean rested one hand on his friend's shoulder but just couldn't find the words to say. “I don't....” He closed his eyes and lowered his head, unable to look at the pain in Cas's face any longer. “I'll try,” Dean finally offered weakly.

Cas's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Thank you.”

#Whumptober 2020 #no 9 #for the greater good #run!#supernatural #fic #fanfic #explosions #angst #castiel and dean #whumptober2020

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girlmeetsliv3 · 5 years ago

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Chrysanthemum II

Warning: The following story contains mentions of suicide, depression, anxiety, manipulation, abuse, and vivid descriptions of abusive acts. The behavior and mindset of the characters in this series will be incredibly yandere and toxic. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~

*Its a slow build*

Tag List: @omgsuperstarg @i-met-evil-in-april @whoizmemic @destiel1597 @saraisthoughts

Previously

All seven of them shined so brightly in the small hut. It had always been a wonder to you how they managed to bring such light into such a dark cruel world. You sensed it was a coping mechanism for the men, something they did because it made things easier. Made their life easier. You swore then to always make their life easier - even if it meant making yours much more difficult.

Before any of the men could move any closer to you Lee Nayoung stepped up, her hand outstretched and ready to meet yours. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, [Y/n]. Your resume was spectacular, that brain of yours must be special to be able to pick up on so many languages.” You bowed to the woman and were quick on your feet to reply. Identifying that it wasn’t so much a compliment, as it was a test. “Thank you, I’m glad to be a part of the team. It really isn’t that special, but thank you for the compliment.” By the loosening of Nayoung’s grip and the smile that stretched across her features, it seems you had passed. After Nayoung moved away you realized that all the members of Bangtan Sonyeondan had circled around you, almost encasing you. Namjoon stepped forward and held out his hand to you, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, [Y/n]. We look forward to working together.” The second your hands touched the saccharine scent filled your nose again, leaving you in a blurry haze. You felt warmth traveling up your arm towards your neck, the feeling of what could only be described as the feel of the sun on one's skin, yet Namjoon’s hand remained interlaced with yours. “As do I, thank you.” The way you removed your hand from his was a bit rude, but him touching you gave you a weird sensation.

The rest of the members introduced themselves, each remains polite and respectful, except for Min Yoongi. He had barely spoken a word only giving a small bow and curt nod in your direction. I’ve been here for five minutes and one of them already doesn’t like me. Sejin walked over towards the eight of you, “Sorry for interrupting, but the car’s ready downstairs.” It seemed the men had plans and you were thankful your first day on the job wouldn’t be on a strenuous one. You were getting prepared to head back down to your hotel room when Nayoung spoke up, “[Y/n], you’ll be attending the boys on their outing. Helping them navigate the city.” There wasn’t much room for discussion, “Of course, let me just grab my stuff in my room.” You excused yourself and went to exit the room when suddenly you felt a presence by your side.

“I’ll go with you.” Jungkook smiled brightly, his body seemed to be oozing excitement. “That’s alright. I’ll just meet you downstairs.” You tried to reason as you walked down the long corridor, the youngest member walking leisurely beside you contrast to your hurried stride. No matter what you said, the boy refused to listen to being insistent on accompanying you. Maybe he doesn’t want me to get lost? Whatever the case, the two of you reached the elevators rather quickly and stepped inside. The second you did it was like the air shifted, the temperature dropping and the tension rising. The smell of Chrysanthemums crept into the lift, the sweet smell invading your senses and weakening them. The lights in the elevator began to flicker on and off, you turned to Jungkook to ask him what was going on but the man was glaring intensely at his reflection on the metallic doors.

“Say [Y/n] why did you run away?” What?

The elevator screeched to a halt and Jungkook pounced on you immediately cornering you into the wall. “Jungkook stop. What’s going on?!” His arms caged you in as he breathed in your scent deeply, “Oh you have no idea how long I’ve missed you. How long we’ve longed to be with you. Why did you run away that day? Why? Why?!” Jungkook’s fist pounded against the wall and you heard the elevator creak in protest, in fear of what could happen you tried to calm the man down. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please let’s just get out of here and we can talk.” You were rambling, trying to push back against his chest but nothing worked. Tears began to stream down your face from the fear you felt, “Please Jungkook. Please.” Your eyes met his and all you could see back was your own reflection. That is how much the pupil had grown. Still, your pleas had some effect, for Jungkook pressed his lips to yours in a matter that expressed urgency.

It was the way he kissed you, animal-like and lust-driven that broke through a bit of the haze you had been under. Enough for the palm of your hand to raise and connect against his cheek, causing the boy to falter back. Jungkook’s face expressed shock as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “Why would you hit me?” You took advantage of his confusion to press the open button, causing the doors to suddenly open and for you to run out without looking back.

Lee Nayoung had pulled Namjoon outside as the others headed down to the car. Her posture was rigid and from the way, her left leg continued to tremble ever so slightly, Namjoon could tell she was upset. “I need you to keep an eye on the translator and report back to me whatever she does today.” Normally Namjoon wouldn’t even think twice about such an order, Nayoung was always one to overstress about new hires and was especially cautious when it came to female employees. However, this was you they were talking about and Nayoung seemed more upset than usual. “How come? She seems to be good at her job. What’s got you so worried?” He needed to be cautious when approaching this, if he seemed too interested then that would only draw more scrutiny from Lee. “Something seems off about the girl. Too excited to join you wasn’t she?” Namjoon could only hope so. He couldn’t wait for all of you were alone in that car and they could ravish you the way they’d been waiting for all these years. “Whatever you say.”

Namjoon went to step away, but Nayoung tentatively grabbed his wrist. She cast a glance around to make sure no one was listening before speaking again, much lower this time. “Join me tonight? It’s been a while.” Namjoon smirked, she was so predictable. The main reason Nayoung was fearful of new female staff was that the attention might be taken away from her. She had reason to worry: you were young, smart, and beautiful. Nayoung was all these things too, but she was again and the industry she worked in looked down upon such a thing. Namjoon gently pulled his hand away, “Careful now, I’m not Seokjin.” She had been a plaything for the two of them for a while, never anything serious. But it seems the time was coming for them to cut off ties with her as well. Amicably, of course, can’t have another injured person drawing unnecessary attention to them. He shot her a small smile, “See you later, noona.”

Kyungsoo had been sleeping when you called, but the shrill of the phone immediately sprouted him from the bed. “Princess, what’s wrong?” You were rarely one to cry, so hearing your sobs through the phone set him on edge. Who had made you cry? Why would they do something like that? He tried his best to put the pieces together from what he could make out, but mostly they were just incongruent words pieced together: ‘Jungkook’, ‘elevator’, ‘dark.’ Had the youngest member said something mean to you in an elevator? Or had the elevator merely stopped and you had a panic attack? It had him seriously frustrated as he strongly considered telling you to come back home or flying to Paris to see you. Neither of which could be done, unfortunately. Kyungsoo had his job to worry about and it would look extremely bad on your part if you quit after two days - or a couple of hours in your case. “It’s alright baby. Just talk it out and I’m sure everything will be alright.” Kyungsoo waited for your response, but all he could hear was silence on your part. “Babe? [Y/n] are you there?” Through the phone, he could suddenly hear a small gasp and the pounding sound before the call disconnected. Kyungsoo hurried to redial, but all he got was the answering machine time and time again.

“The number is currently outside of your region, please contact your provider or try again later. Goodbye.”

It always amazed you how sweet he could be, so unlike most boys his age. Though he was older than you by only a year, people acted as if that difference meant the world. It meant that he was a man, yet you were still a child. “Did you see that?” You hadn’t, but you focused back on the family of hares right in front of you, the two of you had taken to hiding and feeding them. They had to be protected or they wouldn’t survive for very long - it was ironic that you should do such a thing for the small animals when no one did it for all of you. “Look at how they feed. Isn’t that cool?” It wasn’t particularly cool, but you still found yourself agreeing with what he said. Doing anything to keep the smile on his face, just a bit longer. It didn’t last long. An arrow flew through the air and pierced right through one of the hare’s necks. The other’s trying to scatter but being unable to.

A cry left your mouth before you could control it as you saw a couple of hunters approaching the now-dead animal. If the two of you were caught here you would face severe punishment, one that would make the rabbit’s outcome look merciful. The smile was gone from his face and now a look of pure rage had replaced it. “Stay here.” He ordered as he emerged from the thick forestry and vines that concealed you. It was moments like the next that reminded you of his sweetness, for how easy could he turn it off and transform into a monster. One capable of doing the cruelest of things to those who had hurt him.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jungkook stood over your figure, peering down at you. As you tried to focus your sight, your head began to pound; a headache forming. “What’s going on?” Jungkook placed his hand under your shoulder helping you sit up, he looked just as confused as you. “You must’ve slipped and hit your head. Are you alright?” That would explain the headache. You nodded and thanked him, noticing that you were back in your hotel room. How’d that happen? “Are you ready to go? We’re all waiting downstairs.” Feeling like a nuisance, you quickly grabbed your bag and headed out the door with Jungkook trailing behind. You missed the glance he cast around your room before the door shut. “Let’s go.”

The car ride was a bit awkward, to say the least, what with each of the members having conversations of their own. You’d assume that you would get to ride at the front that way they could all sit together, but imagine your surprise when it was occupied by Seokjin who smiled a bit too friendly at you. So now you were squished between Hoseok who kept shifting and a manspreading Taehyung. You were careful to keep your hands to yourself, but it seemed the others had different ideas. “That’s a nice ring,” Hoseok commented, his hand gently touching yours to draw attention. Chills began to travel down your spine and you swore your breath hitched. The ring in question was one Kyungsoo had given you for your anniversary. An engagement ring was far too expensive, but this had caught your eye at the jeweler and he had splurged. A beautiful oval amethyst with peridots on the side, it was so unlike anything you had ever seen. “Thank you it was a gift.” You smiled and peered up at Hoseok only for your eyes to lock. Beautiful swirls of violet and green spinning around in his lively irises. All previous discomfort disappeared and you began to feel much more comfortable with the men.

“We’re here.” The driver announced. The doors opened and everyone quickly exited, as you saw what could only be described as a downtown area. “[Y/n] come with us.” You didn’t get much say in the matter as Jimin wrapped his hand around yours and pulled you away, the youngest members following suit as the hyungs stayed behind to watch. The second the four of you had disappeared into a store, they took off in another direction. Headed towards a back alley of sorts, where they could talk in private without the fear of being recognized or overheard.

“So, what’s the big deal?” Seokjin asked, looking at his dongsaengs. Hoseok produced the ring from his hand, observing it meticulously. “Jungkook says she doesn’t remember.” Seokjin rolled his eyes, “He practically attacked her in the elevator. She was probably scared and in shock.” Namjoon shook his head, “It doesn’t explain last night. Or this morning. No, somethings wrong.” Had you remembered them you would’ve reacted. You were always a terrible liar and Namjoon refused to believe that had changed. “I don’t know, Joon. Let’s just try and talk to her. See what she says.” Hoseok was still trying to conjure up something and finally, he got it. A flash of a smile, a kiss, two hands, and a man. “She’s in love.” At his statement, they all turned towards him. “What?” Yoongi spat out. “She’s in love that's why she doesn’t remember us.”

“What do you think? Do you like it?” Jimin held up a long trench coat that certainly cost more than your entire apartment. “I do. It’s really nice. Do you like it?” Jimin nodded but proceeded to take out some more clothes to look at. When Nayoung had said you would be tagging along, you didn’t think personal shopper would be part of your requirements. Nonetheless here you were trying desperately to please the pop star and not do or say the wrong thing. You felt a presence behind you and went to turn around before you heard the low timber of a voice next to your ear, “You smell really nice.” Taehyung commented, causing blood to rush to your cheeks. “Uhm thank you.” You tried to step away, but Jimin was now blocking your way. “Does she?” The brunette asked, leaning into your neck and inhaling deeply. A satisfied hum left his mouth before he leaned back, “It is nice, almost like violets...no that’s not it.” Jimin smirked before tugging a strand of loose hair behind your ear. His presence made you feel things you didn’t even want to dwell on. “I hope I smell sweet too.” He whispered, before winking and moving away. Taehyung remained behind you, his warmth radiating into your back yet he refused to speak.

Deciding to speak up, you turned around only to be taken aback by just how close you were mere centimeters apart. You were going to comment on it before a camera lens appeared in front of you. “Oh.” You gasped stepping back, Jungkook chuckled. “Sorry I bring this with me everywhere.” He said before focusing on Taehyung, the latter smirking and throwing up a ‘v’ sign. The two of them broke into laughter. It was at that moment that you finally looked outside the store, noticing quite a number of people standing outside and staring in. I wonder why? It wasn’t until one of them raised their phone that you realized what was happening. Immediately you turned to face Taehyung and Jungkook, tugging them further into the store. “I think we’ve been spotted.” As if to confirm your suspicions, the fans outside began to scream and pound on the glass. Drawing a lot of attention. “C’mon.” Jungkook said, taking hold on your wrist and dragging you along. All three of you walked towards the back of the store before suddenly turning a corner and entering through a door. It was a small closet shrouded in darkness, the space only seeming smaller considering that Jimin was already in there too. “Oh thank god. I was worried about you guys.”

You didn’t understand why you were hiding when you could’ve easily gone out of the back entrance. It seems the men must’ve read the confusion on your face for Jimin spoke out, “It’s all over twitter. They’ve literally got the store surrounded.” It seemed that the men were obviously concerned and you didn’t want to add onto that stress so you went along with it. You’d heard crazy fan stories over the years so, maybe they were just being cautious. Yes, that’s it.

“Hey [Y/n].” You turned to face the youngest, his camera had been put away in his bag and he stared at you intensely. “Yes?” You asked, a weird feeling of deja vu creeping up on you the longer the three of you stayed in the small closet. Jungkook’s eyes became hooded, the warm chocolate being absorbed by the pure black of the pupil. The way he stared was predatory, but you couldn’t look away. “[Y/n].” Hot breath tickled your ear as Taehyung’s baritone voice was all you could hear. “[Y/n].” Jimin had begun to press kisses on the crook of your neck slowly kissing, biting, and sucking. All the while your eyes remained on Jungkook’s, unable to look away. “Baby how we’ve missed you.” You couldn’t help but repeat the word back, it sounded funny on your tongue. Miss you? “Yes, we’ve missed you. Haven’t you missed us?” Jimin pouted, lips trailing up your neck and Taehyung began to slowly massage your sides. “Of course. Right, [Y/n]?” Taehyung asked.

“Of course, she has,” Jungkook answered. The tension in the small closet space kept building and building as everything except the three of them slipped away. It wasn’t until Jimin’s lips brushed yours that the spell was broken, and you were suddenly reminded of who you were and who you loved. “Kyungsoo.” The name slipped out your tongue and it had the men freezing. Several seconds of silence passed before you felt Taehyung’s hold on you tightening to an inhumane level as Jungkook pushed Jimin aside and gripped your face. “Who the fuck is that?!”

Kyungsoo had trouble sleeping. Terrible nightmares plagued him of burning towns, trees, and terrified screams. Not to mention his mind had begun to conjure up horrifying images of your burning body staring back at him - pleading him. As if it was somehow his fault. He always woke up screaming and in cold sweats. He’d taken to eating sleeping gummies, but they had no effect. As he tossed and turned his hand landed under your pillow where he felt something brushing against him. Slowly he lifted it to reveal a rotting Chrysanthemum the sight causing dread to pool in his stomach.

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quicksilverlightning · 5 years ago

Text

I have chased you through a thousand novels.

You saw her under a black umbrella on the corner of Cherry and Wessex. Dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin; her rainbow polka dot rubber boots felt incongruous under the orange street lamp as she stepped back, avoiding the wave created by a passing taxi. The rain splatters over the taut black curve of her umbrella in a melody you almost recognize before the tempo changes with her impatience and she walks into the street just before the walk sign changes. You start from your place under the awning of a small-time lawyer in a small-time town - the compulsion to follow her, to know her, is suddenly unbearable. You duck into the rain, heading for the crosswalk, already feeling the uncomfortable sensation of water down your collar. The white walking man is blinking orange - you only have a few seconds to reach the corner and cross. Your feet graze the street just as a flashing ambulance appears from around the bend; the wail of the siren is like a death whistle, and you rock yourself back just as it passes and you can see the splash of the puddle coming in slow motion, full of yellowed leaves and you raise your arms, hoping to at least keep the grime from your eyes as you shut them tightly.

You see her again in a garden, blonde ringlets bouncing in the sunlight. Her wicker basket is full of jonquils, tulips, and a small white flower you have no name for. You place your finger in the pages of your book and rest the spine on the stone bench you find yourself occupying, breath caught between the dappled light under the trees and the translucency of her white sundress fluttering in the breeze. The hum in your ears might be the honeybees flitting in the azalea bushes, or it might be the white noise of love at first sight - you’re too caught in the moment to care which. Her blue eyes flash with a wild, untouchable joy as a dragonfly alights upon her fingers curving over the basket handle. A sudden gust sends her sunhat flying - the dragonfly takes off as she yanks herself forward to grab it, but it’s already out of her reach. The straw bristles graze against your forehead and your senses are suddenly flooded with the scent of her coconut shampoo. Your free hand rises to pull the hat down, shading your eyes from the harsh glare of the day. The heat of the desert is absolutely ruthless - your white shirt and cargo pants do nothing to spare you from the brutal gaze of the sun. The excavation is going smoothly - your team has already procured enough priceless treasures to fill a museum, and the tomb is still largely untouched. Today is the day you will remove the funeral mask - today, you will finally see the face of the woman so beloved her servants willingly followed her to the grave. You step into the tomb and the temperature instantly drops ten degrees, falling lower with each antechamber until you find yourself in the center of the complex where she awaits. The gold funeral mask is painted and stylized with harsh angles that only vaguely resemble a human face. The flicker of torchlight casts strange shadows, further distorting the false persona laid over her body. Your team is ready; all of them have gathered here for this moment, the climax to twelve years of searching. Your hands tremble only a little. The mask is cold to the touch, and incredibly smooth. You hook the tips of your fingers just so around both sides of the dense metal, pulling as gently as possible. A few strands of straight black hair rise with the mask, and fall again as you lift it away completely, leaving the face of this land’s legendary queen open to your gaze. In the dark, a black cat brushes up against your ankles. You look down, catching a glimmer of green eyes, before the cat bolts away, dodging between the puddles and garbage cans of the back alley. You take another drag on your cigarette, holding the smoke in your lungs before letting go with a sigh.Your boss is just about ready to fire you again, this time over a spilled beer bottle. It’s almost not worth going back in. You flick the butt away - it lands in a greasy puddle without a splash. You’re halfway turned towards to door when she runs by - her long black hair waves behind her like a banner and her combat boots hit the pavement like bricks as she speeds through the alley, taking almost exactly the same path as the cat from minutes ago. You would finish your turn and get back to the bar, but you saw the fear on her face - the whites of her eyes, the jerky movement of her arms, the rapid breathing that had nothing to do with simple exertion. You call out and begin to run. She makes one turn, then another, stumbling over a pile of flattened cardboard boxes and jumping over discarded two by fours. You can barely keep your eyes on her vintage bomber jacket in the poorly-lit backstreets; you rely on the sounds ahead of you to keep up, and hope you’re only imagining the sounds behind you. The passage opens up suddenly, and you find yourself in the ocean, waves crashing over the sand in cadence with the cry of the gulls. You brush the sand from your knees and reach for the surfboard that knocked you over, passing it to the sheepishly grinning boy who lost control. You make your way back to the blanket spread under the grove of palm trees, lying back to watch the clouds roll by. You must have dozed off at some point, because the sun is much lower in the sky when you open your eyes again. The sky is just beginning to glow and the ocean is a little less cerulean and a little more navy. You prop yourself up on your elbows, wondering what time it is when she walks by. Her red hair is slightly damp, clinging to her shoulders in a way that makes your swim trunks feel a little tighter. Around her neck, held loosely by a black cord, a white scallop shell hangs perfectly between her sun-kissed breasts. She’s holding a glass bottle with a rolled scrap of paper inside, and you wonder if she found it in the surf, or if she’s planning to throw it in. You pick yourself up off the blanket, stepping on to the warm stones of the cathedral courtyard. The singing is louder here, and you know you’re close to the source. You step as quietly as possible, over fallen pillars and shards of stained glass scattered all over the cobblestone. An echo of song reaches your ears, and you think you can make out some of the words. You’re on the other side now, the side covered in shadows, and you can see a set of stairs that weren’t visible from the entrance. They go up into the clouds; you grip the armrests of your seat, uneasy with the sensation of taking off. The woman across the aisle is eagerly looking out the window, watching the airport shrink into a pinprick. You wish you were so comfortable with flying. You also wish you were brave enough to talk to her - it’s going to be a long eight hours without anyone to talk to. You breathe a little easier as the plane levels out and can already hear some of the other passengers un-clicking their seat belts. You keep yours on, glancing again at the cover of her book - her palm covers the title, but the dust jacket looks familiar. You open your mouth ask her about it, but shut yourself up, quickly - you can’t bring yourself to interrupt a reader, to pull her lovely brown eyes away from the page that has so captured her interest, to remind her that her coffee is getting cold and her chocolate chip cookie is uneaten and the clouds look like they might rain and you have so much laundry to do. You’re already on the third load today, washer spinning your clothes like a personal hurricane. You can’t complain though - you always save the laundry for Thursdays. You glance at the clock just as the bell over the door jingles and know she’s right on time. The basket at her hip is full of pastels and skirts dirtied with garden soil. Her moccasins hardly make a sound over the tile as she heads for a washer only a few spaces down from your own. You can see your reflections together in the laundry shop window - her; soft, blonde, gold-rimmed glasses and beads, and you; gawky, awkward, nerdy t-shirts and Converse shoes hitting the pavement with a pile of resumes under one arm. None of the big companies are hiring much, but you might have more luck in some of the smaller businesses. You wonder if the pizza place with the cute cashier is looking for anyone - won’t hurt to give it a shot. You decide to begin your job hunt in that direction, when a sudden squeal of tires has you stomping on the breaks - the driver on the other side of the road has hit someone. You frantically reach for your seat belt, struggling a moment with the buckle before rushing over to see what you can do. The woman in the street is unconscious, blood pooling at the tip of your finger as the nurse presses it against the glucose meter. She has lovely brunette hair pulled back into a bun and all you can think about it pulling it loose to watch the cascade down her back. The prim white uniform is sterile, professional, but does nothing to hide her curves. The meter beeps with a shrill buzzing and you slow your jog to a walk. You rest your hands on your knees - maybe next week you’ll be able to keep up with her. Maybe the week after that, you’ll be able to talk as you run. Maybe the week after that one, pigs will fly. You huff and lift the package over the counter; same day delivery, just like always. You wonder what she’s sending in all these boxes, and to who. She thanks you with a pleasant smile and heads out the door to the Corvette she left idling outside. Your coworker’s radio is playing Mozart on a violin that looks older than her. Her song is impossibly beautiful, and you find your eyes watering with the sting of pepper spray. The riot shields are backing your fellow protesters into a corner, and you look for the girl with green hair, hoping she’s alright. You see her pick something up from the ground - a rock? She turns it over in a her hand, her expression curious. You move a little faster, heart racing with fear; you’ve dreamed this before, and you know, with absolute certainty, that the town’s witch is in danger. You reach out an arm to hail a cab, but it isn’t going to stop. In the backseat you can see a woman in a sharp business suit, ear pressed against a cell phone with a pained expression. Her red nails are clenched into her free palm, and her mascara is running down her cheeks. You see all this in but a moment - and then the cab is gone. Speeding around the corner, you nearly crash your bike into a woman with an armful of groceries. You yank the handlebars just in time, choosing to crash into a telephone pole instead. You faintly hear the woman drop her bags in shock - your dazed head hopes vaguely that she wasn’t carrying any eggs. You are in an empty station. The trains are all long gone for the night, save one, a black and red locomotive idling before a woman in a long brown skirt, a traveling coat, and sensible leather boots. The large suitcase sitting next to her is old and frayed at the corners; the few travel stickers are illegible now. You walk to her, one echoing footfall at a time. She turns her her to you, a faint smile on her face, as you slow, stopping barely a foot from where she stands. You say I have chased you through a thousand novels. She says I know. The train lets out a whistle as the steam bellows from the smokestack; you sense rather than hear the all aboard from the conductor. The woman picks up her suitcase, holding the bar with both hands. She turns to face you once more. Then, with that strange smile still gracing her lips, she bows, once, and boards the train. She hefts her suitcase up the stairs, the conductor following just after with a tip of the hat in your direction. You can still see her through the window of the passenger car, handing the inspector her ticket. She glances to you outside; you raise a hesitant hand and she smiles, a true smile, and waves back. The train whistles again and jerks, a fog of steam clouding the window. You step once, twice, as the train begins to pick up speed. You see the woman turn her head to the future. You stop, letting the rush of cars ruffle your hair, one hand loosely gripping at your coat, watching the train vanish into the distance. You stand a few minutes more, lost in thought, before finally moving away. With a gentle sigh you close the book.

#original work #short story #second person #experimental #writing #metatextual #prose poetry #leaning heavily on Calvino here #if on a winter's night a traveler

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canmom · 6 years ago

Video

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So I saw this trailer today. It seems to be trying to be some kind of cross between Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons and Dishonored. cw for death, decomposing bodies, swarms of rats eating people, and threats to children

What I find really striking about it though is the contrast between the Very Serious Historical Setting misty rivers, swarms of rats, fields of dead bodies, plague etc. - and how utterly it undercut of the artificial Videogaminess of what you’re actually doing.

Like it’s just impossible to take seriously the idea that these kids in the middle of the plague would be making their way between a serious of carefully spaced braziers which repel rats for some reason, and murder like four people with a slingshot. Like the ‘realism’ of all the shaders, historical siege equipment, animations etc. is irreconcilable with the whole puzzle/stealth game thing. Instead of hitting this atmosphere of dread and horror they’re clearly going for, it just feels kind of farcical. I think the term is ‘bathos’?

That said I’m not saying this is a bad thing. Lots of videogames have this of course - it’s just how videogames are, and it’s actually quite enjoyable in its own right. Sonic basically runs on this, I think. I like it when games lean into this in a playful way, and just enjoy their ridiculousness a bit. Yoko Taro tends to pull it off very well.

This game... well, what’s fun about it is mostly unintentional, I think. There’s a moment where the video transitions from ‘walking simulator’ type gameplay where it’s setting the scene, to the puzzles. The three kids are approaching the swollen body of a dead horse; suddenly, it bursts open and an improbable number of rats come out! In a film, the camera might give us a gross gory shot of rats coming out of the horse, or in a slightly classier film, cut to the characters’ faces to show how they react to this awful sight. In this game... the player immediately looks away from the horse to pick up some items from the ground. It’s really incongruous and I kind of love that.

I guess the other games that used this gameplay approach - Limbo, Brothers - didn’t try to present it in a ‘realistic’ way; it felt more like ‘just a story’. The Brothers world, consisting of a serious of puzzle areas, doesn’t make a lot of sense, but you don’t need it to; the story works (or doesn’t) on a more symbolic level or something. Limbo is literally silhouettes! Dishonored takes a similar approach; its rats are a supernatural plague, its people are exaggerated caricatures of British people, its whales are cosmic horrors, its textures have clear brush strokes - its not trying to look ‘realistic’ but a kind of exaggerated, even nastier version of early capitalist Britain in the 1800s. And it works; it is possible to take it seriously as a story about a horrible plague, even though it wouldn’t make a lot of sense as a literal depiction of one.

This game also feels mostly like a tech demo. ‘Look, we can simulate swarms of rats, with repulsive and attractive fields! We can render plants and bodies with so much realism!’ They’ve picked this vaguely historical setting: somewhere in France presumably. It’s a serious, dark story here! ...never mind if it looks ridiculous to see a carpet of rats backing away from glowing orange fires in a perfect circle, and this kind of thing makes it impossible to take everything else seriously. “We’ve got the tech, we’ll figure out how to build a game around it”, I guess?

At the end of the video, the kids are walking up a tunnel. At the other end is a soldier, cowering in fear of the rats (who haven’t eaten him for some reason). As they walk up the tunnel, rats are pouring in from the sides, and repulsed by the magic rat-repelling torch, they ball up in a huge swarm in front of the players. When the players reach the end of the tunnel, the ball of rats hits the soldier and the rats eat him as the main character cries that she’s sorry. How horrifying and tragic!

But it only works according to videogame logic! Why didn’t the rats eat this guy already? Why do they suddenly pour into the tunnel, why don’t they run out of the tunnel to escape the torch? Why are they so afraid of the torch anyway? The narrative they’re trying to tell is that this situation is so awful that the kids have to in effect kill this soldier to survive. And I kind of love how hard it falls flat.

#computer games #i will probably totally disagree with this post in the morning

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samosoapsoup · 4 years ago

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Jacqui GermainSep 17, 2020 12:46pm

Deborah Roberts wasn’t born a triplet, but she often felt like it growing up. Two of her sisters and herself were all born within two years of each other. She remembers people calling the three of them, stringing together their first names so that it became its own uniquely muddled phrase. Knowing this, it’s difficult not to think of Roberts’s works: We Are Soldiers (2019), Between Them (2019), An Act of Power (2018), and The Sleepwalkers (2017) all show three young Black girls with braids and barrettes, consciously or unconsciously mirroring each other as they make their way through Black girlhood.Born in 1962 and raised in Austin, Texas, Roberts is one of eight; she has an additional sister and four brothers. She started exploring her artistic side in the third grade and quickly realized her drawings were good enough to trade for the things third graders treasure: pencils, popularity, and other odds and ends. “I could draw people under the table!” Roberts told me recently with a laugh, her wide smile widening even more at the memory.

These formative years were also marked by Roberts’s first glimpses of Blackness, femininity, and beauty—all pre-internet and largely portraying images that did not look like her. Roberts, just like generations of other Black girls before and after her, developed an understanding of beauty and femininity within this exclusionary context. “I think the foundation of not believing what I was seeing is what fuses this work—what holds this work together today,” Roberts said. “Had I bought into this idea that beauty was one way and not another, I don’t know if I’d be doing this work.” It wasn’t until her artistic practice matured that she was able to more deliberately investigate and refute that conditioning, but even as a child, she recognized the incongruity with a skeptical eye.Roberts’s talent also laid the groundwork for shaping a sense of her own individuality. Early on, art was less a career path and more an enjoyable way to distinguish herself in her 10-person family. “It was something that was uniquely mine,” Roberts said. “In a house with eight children, it’s hard to have something that’s yours.” In high school, one of Roberts’s art teachers provided an infusion of encouragement by exposing her to a wide range of Black artists and a much broader perspective of the art world at large. After graduating, Roberts studied at the University of North Texas, the San Francisco Art Institute, and the Pont-Aven School of Contemporary Art, then later earned her MFA from Syracuse University.

Deborah Roberts, After the thunder (RR), 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

“When the art came, it was hard, but I was so intrigued by the hardness of it. It kept drawing me in to get better at it,” she recalled. “I learned the craft, learned how to draw, learned how to paint, learned how to watercolor. They’re all different—different properties, different materials, different tools that you have to master.”After showing her work at several galleries in the mid-1980s, Roberts decided to open her own gallery space, naming it Not Just Art Gallery because she also maintained a framing business to ensure a more consistent cash flow. She hoped to increase her own visibility and gain access to the national art market, while regularly showcasing the work of peers she admired. The gallery operated for about 10 years, though it started failing in its seventh year. Today, she laughs at her own naivety, but the experience gave her an early taste of her work’s viability in the art market.

Deborah Roberts, detail of Man[ly], 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

Roberts’s love of drawing blended with her collage practice to become the perfect outlet for exploring her persistent skepticism about socialized definitions of beauty. In addition to topics like colorism (“When they say you’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl, that’s no compliment”) and the politics of Black hair (“Whatever good hair is”), the bulk of Roberts’s work comments on the sanctity of Black girlhood. Her collages force viewers to make sense of images of Black girls that are visibly distorted and mismatched and yet still childlike and innocent.“At one point they say you’re a little girl and somehow they treat you as an adult. So sometimes you have a big arm—you have to be an adult,” she explained, referring to the oversized features or too-long limbs of some of her figures. “When I was drawing these little girls, I wanted to highlight that…[just] because society has set us up like this doesn’t mean that we didn’t want to be children, that we didn’t want to be seen as innocent, that we wanted a childhood to be able to explore.”

Some of her works depict Black girls with boxing gloves in place of hands. “When did the gloves of Black womanhood come on us? When is it, all of a sudden, that we have to defend ourselves?” she asked, speaking to such works. “It’s around the age, I think, from maybe 14 to 22 [when] we have to start defending ourselves. And it’s based on watching our mothers, our aunts, our community members and how they carry themselves—how we [learn to] defend our ideas of who we are.”Gradually, she distilled her approach into four key aspects—pop culture, Black culture, art history, and American history—and she continues to imbue varying degrees of each into her works. She mentions, for example, repeatedly using James Baldwin’s eyes in her collages, Michelle Obama’s fist, and portions of Willow Smith’s face. “I think she has the most beautiful, soft face,” she says of Smith’s features.

Deborah Roberts, detail of We wear the masks, 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

Deborah Roberts, detail of Mixed hues, 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

The piecemeal nature of collage allows her to create figures of Black girls—and as of a few years ago, Black boys as well—that are composites. On the surface, the arrangements might speak to the disfiguring and objectifying way a society marred by chattel slavery views Black children and Black people in general. But given the images of Blackness and beauty that Roberts and so many other Black girls struggle to reconcile with their own sense of self, Roberts’s collage works can be better understood as a purposeful reconfiguring of Black girlhood. After all, how does a Black girl create a sense of self while being denied any kind of mirror or reflection in society at every turn? How does a Black girl begin to shape her identity in the midst of a country that values her parts more than her whole?Black women, and Black people in general, have always had to serve as each other’s mirror in the context of a white-dominated world that refused to see us as either human or whole. The works, then, are defiant depictions of Black girlhood, amalgamations of each other collaged together to lay claim to both our humanity and our wholeness.

Deborah Roberts, From the beginning, 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

Deborah Roberts, I am not a man, I'm dynamite, 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

Roberts draws a hard line against depicting explicit violence or the aftermath of violence in any of her portraits. The art world is slowly beginning to reckon with controversial claims of exploiting racialized violent experiences of being Black in the United States—typically shorthanded as “Black trauma”—for the voyeuristic desires of majority white arts patrons. But for Roberts, distancing her figures from overt physical trauma and suffering is a way to protect them while still commenting on the racialized trauma their real-life counterparts face. Her insistence on creating that visual distance allows her to prioritize their wholeness and dignity first and foremost above any message or humanistic appeal for empathy.Instead, she mentions collaging a piece of candy in the hands of a figure with the word Pop! on the candy wrapper. The placement references 12-year-old Tamir Rice, a Black boy shot to death in 2014 while playing outside in a park with a toy gun, as young children are wont to do. “The idea of violence—I can’t [literally] put in my work, so I like the idea that it has, pop! pop! pop! because the sound of violence is pop! pop! pop!” Roberts explained. Her piece Ghost gun (2018), also in honor of Tamir Rice, is the closest to blatant representation, depicting a Black boy holding a colorful toy gun and a blue pacifier placed snugly in his mouth.

In another instance, Roberts said, she might place cartoon monkeys on a figure’s shirt as a nod towards that specific racist and dehumanizing characterization burdened on Black people for centuries—though she describes monkeys as “the nemesis” in her work because she “hates the idea of anyone thinking we are less than human.”When the conversation turns to 80 Days (2018), one of Roberts’s most celebrated and beloved works, her posture changes to that of an openly affectionate mother, welcoming a stranger’s admiration of a child she holds dear. Part of a longer series of collage-on-canvas works called “Nessun Dorma” (Italian for “None Shall Sleep”), 80 Days references 14-year-old George Stinney Jr. who was executed in 1944 for a murder he didn’t commit—and who, to this day, remains the youngest American to be executed. The piece’s title refers to the two and a half months from arrest, trial, conviction, and execution: just over 80 days.

Deborah Roberts, Head Nods and Handshakes, 2019. © Deborah Roberts. Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London.

To be clear, Roberts is proud of all of her works, but this one obviously occupies a particular place in her own personal career archive. In 2019, the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery selected 80 Days for its triennial exhibition.“I am so happy that [80 Days] is at the National Portrait Gallery right now, sitting in the middle,” she said, smiling. Indeed, Roberts’s piece is installed on a broad wall between two other exhibition finalists, with George Stinney Jr.’s tilted head visible above crowd height.“And they hung him high. Everyone has to look up to him,” she added. “I love it. I wanted that for him.”

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-deborah-robertss-gripping-collages-reconfigure-black-girlhood?utm_medium=email&utm_source=sailthru&utm_campaign=editorial&utm_content=daily-&utm_term=21536109-09-17-20

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chiseler · 8 years ago

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DEATH LIVE: A Brief History of Snuff Culture, 1900-2017

“I love it. Suicides, assassinations, mad bombers, Mafia hitmen, automobile smash-ups: "The Death Hour." A great Sunday night show for the whole family. It'd wipe that fuckin' Disney right off the air.”

—Max Schumacher: Network (1976)

On Sunday April 16th in Cleveland Ohio, Steve Stephens shot and killed a random stranger named Robert Godwin. Godwin, a grandfather, was on his way home from an Easter celebration when Stephens approached him on the sidewalk and, after a few brief words, shot him in the head. Stephens filmed the murder on his smart phone and live streamed it on his FaceBook page. The video instantly went viral. Along with triggering a nationwide manhunt, the online post led to an explosion of shock, outrage and chest thumping over what we had become as a culture.

The Stephens case was only the latest in what was becoming the nation’s hottest new trend, with people live streaming assaults, murders, rapes, suicides and accidental deaths on popular social media sites. Pundits everywhere were trying to make sense of it. Why were people suddenly posting all these horrific things, and why were so many millions scrambling to see them? Yes, well, pundits do a lot of head scratching like that, considering so few of them seem to have the slightest working knowledge of American cultural history.

Without pausing to ponder the fairly obvious impulses behind the species’ millennia-old morbid fascination with violent death, let’s just back up a ways and try to focus a bit.

Recall that bloodsport spectacles in the Roman Coliseum were more popular than soccer is today. Recall also that throughout Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries, public autopsies were considered not only educational, but a form of high popular entertainment. Real images of real death have been part of American pop culture for a very long time now. At the turn of the 20th century, stereographic images of beheadings and torture were among the most popular photos sold by Underwood & Underwood. When Topsy the elephant was electrocuted on the Coney Island boardwalk in 1903, Thomas Edison, who supplied the electrodes and electricity, also dispatched a film crew to record the event for posterity. During Prohibition, newspapers around Chicago were never exactly hesitant to splash bloody pictures of gangland violence across the covers of the early edition. When Ruth Snyder and her lover were electrocuted in Sing Sing in January of 1928, an enterprising reporter strapped a camera to his ankle, and the resulting shot of Snyder mid-execution graced the cover of the next day’s New York Daily News. It became one of the paper’s best selling issues up to that point.

Where would we be without Abraham Zapruder’s footage of JFK’s exploding head, or that live televised broadcast of Jack Ruby assassinating Lee Harvey Oswald? During the Vietnam War, television audiences grew accustomed to seeing images of not only dead soldiers, children, and self-immolating monks, but also seeing journalists getting shot on camera in the middle of live broadcasts from the front. In January of 1987, R. Budd Dwyer became an underground superstar after blowing his brains out on live TV, the footage traded among collectors of weird and morbid videos for decades afterward. And that’s just a few random highlights.

The news is one thing, popular entertainment’s another. We are a bloodthirsty lot, and by mid-century real images of real death began infiltrating assorted, often under-appreciated cinematic subgenres.

As explained in Bret Wood’s 2003 documentary Hell’s Highway, in the mid-‘50s Ohio-based amateur photographer and cop groupie Richard Wayman began snapping pictures of fatal car accidents. Although he always insisted it was because he was obsessed with driver safety, you do have to wonder what really motivated the curious hobby. After sharing some of the grisly shots with officers of the local highway patrol, they encouraged him to take more. Soon teaming up with Phyllis Vaughn, her sister Dottie, and a local reporter who was already covering auto wrecks, Wayman and the small crew began spending their nights trolling the highways and backroads in search of twisted metal and mangled flesh, cameras at the ready. They turned the collective photographic mayhem into a slide show that played county fairs around Ohio. Hosted by actual highway patrolmen, the sincerely earnest intent behind the slideshow was to confront viewers with horrific and real images of deadly car wrecks in order to shock them into being safer drivers.

At the suggestion of the state highway patrol’s chief officer, Wayman and his team switched out still cameras for movie cameras and began gathering footage (complete with sound) of deadly car accidents, often arriving on the scene before the ambulances. Now along with images of the twisted and bleeding corpses, the films also captured the anguished shrieks of the merely injured and maimed.

In a stroke of genius, in 1959 Wayman’s Highway Safety Foundation, as it had been dubbed, edited the footage together, added some narration, some recreations and back stories, and released Signal 30. Shockingly brutal for its time, the hour-long film was shown to teenage driver’s ed students throughout the state. They soon followed their debut with other equally graphic highway safety films like Mechanized Death and Wheels of Tragedy. In time the films became a standard part of driver’s education classes across the country.

Although driver safety films aimed specifically at teenagers had been around since the 1930s, no one had ever seen anything as stark and grim as Wayman’s before. The films, with their lingering shots of bodies thrown through windshields, pinioned behind the steering wheel or spread out all over the pavement, were far more shocking in their levels of violence than anything Hollywood would dare show for another decade. Whether they actually saved any young lives is unclear, but they became the stuff of urban legend. Generation after generation passed along stories, some exaggerated to be sure, about all the spilled guts and splattered brains onscreen, as well as the audience reaction. My sister, who took drivers ed in the mid-‘70s, couldn’t wait to get home after class to tell me about the gross film they saw that day. My reaction, and the reaction of millions of other younger siblings hearing similar stories, was not horror. No, we couldn’t wait to take driver’s ed so we could see these films ourselves. Unfortunately, the mood of the country had started to shift, and by the end of the ‘70s fidgety and righteous parental and civic groups thought it best to shield youngsters from violent images for their own good. So along with editing all the slapstick out of Looney Tunes, thanks to humorless do-gooders cautionary and bloody highway safety films disappeared from driver’s ed classrooms. The focus shifted away from the agonizing human tragedy to the science and technology of car safety features. Instead of brains smeared on a dashboard, we got lots and lots of footage of crash test dummies. I suspect the lives of very few teenage drivers were saved as a result, but I can tell you how deeply gypped many of us felt with the loss of this rite of passage.

In 1962, Italian filmmakers Paolo Cavara and Gualtiero Jacopetti decided to make a new kind of documentary. Sending small film crews around the world, from Africa and India to Malaysia, the Amazon, and Vegas, they collected footage of strange customs, rituals and eating habits from all the shadowy corners of the globe. Some of the footage was banal (a staggering drunk in Germany), while more tended toward the disturbing and grotesque, like the scenes shot inside a slaughterhouse. Then they invented a few strange customs and rituals of their own and shot those, editing them in with the real footage. The travelogue of the odd and quirky was accompanied by a breezy, wide-eyed explanatory narration and an incongruously lush score. The resulting film, Mondo Cane, turned out to be hugely popular, winning an Oscar for Best Song (“More”) and spawning an entire subgenre of extreme documentaries known collectively as mondo films.

The trick of course when it came to the follow-ups and copycats was to outdo the original, pushing the limits of onscreen violence, sex, and the grotesque under the guise of anthropology. It was something Cavara and Jacopetti realized themselves. They not only increased the percentage of invented footage for mondo Cane 2 a few years later, they also included more footage of animals slaughter, as well as footage of public executions and the above-mentioned Buddhist monk setting himself ablaze to protest the war in Vietnam. The onscreen death toll only increased with their later documentaries like Africa Addio, an unflinching chronicle of the bloody and genocidal civil war in central Africa. Meanwhile, copycat filmmakers amped up the onscreen violence, gore and sex (both real and created) in films like Shocking Asia, Shocking Africa, Mondo Magic and dozens of others. Eventually, however, events in the world as reported on the nightly news left the mondo films looking a little prurient, maybe, but little more than quaint time capsules.

Like so many other grindhouse filmmakers at that moment in history, in 1971 Michael and Roberta Findlay decided to join the mad rush to exploit the Tate-LaBianca murders. To that end they flew down to Argentina and made a quickie no budget splatter film called Slaughter, about a young actress who travels to South America to shoot a movie and crosses paths with a Manson-like guru who leads a cult of murderous, drug-addled hippies. The film was picked up by producer-distributor Allan Shackleton, who let it sit on the shelf for the next few years.

Around this time, and following Manson it was almost to be expected, a new urban legend began making the rounds claiming there was a dark and sinister subset of the porn world involving films that featured actual people (almost exclusively young women) being tortured and killed on camera. The loops, inevitably produced in South America it was claimed, were then sold for thousands of dollars to degenerate collectors in America and Europe. There was no hard evidence that any of these so-called “snuff films” actually existed, but few seemed to have any trouble believing they did.

Never being one to let a potential marketing gimmick go to waste, Shackleton pulled the Findlay’s film off the shelf, shot a quick new scene in a shaky, abrupt verite style, tacked it onto the end and released the film in 1976 under the new title Snuff.

That final scene, which purported to be real footage of a woman being killed and disemboweled by the crew of the original film, fooled precious few who actually bothered seeing the movie, but it didn’t matter. Although Shackleton’s initial marketing scheme involved sending fake protest groups to picket theaters where Snuff was being screened, they soon became unnecessary. Once word spread about what the film claimed to be, legitimate women’s groups began picketing theaters themselves, the supposed shocking depravity on display in New York and LA grindhouses was decried by numerous major news outlets, and several prominent types began writing outraged editorials about Snuff. In response to the public outrage, New York District Attorney Robert Morganthau launched an investigation. It didn’t take long for him to announce the film was a fake, which anyone who’d seen it could have told him. Awful, awful film, but you had to sit through the hole thing to see those three minutes at the end. As a result of all the publicity, the curiously morbid lined up to see it, and the film made a lot of money.

(A year before Snuff was released, a similar rumor began circulating about the final sequence in Pasolini’s Salo, which was much more graphic and much more realistic than anything Shackleton could have whipped up, but given it was an arty film, no one much cared.)

Even after Snuff’s veracity was publicly debunked by multiple sources, the legend that snuff films were a real phenomenom persisted, and not surprisingly Hollywood loved the idea. In Paul Shrader’s 1979 film Hardcore, George C. Scott plays a father trying to track down his missing daughter, whom he learns has been lured into the porn business. As part of his investigation, he pays several hundred dollars to sit in a cramped basement with half a dozen perverts who’ve likewise paid a lot of money for the privilege of seeing a silent, b/w 8 millimeter short of a woman in a bondage mask getting shot in the head. Two decades later and, to be honest, a decade outdated by that point, Joel Schumacher directed 8mm, in which Nicholas Cage plays a private detective hired to determine whether or not an 8mm snuff film is authentic or not. As in hardcore, in this case it is.

A year after Snuff was released, documentary filmmaker John Alan Schwartz, who up to that point had mostly worked on gentle, family-friendly projects, was approached by a Japanese producer who hired him to make a documentary about death. More specifically, the producer wanted him to make a film that was far more extreme than anything anyone had seen before, with real images of real people dying.

Schwartz (who directed the film under the pseudonym Conan LeCilaire ) made the rounds of local TV news outlets, buying up rolls of raw footage of fires, car wrecks and crime scenes. Most of the footage was far too gruesome to be shown on TV news broadcasts, so he and his editor began piecing the bloodiest bits together into a feature they were calling Faces of Death.

When the Japanese producer was shown a rough cut, he told Schwartz he wanted “more death.” He also wanted a full back story for each segment. Since no back stories were available for most of the footage they’d obtained, Schwartz and his team returned to the tried and true mondo formula, not only inventing back stories, shooting new scenes, and adding extra gore effects to the existing footage, but also making up a number of sequences out of whole cloth (like the flesh-eating cult, the ritual beheading, the alligator attack, and the notorious monkey brain sequence). He also brought in actor/director Michael Carr to play the film’s host and narrator, “Dr. Francis B. Gröss,” who leads the audience on his own far-reaching investigation into the realities of death.

Looking at the film today, the gaffed scenes are fairly obvious, and the film as a whole seems as tame and quaint and silly as Mondo Cane. It also features one of the most godawful movie theme songs ever recorded. But when it hit the grindhouses in 1978, as requested, it was quite unlike anything audiences had seen up to that point, and they were anxious to believe without question everything they were seeing was real.

The film did well in its limited theatrical run, but with the home video revolution of the early ‘80s, it became a phenomenon. I was working at a small video store in Wisconsin at the time. The store mostly catered to the trailer park next door, and while seventy percent of our business was porn, I can easily say Faces of Death and its many sequels made up another fifteen to twenty percent of our rentals.

Faces of Death also sparked a renaissance of straight-to-video mondo films, most of which simply adopted the FoD model by stringing together bits of news footage far too graphic for TV. Traces of Death, for instance, included the Budd Dwyer suicide, while too Hot for TV closed with footage of a woman being struck by a speeding train. Death Scenes, hosted by the Church of Satan’s Anton LaVey and based on the Feral House book of the same name, was a montage of archival police photographs of murder scenes, suicides and executions.

While modern young and cynical viewers tend to sneer at the original Faces of Death’s clumsiness, seeing it at best as, again, a time capsule from a more innocent era, many who saw the film back in the early ‘80s insist to this day that everything we’re shown is absolutely authentic.

Almost two decades before fake “found footage” movies would become yet another popular subgenre following The Blair Witch Project, director Ruggero Deodato would find himself oddly echoing Snuff’s saga with his 1980 splatter film Cannibal Holocaust.

The Italian production concerned a professor who travels to a remote region of South America in search of three young documentary filmmakers. As the story goes, the trio had flown down there months earlier to shoot a film about primitive tribes, then vanished. Although he does not find the kids, he does find several canisters of film, the contents of which make up the bulk of Cannibal Holocaust’s run time.

The supposedly found footage reveals the trio raping, killing and mutilating several natives and countless animals just for fun before being beheaded, disemboweled and eaten themselves as the cameras rolled. It’s a wildly, even wondrously nihilistic feature few viewers can stomach.

The difference between Deodato’s film and Snuff is that the images in the former are deeply disturbing and much more realistic. The film’s publicity campaign insisted the footage was authentic, and Deodato even ordered the three principal actors to go into hiding to help keep the rumors alive. Those claims, combined with the fact the effects were so convincing, prompted Italian authorities to launch an investigation. Deodato was forced to produce the still very much alive actors and admit publicly it was just another cannibal movie.

It’s worth noting here that although all the human deaths onscreen were achieved with clever special effects and makeup, all the animal deaths are real, which I find far more deeply disturbing.

With the sudden availability of camcorders in the early ‘80s, I remember thinking that only then did the possibility of genuine snuff films become a distinct reality, at least on the scale that had always been rumored. Super 8 and, lord help us, 16 millimeter cameras were expensive, clunky and complicated. Plus there was the question of getting the film processed after you shot it. Animal porn was one thing, but torture and murder? What, you’re just going to drop it off at the Fotomat and pick it up Tuesday? With these new camcorders everything was easy as pie. All you had to do was point and hit the button, and when you were done just pop out the tape and throw it in the VCR and there you go, with no meddling middleman sticking his nose in your business. It was an idea that wasn’t lost on director John McNaughton. Perhaps the most disturbing sequence of his 1986 feature Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer finds Henry and his partner Otis using a stolen camcorder to film the murder of a family. Later we see Otis watching the tape over and over again. Sure enough, throughout the ’90s and early 2000s, there were several cases of psychopaths who held victims hostage for weeks, even months, raping, torturing and eventually killing them, videotaping all the sordid goings-on for their personal video library.

Which brings us to the point, and up to the present. If you’re watching it on a screen of whatever sort, no matter how desperately you want it to be real, it’s simply just another show. This has never been truer than today.

While writing a weekly crime blotter back in 2005 as the Internet, smart phones and social media sites were gelling into a singularity, I was amazed at the number of cases I was reporting in which people were not only filming themselves committing crimes, but immediately posting the footage on FaceBook or some similar site. Criminals, despite what the movies like to tell us, tend not to be the brightest bulbs. Still, this public self-incrimination just seemed ludicrously stupid.

The more I thought about it, though, the more it made perfect sense, In fact it was inevitable.

The unchecked expansion of state-sponsored surveillance following the collapse of the WTC had become redundant. What’s the use of installing cameras on every corner when you’ve already thrust iPhones into the hands of nearly every last person on the planet, appealing to their insatiable egos by subconsciously indoctrinating them to film everything they do and post it online? Again, we have that distance through the intervening screen, it’s all just another show, and they’re the star. It doesn’t matter if they film themselves eating at Burger King, visiting the EPCOT Center, or raping a retarded boy. It’s all the same thing.

Snuff culture has been with us over a century, but only now has it come into its own, announcing itself as the dominant art form of the 21st century. It goes far beyond the likes of Steve Stephens shooting a stranger in the face on camera or a couple teenagers live streaming their own suicides.

Who needs an actor with a turban and a sword lopping off a dummy’s head in Faces of Death when, for awhile there anyway, Jihadi John was posting the real thing on Youtube every week? What does it say when one of the first porn subgenres to gain widespread popularity in the Internet Age were “crush videos”—fetish films in which women in high heels stomped kittens, hamsters, and other small animals to death on camera? When someone falls onto the tracks in a crowded subway station, only rarely will someone hop down to help, but it’s inevitable everyone else on the platform will whip out their phones to film the splatter when the train roars into the station. When a British soldier was hacked to death and nearly decapitated by two angry Muslims on a busy London street a few years ago, none of the hundreds of witnesses tried to intervene, but they all made a point of filming the murder, even allowing the blood-soaked attackers to pause and recite a carefully prepared speech for the cameras after the fact.

William Holden’s character in Network was dead to rights, save for one small detail, The Death Hour isn’t just on Sunday nights. Every hour of every day now, footage of some new atrocity is going viral: another cop shooting another unarmed kid in the back, a tornado obliterating a small Midwestern town, people leaping to their deaths to escape a high-rise fire, a tractor trailer slamming into a packed school bus, a fresh pile of Syrian corpses, another gang rape, another shopkeeper stabbed, another mass shooting in a mall or middle school. We wring our hands and feign outrage, but we have to pause a moment to wipe the drool or semen away first. We can’t get enough. Steve Stephens and those teen suicides were merely a couple of the later episodes. Pretend to be shocked and grossed all you want by it, snuff culture is simply our culture, and always has been.

by Jim Knipfel

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patriotsnet · 4 years ago

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Did Republicans Riot After Obama Was Elected

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/did-republicans-riot-after-obama-was-elected/

Did Republicans Riot After Obama Was Elected

A Family Caught in Immigration Limbo

But this call was different. “Go turn on the television,” Garcia’s mother said. “You’re going to be able to work, get a driver’s license.”

And Then There Were Three

How many female justices would be sufficient? Nine, says Justice Ginsburg, noting that no one ever raised an eyebrow at the idea of nine men.

Poop Feminism

Then sweet Ellie Kemper gags, and the sound effect is surprisingly nasty. Ellie’s face is gray. Melissa’s face is red. They look bad. They are embarrassed. How far is this going to go?

The Auto Industry Gets Rerouted

What Is the Point of a Quantified Self?

MD: That’s interesting, because all of this self-tracking is also, according to some physicians, giving people more anxiety! A Fitbit-induced stress vortex.

MD: Oh, God. I don’t care. Should I care? Sleep is the one thing I obsessed over for a while. Which does not really help one get to sleep.

JS: Do you think an actually good and not obsession-inducing sleep app could help, though?

JS: Would Ben Franklin have been an insufferable tech-bro?

Officer Darren Wilson Fatally Shoots Michael Brownin The St Louis Suburb Of Ferguson Sparking A National Protest Movement And Setting Off Unrest That Will Remain Unresolved Two Years Later

On the Triumph of Black Culture in the Age of Police Shootings

Militants Attack American Compounds In Benghazi Libya Killing Us Ambassador Chris Stevens And Three Other Americans There Will Eventually Be Eight Congressional Probes Into The Incident

“I Know I Let Everybody Down”

Scott Brown Is Elected Massachusetts Senatorturning Ted Kennedys Seat Republican For The First Time Since 1952 And Suddenly Throwing The Prospect Of Passing Obamacare Into Jeopardy

Plan B

Sheryl Sandbergs Lean In Hits Bookstores Making The Feminist Case That Women Should Be More Aggressive And Ambitious In Their Careers And Making Feminists Themselves Very Angry

The “Mommy Wars” Finally Flame Out

It’s a lesson of the Obama era: One approach to redressing inequality does not have to blot out the others. Sometimes, attacking from all angles is the most effective strategy.

Texas State Senator Wendy Davis Laces Up Her Pink Running Shoes And Spends Ten Long Hours Attempting To Filibuster A Billthat Wouldve Imposed Statewide Abortion Restrictions

“The Concept of Dignity Really Matters”

A Golf Summit Between John Boehner And Barack Obama Stirs Hopethat Perhaps The Two Parties Will Come To A Budget Agreement And Forestall A True Crisis Secret And Semi

A Grand Bargain That Wasn’t, Remembered Three Ways

Illustrations by Lauren Tamaki

The Obama Administration Unveils Its Plan For Regulating Wall Streetwhich Is Then Introduced In Congress By Senator Chris Dodd And Representative Barney Frank

MJ=JC?

Lane Brown: Michael Jackson’s death was a big deal for lots of obvious reasons, including the surprising way it happened and the fact that he was arguably the most famous person on the planet.

LB: But it was also the first huge celebrity death to happen in the age of social media, or at least the age of Twitter.

NJ: MJ’s death came alongside the protests in Iran, which was when Twitter went mainstream.

LB: It also meant that so much of the instant reaction was to make it all about us.

LB: People seem to like the grieving process so much that even lesser celebrities get the same treatment.

Congresswoman Gabby Giffords Returns To The House Floor For The First Time Since Being Shot In A Massacre In January Casting A Vote In Favor Of The Debt