#i like not losing items but i feel like death just displacing you is not quite enough of an incentive to not just let it happen

[april]

minecraft gamerule requests

a keepExperience rule which is independent of keepInventory

an option to make players drop 100% of experience on death

[ozarkhealingtraditions]

Animism and Environmental Protection

More articles on my website! 

Animism lies at the heart of Ozark folk belief, although it’s a modern word you probably won’t hear many of the old timers using. In the mountains, this worldview manifests as a deep connection to the land, in particular the local bioregions that surround the individual and community. Old trees, caverns, natural springs, rivers, etc. are viewed not as lifeless land features, but rather as unique personalities with their own lifecycles and souls. Solitary trees in fields are often said to be protected by the “Little People” or Ozark land spirits, akin to the fairies from across the Celtic world, brought to these lands in the hearts of believers. Old growth trees hold their own roles within the spiritual hierarchy and often go by the names of “grandpa” or “grandma.” Natural springs were at one time fiercely protected by hillfolk because of their life-giving waters, used not only to sustain the body but also as sources of spiritual cleansing and healing. Legends and folktales abound about the invisible owners of certain caverns or large boulders that often stand out against the wash of the forest landscape.

Traditional views toward appeasing the land spirits is often simplified to maintaining a good relationship with these otherworldly inhabitants. Protecting and maintaining springs or allowing certain parts of the forest to remain wild are just a couple examples of this important take on environmental protection. A good balance with the natural world was at one time integral to not only the physical survival of hillfolk, but also a means to ensure good spiritual health for the community. This is an equilibrium lost to many modern inhabitants of the Ozarks with more and more reliance shifting off the land itself and onto local grocery stores, city water, and the pharmacy. For many though, this balance is still seen as a part of the Ozark identity. I myself have encountered many old timers who still give offerings of food, smoke, water, and other traditional items to these places of power in order to keep this tapestry of life intact.

This relationship with the land has birthed many traditions of environmental protection amongst those still living closely with the plants and animals of the mountains. It’s a culture rooted in the views of animism, which sees everything in the natural world as possessing its own unique identity. As opposed to many pantheistic worldviews, animism is deeply connected to the spirits of the local landscape as opposed to “higher” beings like gods and goddesses. The spirit of a mountain spring is then unique amongst other entities that might surround it. These guardians are often said to have had their own births at one time in the ancient past. Likewise, they aren’t always considered immortal. The destruction of these places of power then means the death of the individual spirit itself.

On one of my travels, I met an old man who was still shaken by the removal of a huge boulder near his home to make way for a modern road nearly thirty years before my arrival. His family had been on their land for several generations and recalled to mind many of their folktales about the spirits or Little People who had their villages inside the rock itself. It was common knowledge to the local community that disrespecting the rock would bring a curse not only upon the individual themselves, but also their family. This spiritual affliction would manifest as strange illnesses without any physical cure, and it was said the only remedy was apologizing to the Little People and making amends with certain food offerings. In a particularly sad part of our conversation, the old man said when the road crew removed and destroyed the boulder it sent a shockwave through his family. They themselves didn’t see any curses from the removal but he reckoned anyone who was a part of the work had. I asked him what he thought might have happened to the villages displaced by the act and he just shook his head saying, “When something like that happens, they’re [Little People] killed off…they can’t survive outside their homes.” In his words, this act was akin to genocide. It was almost as if members of his own family had been taken away to a very uncertain future.

This was by no means an isolated story and I’ve encountered many people, old timers and young folk alike across the Ozarks with similar tales of cutting down old growth forests, plugging up springs, and more. One woman I met said her family protected an old patch of ginseng near their family home for many generations. “Probably the last one around these parts,” she told me. Because the patch wasn’t on their land, they were unable to protect it from eventual clearing for new construction as the local town expanded. She still cursed the name of the developer, although he’d been dead for years. According to her, the ginseng had put a curse on his family for their disrespect. She said shortly after the houses were built, they had trouble with fires and power outages limited only to that spot. In addition, she said the developer’s family all became “sickly,” and eventually moved away from the area. Whether this tale was true or not, I don’t know, but there were others in the area with similar anecdotes about the situation.

When viewed in these terms, protecting the local environment takes on a very different life from simple ecology. The land is protected not just because of the vital food, water, and medicine it might provide, but because the spirits of the land become members of the family or clan itself. The same respect is shown to these invisible members of the community as it is to the living. Just like a person wouldn’t bulldozer over someone’s house, rip out a home garden, or poison a well, the land spirits are respected and left to their own lives and communities. Maintaining this equilibrium with the natural world then recognizes the vital importance the land has to offer to all those living there.

This belief has been such an important part of the Ozark worldview not just here on colonized land, but it stretches back to our ancient ancestors who didn’t see themselves as being separate or above the natural world but as just another link in the chain. The spirits of the land are important because they’re seen as being individual entities with their own stories, wisdom, and magic to offer. Just like when we lose our own tales, remedies, and other traditional knowledge with the passing of the older generations, never to regain them again, how much have we lost from ignoring the spirits of the land? How many grandpas and grandmas have been lost to us by being thrown into the gears of materialism and so-called progress?

For many people today, this animistic worldview is foreign to our modern mindset. Protecting the environment is left to those struggling in the Amazon rainforests, or those fighting for their rights to clean sources of water. We somehow see ourselves as too forgone, perhaps, or wholly apart from the problem. And meanwhile, our mountains are being leveled for new cookie-cutter housing subdivisions, forests uprooted to make straighter roads, and native prairies dug up and replaced with invasive ornamental plants not suited to our climate and local wildlife. Working towards healing this equilibrium starts with you and your home. Here are some other ways you can help protect the land.

Instead of planting invasive ornamentals like privet, bush honeysuckle, nandina, or bamboo, consult local nurseries that specialize in native alternatives. In many cases, native varieties of plants have much more to offer. They are usually better suited to our climate, require less water, and provide a plentiful source of food for both pollinators and birds. They also add to the seedbank of the land. Seeds travel across large stretches of land by air or are carried by local wildlife. Planting with natives ensures the spread of these important species that are too often shaded out and killed by invasive varieties. You can even help out if you’re living in an apartment with little access to the land. Several friends of mine living in apartments have started planting native flowers in pots on their balconies to attract local pollinators. Many of these wildflowers are also edible and used in traditional Ozark medicines.

Reconsider removing large trees on your property and instead try and maintain them by trimming properly.

Spay and neuter your outdoor cats and participate in local programs to catch and release feral cats. Along with deforestation, outdoor cats are the number one source of native songbird loss here in the Ozarks.

Consider volunteering with groups who help to return natural areas to a more sustainable system. There are several here in Northwest Arkansas who go out to the local trails at certain times of the year and pull out invasive plant species that are killing out the native varieties. If you don’t have a group around you, consider starting one! Consult your local extension office for guides to invasive plants affecting the area.

Protect springs and other natural water sources by volunteering to clean up trash around the area. If you’re unsure of how to clean and maintain natural springs on your own property, contact your local extension office.

Honor the spirits of old trees, springs, and mountains with traditional Ozark offerings of loose tobacco, cornmeal, beans, milk, and water.

Many of these suggestions are doable not only for people who own land but even for those living in apartments or on small lots. Whether you’re someone interested in animism as a worldview, an environmental protection advocate, or even someone who doesn’t really like going outside, it’s important to reconsider your own relationship to the land and help out where you feel comfortable. Extreme actions like chaining yourself to an old growth tree about to be removed aren’t required for caring about the natural world around you.

[kreuzdrache]

LONG RANT/REVIEW ABOUT TERRARIA 1.4

Long post ahead lol

I beat finally beat Moon Lord a few days ago on Master Mode, so I figured I can finally drop some thoughts about the update as a whole. 

For the most part: I love it!

Like, previously mentioned, I enjoyed the new content added to the game. Admittedly I did not use a lot of the new items, due to them being outclassed by the time I did found them, but they were still nice to have.

The two new bosses: Queen Slime and Empress of Light were also a welcomed addition, and finally makes the hollowed biome feel more complete. Queen Slime was a bit more chaotic than I would have liked, but it was not a big deal breaker. Empress of Light on the other hand was perfect for the most part! Her attacks easy to see and easy to understand, as well as being a pretty spectacle to behold. Might take a few times to understand her patterns, but her summoning item spawns fairly commonly in the hollowed biome in the outer 2/3rds of the world, so you will have plenty of chances to practice against her without spending too much time and resources.(Unlike Moon Lord............) She is definitely my new favorite boss(and Terrarian waifu...).

The new music themes added were also great. They even included the option for the Party Girl NPC to switch out the Terraria soundtrack with the Terraria Otherworld soundtrack after you go talk to her in a world generated with the seed “05162020 “. These tracks are also very good! Although, Otherworld’s Night theme does feel a bit out of place with terraria: 

Seriously, this is terrifying! I thought I was playing a crafty sandbox game, not survival horror! Then again, Terraria does have the Blood Moon enemies, the entirety of the Crimson biome, and Wall of Flesh; so perhaps it is not all out of place.

Little things like the bestiary, the updated backgrounds and trees and flowers swaying may not be be needed, but they are nice and help enrich the experience of the game. I really like reading through the bestiary just to see why the descriptions are for some of the enemies. I especially love how the backgrounds show little details, like shooting stars in the sky, an Eye of Cthulhu floating in the mountains, birds flying in formation, clouds forming various shapes, and even a large meteorite falling in the sky.

Pylons...I like them, but I do have issues. They do cut down having to travel across the map as well cheap and easy to set up. All these do come with drawback though, compared to to making a more traditional network of teleporters. You cannot use them during some events, like invasions or lunar events(This is a big one.) If your housing npcs powering the pylon dies, then pylon doesn’t work, until you replace them or the died ones move back in. BIOME SPREAD CAN AND WILL MESS UP YOUR NETWORK. Whether it be through displacing your npcs or because biome is different from the placed pylon. You can also only have one of each pylon, so no two cavern pylons or ocean pylons for fast travel. You can buy a universal pylon though, after filling out the beastiary 100%, which also works for any area and does not require npcs near it, so that’s useful.

NPC Happiness, I was kinda disappointed. On one hand, I like that they are not super demanding: Just pair them up with npc they like and place them in biome they like and they become happy and lower prices of their services. On the other, I was kinda expecting more challenge: Like, the nurse npc greatly prefers crystal furniture, or the Witch Doctor npc wants his house built with Rich Mahogany instead of normal wood, as ideas. But again, this probably for the better, cause it makes things much more easier to work with.

Luck. OOH BOY, I do not get the inclusion of luck. Yes, I know they got rid of bad luck from the code, but I still think luck is pointless in the game. Luck is a hidden mechanic that is not really explained well at all, apparently affects your loot drops, finding bounded npcs like the Wizard, Stylist, ect, rare spawns like golden critters and Pinky, gaining healing hearts from downed enemies, ect ect. I do not know how accurate the wiki page is but reading it is not exactly instilling me with confidence on how useful the stat really is if you go all in. Like, I would do easy stuff like slapping down biome torches and garden gnomes in my arenas, but I would not bother waiting till lantern nights and making luck potions. By the way, luck potions require pearls, and those are fished from the desert biome and are rare from oysters, especially the pink ones that give you best luck potions are the rarest at around 1/125 oysters. Yes, you have to depend on luck, to gain a temporary buff to make you lucky in game. Silly, I know. Its a lot of effort for a small increase, I just do not think it’s worth it. If the goal was to help players with making better drops rates, why not just make better drop rates for the items, instead of making the player jump through so many hoops??? Or make an accessory or even an armor set that makes drop rates better, or something, I dunno. This mechanic just feels so unnecessarily esoteric, and for little benefit too.

Master Mode: I already mentioned in previous posts, but I disliked it. Greatly. I love Terraria, but it is tedious game. Master Mode cranks up that tedium by a lot, due to higher spawn rates enemies, higher damage from enemies, losing all your carried money on death(But thats not that big of deal, especially when you get the piggy bank), and more enemies have more hp. It is just not fun to deal with. Especially when doing lunar events, those are especially hellish in Master Mode.

Journey Mode: I do not get it. “Its creative mode with extra steps” as said by a youtuber is the perfect explanation. Why make the player go through all the trouble to unlock infinite copies of items by making them play through the game again? Honestly, if I knew how much I was going to dislike Master Mode, I would have skipped that and made Journey Mode character and world instead. I will most likely still play through journey, but having to go through all the same game to unlock infinite copies of items is still going to be tedious, even with god mode on.

That is my big issue with Terraria 1.4, nothing really seems to address the tedium issue. I am not asking for all good loot to get handed to me on the first kill a mob, but would it really affect the game negatively if stuff like biome keys, rod of discord, or even silly things like the jellyfish necklace were a little bit more reasonable to farm for? Perhaps make the whole lunar event a little less tedious, by cutting down the required amount of kills before you can turn off the pillars’ shields? And/or give us more fragments so we can craft more Sigils if we fail the event and just want to farm Moon Lord? Did Revear Shark really needed to get nerfed? Were explosives for harvesting meteorite too good? I dunno.

Despite my negativity, I am still actually largely positive to the game and I would still recommend it, either if you have not played the game in while or if you have yet to play the game even. Its on sale on steam right now for 5 USD or 10 USD through GOG. Even if you do miss out on the sale, it is still VERY worth the 10 dollar price. Also the soundtrack is still rocking.

[courtorderedcake]

@captainswanbigbang & @captxinswans present:

RIPTIDE by @courtorderedcake Beta’d by the wonderful @ultraluckycatnd

An Enchanted Forest AU where the dark one was never released into the world in a vessel, thus causing a massive shift in timelines. The ogre wars have ravaged kingdoms, untold destruction spanning continents, rulers displaced. Even as the wars sputter to ash, the safest place to be is at sea, and that’s not very safe at all - as Emma and Killian find out, fates intertwined against all odds.

Rated: E/X - heavy content : warnings of assault, rape, noncon, just everything, I feel like the rating says enough. It’s something.

WARNING: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Read on Ao3 HERE .

 Chapter XIII : Spyglass; An Epilogue

Thomas Harriot is known to have turned a spyglass on the Moon, though with only three powers, he was unable to correctly discern neither crater nor mountain. Such a feat would require five to six powers, or higher.

-The History of the Spyglass

Time passes and tongues wag to fill quiet spaces.

The captain of the Gilded Wing, in his wisdom, decided piracy was not for him. With his bonny bride and an assortment of ex-privateers, they become a well respected merchant vessel and tradeship. Some said it was his charming and silver tongued demeanor, while others swore he was the gruffest man they ever traded with. Either way, his coffers were that of a king. If anyone asked about the haggard blonde and dark haired man with one hand juggling two wide eyed babes, they received no answers. Silence was a deafening warning.

The Jolly Roger is rumored to have sank in a battle with the Gilded Wing, the reckless captain duo of pirate lovers, Hook and Swan, finally finding a watery grave; together even in death.

Sightings of a glowing ship flying their flag are whispered among slave ships and crooked pirates who deal in innocent blood. It appears out of a dense fog, a ghostly enchantress with blonde hair whipping in the wind with her eternal love at her side, coat flapping and hook raised. Demons who leave no survivors except those bound in chains or held in a brig. Ghosts who steal back treasure that was taken wrongfully.

Or, as Emma calls it, 'date night’.

More children join the twins on the timbers of The Wing. Snow unexpectedly going into labor with her son Leo six months after the twins are born. Luckily, Whale and Tink had decided to stay on. David loses his mind with worry at not being prepared, but Snow breezes through the delivery right into motherhood.

“I didn't even get morning sickness, and I really didn't gain much weight. I'm lucky I didn't do anything crazy, or my labor might have been earlier and rougher,” Snow confides in Emma, as they nursed together in the sunshine of the deck. Leo latches easily, Snow smiling serenely. Emma has a foot in her face and both of her beloved children have fistfuls of her hair.

“Well, aren't you special,” Emma grumbled.

Maggie watches their twins with joy, bouncing them on her knees and singing to them while letting them eat as much pie as their small hands can grab. She quilts them beautiful blankets and knitted toys. Her shy husband even makes wooden toys for them, and does small magic tricks. Emma realizes that the shy bearded man is the tallest dwarf she’s ever seen slightly too late, and he laughs it off without worry. “i used to get grumpy about that sort of thing, but up here? I’m dreamy,” Leroy tells her, and he comes out of his shell completely.

Some of the crew leaves, as is expected when things change. They say goodbye to Rory and Phillip first, as the call comes that they can return for the throne of their homeland. Rory starts to send letters to them with her full name, Aurora, detailing palace life and asking for advice on policy. Emma finds it dreadfully boring, but David, Killian and Snow have vigorous debates on the shaping of the country.

Graham and Ruby leave to start a pack in unclaimed territory of the Enchanted Forest, gathering lone wolves and setting up rules that soon become a permanent structure. While there is still an ogre problem, the pack is strong and faces the danger head on.

Mal and Z return to the dragon lands together, slipping away quietly and without much notice. Killian can only laugh as he watches two dragons on the horizon disappear into the sunset.

Graham and Ruby return to say hello now and then when The Wing docks in The Enchanted Forest. Eventually, they rejoin the crew, the risk of Ogre attack while Ruby raises their litter of three beautiful boys deemed too dangerous by Graham. Hunter, Willow, and Forrest all have the same dark brown shock of hair, heavily taking after their father. To Graham, his small pack is everything, and Ruby feels the same; they'll forego the change to raise their young with no regrets. Emma happily brews them a Lunar Stasis draught, and they fall into the routine easily, Ruby complaining about constantly having a babe to her breast while the other women nod and bounce her other triplets.

Mal and Z do not visit. Instead, they extend an invite to show off their egg. The entire crew doesn't know what will be inside, until they get a bans stating, ‘It’s a girl! (Dragon, but currently unable to transform). Please welcome Lily.’

Snow notes the design is lovely, irregardless of the strangeness of the message.

Regina and Robin welcome a beautiful dark haired girl around the time the twins see eighteen months, and a once hardened Regina softens completely. They name her for a powerful enchantress in another realm, Lucinda, or Lucy for short.

Snow and David welcome a blonde tufted girl to the world soon after Regina’s daughter is born and Leo turns one, David immediately finding himself wrapped around his daughter's finger. They name her Ruth after his and Emma's mother. Leo is insanely jealous, but makes do by going through a shrieking stage.

Merida and Fa finally get married, the ceremony a complete hodgepodge of both of their cultures that somehow not only works, but works well. Plaid tartan and silk floral prints drape a verdant forest glade, a bamboo archway placed where they exchange vows. There's a tea ceremony followed by knotting their hands in a complex golden rope. The reception is visited by Merida’s estranged brothers, who finally accept she is not after their claim to the throne.

Emma dreams, or more appropriately, has nightmares of a dark castle that crumbles and rots. Something slithers and its claws click and scrape on the moss covered stones. A man calls out, his eyes burning behind brown irises, blood on his hands as he feeds a golden monstrosity. Willing herself to wake up, they look at her and she swears the scaled creature smiles, not a man but a beast, next to another pretender of a lost boy in the guise of a man and warlock. The warlock looks at her hungrily, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he surveys her body. The creature only glares. Together they are a golden eyed man who chases her in the recurrent night terror. Somehow she knows they are a portent of doom, but the dreams fade fast as she wakes up thrashing, soothed by Killian.

Smee's lap is a source of argument amongst the rowdy lot of toddlers, especially as he reads stories aloud. He always has a knack for getting a hold of rare items - and by rare items, he means sugary sweets that have been the bane of his old captain’s existence. Luckily, these days, the Captain is a dear friend and his Missus is in on Smee's trade. The Twins lead the pack at two years old, Emma and Killian no longer running ragged but instead, thriving in a new sort of chaos.

Killian still hooks yarn together, darning socks and making less lumpy blankets for anyone who needs them, and constantly making socks for little feet. With a little finesse, he’s able to make a few rudimentary stuffed toys, until suddenly he has made an assortment of soft toys. Esper is fond of a jellyfish the color of lilacs, while Ian chooses a shark, making roaring noises that rattle the timbers of the deck. Leo chooses a lion, his father beaming, Ruth clinging to a plush ginger kitten. Lucy chooses a frog with a giggle, Killian’s handiwork clear as the frog has a curled tongue in its mouth. It becomes a tradition for him to make something for new crew, and he frequently gets requests.

Jefferson and August finally decide to be more than just an occasional fling that happens more than just occasionally. They depart after the space becomes crowded and August expresses interest in traveling down many different rabbit holes. They are only seen on big holidays, bringing the most ridiculous gifts from their travels. Killian eventually bans any gift that makes ‘extravagant and unnecessary noise’ after a teapot given to Esper keeps singing off tune and nonsensical nursery songs at all hours.

After a particularly intense night of freeing slaves, Fa finds a small wide eyed girl clinging to her belts. Merida is immediately in love with the ginger haired child with stormy gray eyes, and no one bats an eye when suddenly, a young, wild haired girl is leading the pack of children across the decks. Not given a name, Fa coaxes her to choose one whenever she is ready, her quiet voice soothing as she stroked the girl's hair. Fa tells her stories, and Merida tells her tall tales and myths. She eventually chooses the name Rowan for its strength, just like her mothers.

Rory and Phillip send word from their kingdom that they have a daughter, naming her Rose. The crew attends the announcement ceremony, happily greeting their long time friends: Jasmine and Aladdin, now rulers of Agrabah; Tiana and Naveen, happily avoiding royalty in their restaurant; the vibrant ex-mermaid Ariel and an ecstatic Eric. Esperanza takes to Ariel, who despite being in what Emma refers to as 'the 200 months pregnant stage’, keeps her two and a half year daughter entertained. Ian, like his father or mother (depending on the day and who you asked), made trouble by slipping a tray of pastries under a skirted table, sharing his loot with his cousins, and inducing a glorious sugar crash.

In the brief moment of peace, Emma and Killian disappeared into one of the quieter roped off parts of the palace.

“We have to -” Killian's mouth met hers, demanding and hungry, intimacy not in short supply but not frequent either, always having to be carefully planned. Spontaneous escapes like this were rare if not unheard of. “Be quick,” Emma moaned as he nipped at her collar bone, hiking up her skirts.

“Bloody hell, I don't want to be quick,” he murmured against her throat, licking a trail to her ear. “I'd love to taste you, mark you -”

“For now.” She palmed him through his trousers and he hissed. “This. I need to feel you inside me.”

Another crash of their lips, her hands finding his belt as he pushed her against a wall, fingers pumping inside her wetness until he was freed. Moaning into his mouth as he thrust into her in a smooth motion, Killian grabbed her leg to pin her tightly between the wall and his body.

While it was fast and hard, it was also passionate. Emma clawed at him and they moaned together, savoring the heat that sparked every time they connected. They came together, each other's names sweet in their mouths. Sneaking back to their seats, only David narrowed his eyes with a shake of his head. Killian gave him a cocky nod and a wink.

Will and Belle had almost given up trying, but finally welcomed a tiny baby girl into the world. They named her Victoria, and Will finally got his comeuppance for teasing his fellows about crying when their children were born. He sobbed, holding his baby for the first time, her small hands making his look so large. Belle lay sick after they birth for several weeks, Will reading to her and rocking their babe as the crew took care of her, the day she wa finally able to come up on the sunshine of the deck with her small baby girl celebrated.

Whale gave in to Tink’s demands, accepting a steady stipend paid for him to stay on board to provide care for the children he delivered and their mothers. His bedside manner did not improve but deckside, Uncle Vic was a delight to as many children he could chase as they pretended he was a monster.

The Gilded Wing was alive with activity and noise from dawn until dusk, tired parents staying up when they had the energy to make conversation or nodding at each other in shifts as they groggily bounced or rocked children back to sleep in time with the ocean’s sway.

Emma found herself on deck more often than not. Esperanza was still a sickly child who needed the fresh night air. The Twins were almost three, talking non-stop and inquisitively taking in the world. It was exhausting. Luckily, Ian slept like the dead, his wild running throughout the day leading to a blessedly quiet wind down. Esper fought sleep, longing for starlight and the moon, Emma whispering constellations gently in her dark hair until Killian joined them on deck or she joined him in their bed.

Laying a finally sleeping Esper down in her bunk above Ian's, Emma made her way through the quiet corridor, slipping into bed and her waiting husband's arms.

“I love you,” he murmured in her ear, and when her answer didn't come in return, he cracked open an eye. “Love?”

“When was the last time I bled?” she whispered, facing away from him.

“I figured two weeks ago; you were moodier than usual and I let you be.” Killian replied drowsily. Her hand guided his to her stomach, a familiar swell against his palm jerking him awake. “Emma?”

“I didn't put the pieces together until a week ago. I should be just about four months along or so, maybe five. That’d be Rose's announcement ceremony. I haven't felt kicking yet -” Rolling her towards him, he captured her lips in his, grinning.

“You are a marvel, Swan. A bloody marvel. I love you so much. How do you feel? You're so small, I wouldn't have guessed...” Kissing her breathless, she pulled back laughing.

“Thank the Gods above and below, I believe there's only one this time. I'm fine. Tired, but fine.” Killian pressed a kiss to her forehead, blue eyes dancing as he looked down at her.

“Are you sure you can't make it two or three? David's lot is catching up to us, and if we get a nice lead -”

“Oh, shut up.” Smacking his chest and ignoring the salacious eyebrow wiggle he gives her, she doesn't ignore the steady beating of his heart as it lulls her to sleep.

Emma's second labor is easy, a chubby girl who is absolutely determined to prove her lungs work well. The name is long planned in advance; his mother’s name. Alice. She is fair haired and light eyed, a lighter shade of blue than Killian's own when they finally finish their change.

Liam's eyes, Killian tells Emma in the quiet still of the night. A reminder that even in all of this love, there are still scars and quiet pain they all share. Her arms around his neck is a soothing balm; each of them having a source of relief from old nightmares. Emma finally relents, and they spend some time in the small cabin on the cliffs he owns. She finds it’s not as terrible as she imagined and enjoys the quiet, or swinging on the creaky porch watching their children play. Not enough to give up the sea, or the ship, but enough to take reprieve when things get to be too much.

Killian reminds her that they’re old, but not that old. He reminds her frequently, until she tells him that she has suspicions that his reminders have ended in a well intentioned accident. Emma feels the movements earlier this time, hasn’t been as sick as her first pregnancy, but it’s still rough. Killian sits through a delivery that feels so much like when he almost lost her, so much strain and struggle, but Emma beams at him when it’s done.

“William?” she whispers softly, tucked into Killian’s side. He’s holding their last child and crying with her, arms wrapped around them both in the quiet before the rest of their children wake.

“William,” Killian agrees, pressing kisses on her sweaty forehead, making Emma chuckle. “Liam for short.” Her head lolls, exhaustion setting in although she fights it and the pain she's in with a grimace. When she shifts in the bed, Killian watches her with an ache in his chest as she swallows back whimpers and curses.

There’s no question about how close to leaving him she came again as her screams echo in his head, but Killian changes bloody sheets, and tells her after he’s sent their children off to play on deck that he loves her more than anything - That the thought of not having her sends him reeling. Pressing soft kisses to her pallid forehead, he cried into her hair, holding her tightly. Regina visits later with a potion that ends any worry for them, which thrills Killian even if it means his wild oats have ended their run.

Their children grow, and Piracy loses its appeal all together as raising them turns out to be much more terrifying and complicated than anticipated. Emma and Killian barely survive, the world around them changing rapidly, threats rising and danger around every corner.

Why wouldn’t it change, when someone finally let in a golden crocodile to their soul with open arms?

But that’s a story for a different time.

[abassi-okoro]

THE SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS AND THE REVOLUTIONARY

by Abassi Okoro

Kwame Toure once spoke on the difference between mobilization and organization of African people in America. I would like to also speak on a difference.

There are two types of black people in America. There are those of us who are interested in "issues" and then there are those of us who are interested in much more. The overwhelming majority of our people believe that they are fighting for the right reasons and in some ways, they are. In the 1960's we fought for Civil Rights and desegregation. That was an issue that was important to us as a people. In the 60's we also fought for fair and equal treatment in the corporate world and in education, and what came out of that was a concept called, Affirmative Action. That was an issue that was important to us. We took it as a victory. The 1980's was a mixed bag. There were some good and some not so good things that took place. We had three black Miss Americas, we had an hour glass shape economic structure (big money in - a trickle down effect and big money out). It was a decade of corporate discrimination, a war on drugs that targeted inner urban black communities, and a new slogan "Afrocentric" which was more about fashion and culture than politics. But we fought the issues that were important to us.

The 90's brought in the crack epidemic, the Bloods and the Crips, the Rodney King beating, riots, the dragging death of James Byrd by white supremacist and, gangsta rap. It wasn't black people's best moment but we fought the issues that were important to us. We didn't win many battles but at least we fought our battles. I suppose there's pride in just playing the game. [It's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. Well that old adage takes away our natural instinct and will to succeed.] The 2000's to now, Racism has gotten perpetually more brazen and in the past couple of years we have protested and boycotted more in the past two years than we did in the entire decade of 60's - proving that we have hardly taken a step towards real social progress. But, thanks to technology we can take our anger and outrage to social media and forge our dissatisfaction with our current government through Tweets and memes. Some even consider THIS "fighting."

Every time there's an act of injustice or a social issue, we (black folks) have no problem responding to that issue. There's no shortage of black people who are willing to boycott, protest or hold mass demonstrations. A clothing store is selling a racist sweater - let's rally and show them we mean business! We won't shop there any longer. No problem! The company will most likely pull the item from their shelves and we will most likely return to the store as happy patrons a couple of months later after it all blows over. We may even feel accomplished. A black man had the police called on him for doing nothing more than walking into his apartment building and a white woman took one look at him and decided that there's no way he could afford to live there and so she called the authorities. Let's rally and show them how upset we are at that sort of racism. No problem! The woman will probably lose her job at the bank as a result of the video of her harassing the young black gentleman gong viral. We may even feel accomplished. People will always come to rally and protest and scream and pump their fist. People will always come together to address "Issues." We will always gather around "Issues." It's predictable.

Those of us who are revolutionaries and progressive thinkers are not concerned with "Issues." We're concerned with the system. You must understand the difference. People who are concerned with issues are not concerned with reformation, they are concerned with equity. They are the people who pose the questions, "How come I can't have the same slice of pie? How come the white folks are entitled to certain privileges and I am not?" This is how they think. This is not how the revolutionary thinks. The protestors and equal opportunity folks don't want social reform; they just want what they think is "owed" to them and they want it with very little change or sacrifice. They want to be black without being African. Their concerns are always temporary. Once they are are satisfied, they move on to the next "issue" like a virus or forget all together about the previous issue. The two black men who were arrested in Starbucks last April, quick . . . what were their names? See? Because of this short-term memory, these people can easily be fooled around the issue and they often become so enamored by one issue that it seems that it's the only issue worth caring about. It's difficult to get these people to organize or to even organize their own thoughts. They lack continuity and consistency. They are simply not organized.

When you are organized, you don't need money, you don't need fame, fortune, popularity or allies. Why? Because you have power. Despite what some may believe, power does NOT come from money or opportunity. Power comes only from the organized masses (Kwame Toure). America is NOT the most powerful nation on the earth. China is the most powerful nation on the earth - not because they have money but because they are organized! Because they are not concerned with "Issues," they are concerned with systems! Capitalism is not a concept, it is an organized system of private enterprise. Europeans in the 1600's traveled to the west coast of Africa and captured in the excess of 10 million Africans for slavery and they accomplished this not because they had money but because they were organized. Only organization could account for several hundred men having the ability destabalize a country of millions.

Out of many of the issues that we love to rally over, we always fail to rally over the biggest issue, our disorganization. It is safe to say that we can not even organize to talk about our disorganization. Black people in America (displaced Africans) will never be able to fight an organized system while being disorganized. Money is not the answer, our national interest in destabalizing the system is the answer. We must understand our national interest and we cannot exercise so much stupidity to allow that system to convince us of what our interests SHOULD be (money.)

They will happily entertain our desire for money as long as we don't desire what we really need, organization (power). They understand that our lack of economic literacy will pretty much guarantee an hour glass result, (big money in - a trickle down down - big money out). Are you going to spend the rest of your life addressing "Issues" or are you going to stop putting your hand out and start addressing the system that gives birth to these issues? The difference between socially conscious folks and the revolutionaries is that the socially conscious are only conscious SOCIALLY and will only respond socially. They are the issue fighters. Revolutionaries on the other hand are globally conscious. GLOBALLY (hence the term: Revolve) and they see all sides of the sphere. We are the system fighters.

"Fighting the system IS fighting the issues. But fighting the issues is not fighting the system."

- Abassi Okoro

[rasenkaikyo]

Final Respite

next

(w/ @sagolii-snowflake​)

<A life has ended, with the passing of a friend> <Lives have been touched by the dear one's journey> <Laughter, tears, hopes, fears, a life has come to an end> <Memories hold their spirit alive, in my own life.>

The sun was setting on the piers of Kugane, oddly crowded with unfamiliar barques and barges. Space was set aside, that evening, in a local seaside hostelry for their passengers. The low-lit main room was crowded, filled with the displaced people of Doma. Strung along the tatami floors were numerous items somewhat hastily grouped together. Frames of faces were surrounded by any myriad of items: incensories, money, flowers, swords. 

The people were beside themselves in grief. The air was thick with scented smoke and despair. Hinako and her fellow priests were making rounds, solemn in their soft-spoken rites to each of the dead. One after another, refugees came further undone before her, and Hinako was livid.

A heavily-bandaged figure limped into the dimly lit hostelry, cloaked in a torn and ragged robe of sorts. Yalms of bandage wrap seemed to cover the woman's extremities; most of her back and right arm were covered completely in dirty white, while portions of her face and torso were obscured by the same wrappings. 

Her dark purple hair was pulled down and matted, as if she was unable to properly clean it in a long time. Clutched tightly in her left hand was the shattered remains of what looked like a sword. The wooden sheath was cracked and broken in numerous places, and the sword itself was blackened and beyond repair.

'So many... there are so many...' she thought numbly to herself. She was thankful of the many priests that were busy giving rites to the dead, but her heart iced over when she realized just how many dead there were. 

Not all of them had died on the beach. Some succumbed to their wounds, to sickness. Some were even too stricken with grief to continue living anymore. Though it pained her to think so, she did not blame them. Their entire land was once again taken from them, only to be razed to the ground as a symbol of their failed rebellion...

The broken samurai winced and clutched at her shoulder as pain swelled through her entire right arm, dropping her sword in the process. Though the wound was healed, the injury was still debilitating. When it wasn't wracked with pain, there was a constant feeling of pins and needles. It felt detached, separated from her body entirely, even if it still hung limply at her side.

As the Raen priestess finished her prayer, she rose to her once more. The clacking of a sword hitting the floor grabbed her attention. Carefully, she waded her way over, through throngs of life -- and death. Vision wasn't best in the lighting of the room, yet she had an inclination of the poor soul she was approaching.

Arriving at Mozu, Hinako placed a hand against her left shoulder.  "Oi, oi -- easy there..." she cooed, encouraging the embattled warrior to ease herself into a sit against the wall, so that Hinako may retrieve the fallen sword. 

 "Kakemakumo kashikoki," she began in hushed tones as her other hand, still clenching a rosary, directed a soothing energy at Mozu's battered arm.

Mozu's clouded eyes glanced over to the soft-spoken priestess with a quick flash of annoyance in them, her hand still fervently gripping her ailing shoulder. The look faded however as she was eased into a sitting position against the wall, the chill of the cold wood easing some of the ache from her muscles. Her body shuddered and she let out a soft sigh of relief as Hinako poured her healing energy into her arm. The sensation was still unfamiliar with her; it was a mixture of warmth and almost... electric. Like the static feeling from wearing a woolen sweater for too long. 

"You do not have to worry so much Hinako..." she mumbled, closing her eyes as the rest of the sharp pains faded from her body. "I am no longer in danger of fading."

Hinako was definitely already familiar with this woman. When they first met, they had fought alongside each other to help in the efforts to repel imperial contingents. She herself took some wounds, and her shoulder and head were too wrapped in mesh as testament to that. Afterward, she did all she could to save her and her arm - and still continues to do so.

Mozu, too, had been familiar with the Raen priestess. When she lost her fated battle with her brother and was left bloodied and barely breathing, it was her that poured life back into her broken body, as well as countless other warriors and countrymen that fled to the boats that day. Mozu had even defended her from attack, shielding her body with her own and her mudras from magitek cannon fire. Even still, Hinako's healing could only do so much, and Mozu's body still felt the pain and aches of the injuries she had sustained.

Hinako simpered as she finished. "Just, have care with that arm. It'll be of use again, in time, and I can walk it along as I may." She looked Mozu in the eye, not unable to get a sinking feeling by seeing the dullness in them... She sighed softly and glanced behind her.

"...How many are there?" Mozu asked after a moment of silence. Her eyes were opened again, blankly staring off at the covered bodies of her people.

 "...Dozens. A couple score in here alone, at least." Hinako brought the rosary to her chest. "Mostly warriors of Monzen and the like... Most of the bodies couldn't even be retrieved, for fear of further reprisal and loss of life. Just... swords, valuables."

"They burned the rest." Mozu said simply, yet sternly. She blinked and looked down at her right arm, yalms of medicated wrap covering up the maimed and torn flesh underneath. Her calloused fingers ran up her arm to her other hand, to which those fingers faintly twitched.

"They did not want us to take the rest of the dead. They wanted us to leave them behind." she whispered. Though normally the tone she would carry would drip with malice, it only mirrored an almost defeated demeanor.

Hinako look turned downcast, heavy from the weight of Mozu’s words. "I've had to perform funerary rites before. Nothing like this. I can but pray to the kami that none of this will be in vain."

Mozu’s eyes turned to Hinako, and the faintest smile appeared on her sullen face. "We are blessed to have you an the other priests Hinako. I do not believe the others would be in a proper state of mind to perform such rites on their own..."

Hinako closed her eyes in a small moment of reflection. ‘But will they know peace...?’ Surely, she looked back up to Mozu, returning the warmest smile she could muster. In spite of the hint of fatigue in her eyes. She gingerly pressed her hand against Mozu's left to coerce her and her focus away from the wounded arm.

"Well, sometimes we need to carry out our duty just so we don't lose ourselves." She looked around a little bit, then drew a deep breath. Pulling back a little, prepared to rise again. "When all is said and done, we will see to the ashes, of those we could bring, to the care of their families. They'll be able to bring their urns for the next journey -- the next home."

"Next home..." Mozu repeated, barely a whisper. The thought was terrifying in itself. Where would they go? Thavnair had turned their backs to them, and Hingashi was only allowing them to collect themselves.

"I have not heard word from Lady Yugiri on where we head next..." she murmured, moving to stand up as well. She grimaced as she used her sword to pushed herself into a standing position, despite the pain that she was clearly feeling doing so. "Wherever it may be, I feel it too will not last forever." 

She glanced back at the huddled members of her country and sighed. "How does Kikuyo fare by the way? Have her injuries healed well?"

Standing up, Hinako helped support Mozu at her flank as she too stood, hoping to ease some of the stress on her body. She smiled to Mozu. "She is strong... like her big sister. Kikuyo is doing fine. Time and rest will see her rise again."

The same small smile creeped at the corner of Mozu's mouth, and a bit of pride swelled in her heart. "That is true. She is quite strong for her age..."

Hinako’s tone hushed as she looked back over to the mourners, once again. "...And as shall we all, and then this too shall pass."

The ninja paused for a moment before reaching into her robe and pulling free a long, thin smoking pipe along with a small matchbox. She pulled free a match and quickly struck it against the bandage on her arm to light it, letting the flame sit at the tiny opening of the pipe. She puffed a few times before the ground fogweed inside smoldered.

The priestess’ smile brightened a little, looking back to Mozu, and as she indulged in her pipe Hinako could have sworn a bit of light was returning to the ninja’s spirit.

"Yes. This too shall pass... but for now we must let our people mourn. Let them lick their wounds and heal." Mozu whispered, the pipe laying firmly in the corner of her mouth. Small trails of smoke wisped from her nose and dissipated into the air. She turned towards Hinako and smiled, trying to change the subject. 

"Enough of this sad talk. Is this your first time in Kugane, Hinako?"

“Hmm?” Hinako blinked for a second with a hint of surprise. “Why, indeed so. For the fleeting time that it is.”

Mozu took in a deep breath into her pipe, letting the smoke leave heavily through her nostrils in return. The effects of the contents of her pipe quickly took hold of her, calming her nerves and dulling some of the pain that still took hold of her injured body. She looked around at the hostelry, smiling fondly at the familar architecture that the building had. 

 "Truth be told, Hingashi is actually the place of my birth." she looked over at Hinako, pulling the pipe from her mouth the pass smoke between her lips. "While I call Doma my home, there is a special place I hold for this land in my heart..."

"Ohh...?" Hinako took a look around herself with a little grin. "Heh, I see... It is sort of a second coming for you, huh?" 

She stepped over and leaned against the threshold, gazing beyond the room. 

"I've never gotten to see this place from within; my family is from here, though, funny enough." She then glanced back at Mozu with something of a bemused look. "To be quite honest, I know little about the greater part of my family."

"Oh? I did not know you were from Hingashi as well, Hinako." Mozu said with a turn of her head. "You had a clan that lived here?" 

It seemed the topic at hand had her attention away from the display of sorrow and grief behind her.

“They still might live here, as far as I know,” Hinako shrugged her shoulders gently. “I may have have been born on Doman soil, but my mother and grandfather came from this land.” Pensively, she gazed off to the side. 

“I was not even aware of such a clan’s existence until some summers back,” Hinako said with a grin. “They left the most of it, bound for the mainland.”

"Ahhh, I see. My clan lived her for most of its existence. It wasn't until my father took the throne did he move us to Doma..." she trailed off, a look of pride and sadness taking her features for a moment. "He told me it was because the bakafu here was becoming increasingly...untrustworthy; But I believe his better intentions were to bring my mother back to her homeland."

She stayed silent after that, pondering her memories for a second before turning back to Hinako. She tapped the ground twice with her sword and grinned. 

"Well, since you have not visiting Hingashi in such a long time, perhaps you would accompany me for a short stroll? I must walk these aching bones after being cramped on a ship for so long," the ninja offered, a bit of life seemingly returning to her magenta eyes.

Hinako stared straight into Mozu’s eyes for an instant. At that, she smiled with a slight tilt of her head. 

“I would gladly.  “Motouji?” Hinako called to her peer, who promptly rose from clusters of people to view her at the doorway. To him, she nodded - and the older hyuran gentleman returned the nod in wordless confirmation. With that, she returned her attention to Mozu. 

“Shall we go?”

[normansollors]

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Cat Peeing With Blood

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[razzmatash]

Alive Part One (ffxv)

Pairing: Gladio x f!oc

Word Count: 4072

Ao3 Link

Part Two

The Misadventures of Eerie: Insomnia--Outlands

Summary: After weeks of only hearing Imperial propaganda about the fall of Insomnia and the death of both king and prince, good news is sorely needed.

            Rubbing her hands over her face, Eyra sighed. The water she’d dipped them in had been cold but she barely felt it. The heat in Lestallum was insane. Dusty had warned her and she’d thought she’d been ready that first time they’d come here. But then they’d gotten here and she’d immediately wanted to burn every pair of pants she owned.

            Her second trip into the city wasn’t any different and the thought of wearing anything other than shorts had her sweating.

            She pushed up and grimaced at her reflection. Forget sweating, she looked like she’d been hit by a freight train. The aches in her body would certainly echo that sentiment. The last couple weeks had sapped whatever energy she’d had and she was running on fumes now.

            The people in Insomnia had warned her that life outside the wall would be different, more demanding, and it had been. Dusty had straight up told her as soon as she’d left the city. But since the city’s fall, things had gotten worse. She’d expected it when she’d heard the news about the capital, but the way people looked at her when they found out she was a medic was draining. Completely and utterly draining in every possible sense of the word, in every capacity of the word.

            It was exhausting and the trip to Lestallum had taken forever. Then, with everyone that had been displaced from Insomnia, securing a room had been an issue. At least until it had come out that she was a medic. Then suddenly there had been a room available at the Leville, paid for by the city, and she’d realised that that had come on a condition. They’d pay for the room, if she worked in the city.

            She had agreed, wanting to save money and earn it at the same time. But after only a handful of days she regretted it and wanted to move on. She’d decided to give it a couple more, a few more shifts to make more gil and then she would go to the next town.

            She was tired though and spent most of her days collapsing back into her hotel room, with barely enough energy to do more than cuddle Spooky.

            Leaving the bathroom, she paused and couldn’t help her smile. Her dog was sprawled in front of the air conditioner, legs in the air and tongue lolling out of her mouth. If it weren’t for the fact that she needed to eat, she’d join Spooky on the floor.

            “Well, Spooky,” Eyra said, digging in her suitcase, “do you want to go for food?”

            Her tail wagged by she didn’t move.

            “I didn’t think so,” she murmured. Pulling a pair of shorts out, she tugged them on and hated that even that much was already uncomfortable. But as little as the people wore here, she wasn’t ready to wander around in just her underwear. “Be good,” she told the dog.

            Another tail wag and a soft woof this time.

            Eyra hesitated before closing her suitcase. There were a few dog toys littered around the room but she wouldn’t put it past Spooky to climb into the luggage to chew on something in there instead. She’d already lost a pair of shoes and her phone charger to her and she’d rather not lose anything else. At this point, she couldn’t waste the money to replace whatever she destroyed.

            After a quick check to make sure she had both money and keys, she left the room with one more look at the puppy. She instantly regretted leaving as a wall of heat hit her before the door was even fully closed.

            Sagging back against the wood, Eyra choked on the heat, sweat already beading on her skin. The hotel spent enough money on the actual air conditioning in the rooms, she wasn’t completely surprised it wasn’t in the hallways. It made her want to go right back into her room but her stomach demanded food.

            Her resolve wavered as she exited the foyer and it somehow got worse. “How does anyone live here?” she muttered to herself. The people here looked used to it but surely they had to be as uncomfortable as she was. There was no way anyone could actually like this heat.

            Even with her discomfort, she still summoned what energy she had to return the greetings people gave her as she passed. There was no point in being rude. She still didn’t make much of an effort to make eye contact as she made her way to the open market. It was nearing dinner time so she knew it was going to be busy but she didn’t feel like making the effort to go further into the city to find somewhere slower to eat.

            Her steps slowed, despite her urgency to eat and the weight of the heat on her, as she neared the entrance. This place was different than the ones in Insomnia but it was close enough to bring back memories. Dragging her heels as a child, upset at being there, at being in the city. Walking faster, calling over her shoulder at her uncle to hurry up, wanting to see everything. Keeping pace with him, pointing out spices and foods, trying not to butt in when Kal was bartering. Showing her brother the stalls that actually carried Galahd items.

            She stood in the entrance, soaking in the gentle sounds of it and the scents on the air. Different but enough to weigh on her heart.

            She would have stood there for longer if her stomach hadn’t growled loud enough for the people nearby to look at her in amusement.

            That had her moving toward the back of the market. The new heat on her skin had nothing to do with the weather. Any other time she would have taken her time to go through the stalls again but she beelined for the café. Hopefully she would beat the rush and it wouldn’t be too busy. She didn’t want to wait for food or go looking somewhere else for it.

            Thankfully, she spied a couple empty tables as it came into sight and she quickly slipped past the entrance. She’d barely settled when someone approached the table.

            “Girlie, you’re lookin’ strung out.”

            Eyra slumped in her chair as she looked at the tipster, trying to smile to disprove him. It fell short so she let it drop. “I’m just hungry,” she said softly.

            “If you say so. What’ll it be?”

            “Alcohol?”

            He snorted. “Now you sound like your auntie. I’ll bring you somethin’, girlie. You just sit.”

            Rubbing her hands over her face again, she braced her elbows on the edge of the table and took the time to squish her emotions back down. Of all the things she needed now, thinking about her family was not one of them. Varro wasn’t really an issue since she’d barely known her aunt before she’d died. It was more her uncle and brother she didn’t want to think about, not when she didn’t know if they were alive or dead.

            The stories out of Insomnia were anything but encouraging. She knew to take them with a grain of salt since anything she heard on the radio was being filtered through an Empire mouthpiece. But she’d heard no word about her family or the other people she was trying not to think about. It was hard to keep the thoughts at bay when she was tired though.

            Eyra bit down on her lip, hard enough to make her wince. She wasn’t going to break here. She wasn’t. No news wasn’t bad news and she had a situation. Spooky had chewed the cord for her phone shortly before the attack had happened. She knew Gladio hadn’t been in the city, they’d talked a few times after the four of them had gotten out. If he'd tried to contact her he wouldn't have been able to. He would have tried to contact her, she knew it. But those reports-

            She jumped when something was put on the table. The stars in front of her eyes made it hard to see but spice tickled her nose and she knew there were skewers. “Thank you,” she said, reaching into her pocket.

            A yelp left her when he swatted her arm with enough force to sting. “Put it away, Eerie,” he muttered. “Not only Kal, but your mama would have my head if I didn’t help you out when you’re this off.”

            A few more blinks cleared her vision but the kindness on his face made her wish she hadn’t seen it. “Thanks,” she pushed out.

            He patted her shoulder this time. “Eat up, girlie. Rest up.”

            All she could do was nod as he walked away. She reached for the glass he had left and was only mildly disappointed that it was water. It was probably for the best. She wasn’t working tomorrow but she didn’t want her day off to be spent nursing a hangover.

            Slowly picking at her skewers, she turned her gaze outward to the market. The sun was already setting but the market showed no signs of slowing. There was no fear here, not with the lights bright and ever burning. And the nightlife in Lestallum was almost better than the day.

            She got lost in people watching, barely noticing when her glass was refilled along with her plate. She shot a look at him but he pointedly ignored her. There was no use wasting the food he was giving her but she was going to have to find a way to pay him back.

            “C’mon, big guy! The diner’s back here! We can scope out some more bounties and get some eats!”

            Frowning around her bite, Eyra looked back out at the crowd. That wasn’t…was it? It couldn’t be. But if it was why would they be here? He’d told her they were heading to Altissia. Lestallum was almost as far away from Galdin Quay as they could get.

            But she dropped her skewer to plant her hands on the table. She’d only just pushed herself up when someone came through the crowd, heading straight for the entrance and the table closest to it. Eyra locked her knees as she stared at him but she still sagged. “Prompto?” she whispered to herself.

            He didn’t hear her across the diner and his gaze was focused back on the crowd.

            She’d only just started to look when her legs wobbled. All she could do was stare as she sat down hard.

            There was no mistaking him as he came out of the crowd. Or maybe it parted around him. He tended to have that effect no matter where he was. “We agreed to eat back at the hotel with the others.”

            “C’mon, we can scope out the place to begin with, can’t we? No harm in looking around, right?”

            Whatever Gladio said in response she didn’t hear. Her heartbeat was echoing in her ears, drowning out everything else. He was alive. He was alive and standing not twenty feet away from her. She tried to call to him but her voice was gone, her throat completely dry and leaving her with nothing.

            He wavered for a moment, her vision going blurry. Fists rubbed at her eyes, desperate to clear the tears gathering there. She needed to see him. She needed to call to him. She needed to-

            “Eyra?”

            Her hands fell, head snapping around at the call of her name. It wasn’t his voice that said it, the tipster coming toward her with concern all over his face. Oh, god, what did she even look like right now? How bad was it that he was coming to check on her?

            “Holy shit.”

            She turned again, drawn immediately to his voice. He was still blurry but he was looking at her, she was sure of it. She nearly lost sight of him completely as her eyes filled again and she desperately rubbed at them.

            Gasping when hands grabbed her wrists, her foot lashed out. That earned a hiss from the both of them as it connected sharply with someone. “Babe, come on, seriously?”

            Tipping her head back, she blinked quickly as she was pulled to her feet. “Sorry?” she rasped.

            She just saw the corner of his mouth quirk. “No you’re not,” he murmured, hauling her into him.

            The action was so familiar, so wanted, she felt that tenuous hold on her emotions crack. Burying her face into his chest, she inhaled raggedly but it didn’t help. She was surrounded by him now, relief swamping her. He was alive. He was alive.

            A broken sob left her and she immediately tried to choke it down. They were in public and she wasn’t going to cry here. Inhaling slowly, she squeezed her eyes shut as he lifted her off her feet. She was still pressed the length of him and briefly considered winding her legs around him but he hadn’t lifted her high enough.

            Eyra made a disgruntled noise when he put her down, jarring a little. “Gladio?”

            His hands rubbed her back for a moment before trailing down her arms to grab one of hers.

            “H-Hey,” she said when he started pulling her out of the diner.

            “Big guy?” Prompto called.

            “Tell the others I’m gonna be busy for a while,” he said as they passed the table.

            “Busy-Oh, hey! Eerie!”

            She couldn’t even see the other as they walked out of the diner. She couldn’t see much, bumping into people as he hauled her through the market. “Gladio, I can’t!” she said shortly, digging in her heels.

            He pulled her a few more steps before he let go of her hand to slip his arm around her waist again.

            “Put me down!” she snapped when he lifted her off her feet, hauling her out of the market completely.

            “No,” he growled shortly, swinging around a corner.

            She started to shove him when he leaned into her, pressing her back to a wall. Her hands fisted in his shirt, clinging instead as he kissed her. Kissing him back, desperation swelled in her. He was alive. He was alive and in her arms. More tears slipped down her cheeks, prompting a growl from him as they slid against his skin.

            “Baby, stop crying,” he mumbled against her.

          “I can’t,” she whispered, peppering his face with kisses and ignoring his grunt. It was a real possibility she’d just poked his eye with her nose. “I fucking can’t.”

           He squeezed her hip and the other cupped the back of her head. “Where are you staying, baby?”

            “What?” she asked, confused enough to stop kissing him.

            “We’re in public, Eyra,” Gladio murmured.

            Her heart plummeted and she pulled away from him. Public. “Put me down,” Eyra whispered.

            He slowly lowered her down but didn’t let go of her, his fingers still buried in her hair. “Babe,” he said softly, kissing her forehead. “Where are you staying?”

            She stared at his chest, her thoughts still tangled up in the whole display she’d just put on. She was all for showing how much she cared about him, didn’t care about people seeing that, but her face was still a complete disaster and crying only made it worse.

            “Hey, it’s not that bad,” he breathed. “Don’t think about it. Where are you staying?”

            “Leville,” she pushed out. She rubbed at her face, trying to get rid of the tears.

            “Easy,” Gladio said, grabbing her arms again. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

            Eyra tried to pull her arms back but he wasn’t letting go. She looked up at him, frowning, and wound up sputtering when he kissed her again. “Gladio!”

            “Nobody cares,” he breathed. “If you cry, if we kiss. They don’t care, Eerie. Don’t worry about it.”

            “You’re not the one blubbering like a fool,” she growled. She didn’t care about the kissing bit either and wanted more honestly. Just not when everyone could see her looking like a goblin.

            “And they’re not the ones that just found their lover alive thinking that they’re dead.”

            That knocked the breath out of her and she slumped into him. “Fuck.”

            “You gonna walk this time?”

            “Maybe if you stop hauling me around like a sack of potatoes!”

            Rough hands cupped her face, tipping her up and tugging on her until she was stretched enough for him to kiss her. “Missed that,” he breathed against her. “Missed you.”

            “You’re gonna make me cry again, shut up,” she muttered.

            His smile was front and centre as he pulled back from her. “C’mon, babe.”

            It was only a little easier to walk with him this time, her fingers threaded through his as opposed to the way he’d gripped her entire hand. If her vision wavered, she blamed it on the heat and nothing more. If she squeezed his fingers a little, moved a little closer to him, it wasn’t anything special. It had nothing to do with the relief that was making her legs weak and her heart flutter.

            “What floor?” he asked as they went up the steps to the hotel.

            “Mm? Oh, third.”

            Gladio made a noise that was both irritated and acknowledgement. “We’re on the fourth.”

            “We?” she asked softly.

            “Noct and the guys,” he explained, taking the stairs two at a time. Much to her displeasure. “Iris, Talcott, and Jared got here before us.”

            It was the heat making her eyes blurry. It was the fucking heat. “Your sister made it out?”

            “Yeah, Jared and some of the Crownsguard got ‘em out when shit went south.”

            “Good.” That was good but there was someone he hadn’t mentioned. “Gladio…your dad?”

            It was his turn to squeeze her hand, his mouth pressing into a flat line. A single shake of his head was her answer.

            Oh. Oh no. She’d suspected when the news had come that Regis was dead but to actually hear it, to actually know Clarus was gone as well, was a punch to the gut. When they hit the third floor, she led him down the hall. Letting go of his hand was difficult but he slipped behind her as she pulled her keys out, sliding his arms around her.

            She started to lean into him as she unlocked the door before growling when he picked her up again. “Gladio, stop it!”

            Spooky barked sharply as they came into the room and he kicked the door shut behind him without answering her. He barely stepped in, setting her down only to turn her to face him as he leaned back against the door.

            Whatever she was going to say died on her tongue as he just held her to him. Now wasn’t the time to fight or argue or whatever the fuck she’d been thinking of doing. Not when they’d just found each other again.

            She sank down with him as he sat on the floor, slumping into him. Now that they were alone, she didn’t feel like crying anymore. Her exhaustion had come back full force and now she just wanted to pass out.

            Or would have if her dog hadn’t come barreling over to try to jump on the both of them.

            Gladio laughed softly. “Hey, dog,” he murmured, reaching out to rub her ears. “Nice to see you made it too.”

            “She has a name,” Eyra muttered, tucking her head against his shoulder.

            “Only took a month.”

            “Shut up.”

            He laughed again. “Spooky right?”

            She nodded, petting the dog as well as she climbed into their laps. A small laugh left her when she licked his chin.

            “I’m not sure if I missed you or not,” he told her, rubbing Spooky’s ears again.

            “She missed your shoes,” Eyra murmured.

            “She destroy yours?”

            “Yeah…and my charger,” she admitted.

            Gladio stiffened against her before he sighed harshly. “That why you never picked up when I called?”

            Her stomach twisted and she stared at Spooky. He had called. She’d wondered but with no way to check, she had done the only thing she could; not think about it. “Yeah,” she said weakly.

            “Aw, fuck,” he groaned. “Well, shit.”

            He didn’t need to say anything for her to know. Not having contact with each other, even though they’d both known they weren’t in Insomnia, wasn’t exactly the best situation for either or them. Not with how they both tended to react. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Brand new phone and she chews the charger when I need it most.”

            “Not your fault,” he sighed. “But you still could have called.”

            Eyra moved enough to look at him. “Gladio, babe, if you honestly think I remember your number you’re giving me too much credit,” she said dryly.

            “You don’t?”

            “Do you remember mine?”

            “…No.”

            She laughed at the slow way he said it, leaning in to kiss him. “See? It’s in my phone so I don’t have to remember it but,” she continued when he opened his mouth, “I’ll write it down so this doesn’t happen again.”

            He sighed. “We can check with Iggy too, see if he’s got a spare charger. But you gotta promise to keep the dog away from it.”

            Easier said than done. “Well. She didn’t have your shoes so she turned on me. Maybe you should stick around so it doesn’t happen again.”

            Gladio snorted. “Uh huh.”

            Eyra jumped when his phone went off. After all this time without her own phone working, the sound of a ringtone was startling. And it set Spooky to barking again. “Shit,” she muttered, wriggling out of his grasp to try to catch the puppy that was now racing around the room. “Spooky, hush!”

            She thought she heard Gladio chuckle over her barking. “Hey, Iggy, what’s up?”

            Pausing in her chase, she glanced back at him.

            “Prompto tell you?” He snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna be a while.”

            “Gladio!” Eyra growled.

            He threw her an amused look. “Dinner later? Yeah, that’ll work.”

            She stared hard at him as he hung up. “That’s not funny.”

            “What? I haven’t seen you in nearly two months. You really think I want to share you right now?” He pushed himself off the floor with a grunt.

            “You didn’t have to say it like that!”

            “Since when have you cared?”

            Eyra pulled back a little. She didn’t. She knew she didn’t especially since she knew Ignis himself didn’t care. It wasn’t like any of the guys didn’t know they were in a relationship.

            Gladio sighed. “Shit, babe, I’m sorry.”

            “No, I….” She shrugged. “It’s been a rough without hearing from anyone,” she admitted. ���Then with work and everything else, I’m just….”

            “Stretched thin,” Gladio finished. “I get that.”

            Stepping into him when he got close enough, Eyra tried not to simply slump into him. “I’m tired,” she whispered.

            He rubbed her back slowly, asking, “Wanna just take a nap until we meet up with the others?”

            She wasn’t so sure she was going to want to wake up later. “Yeah.”

            A startled laugh left her when he hefted her up again but she didn’t protest as he carried her over to the bed. She fully expected him to dump her onto it and felt her heart flutter when he carefully set her down.

            Toeing off her shoes as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull his own off, she watched him hesitate for a second before standing with them in his hand. “Good plan,” she laughed as he carried them over to set on the dresser.

            “Don’t really want to try to replace them out here and with her penchant for chewing on leather, I’m not taking the risk.”

            Eyra threw a look at Spooky, who had followed him and was now standing with her paws braced against the dresser to try to see what he’d done. The dog was a menace.

            Scooting back on the bed when he joined her, she curled into him as soon as he was settled. Her eyes closed as his arm slid around her and she couldn’t help her sigh. “I missed you,” she whispered.

            His palm pressed flat to her back, pushing ever so slightly. “Missed you too. We gotta fix your phone, Eerie. I don’t want to go through that again.”

            She nodded against him. Later. They’d figure that and everything else out later. For right now, she was just going to enjoy this moment for all that she could.

[mrmrsvegan]

Veganism as a Religion

So a lot of people have been talking and debating about the definition of veganism.  What I would like to add to that discussion is another way of thinking about it, which I believe will help grow the % of vegans rather than keep it stuck around 1% of the population for decades with horrible recidivism rates despite the growing variety of vegan options & mass awareness social medial brings to the table.  http://www.vrg.org/nutshell/Polls/2016_adults_veg.htm

I watch people live in fear of calling themselves a vegan due to the public onslaught from making mistakes & it is incredibly saddening that we are our own worst enemies.  The Meat & Dairy Industry don’t need to hire shills, extremists are doing all the work for them from inside.  Take this example of a vegan kicking people out of a vegan restaurant for the clothing they wear.  Which I sadly predicted over a week ago in another post...  Hope he isn’t a subscriber...

100k people have watched this clip...  You don’t have to like the way Mrs Vegan & I represent veganism, but we do our best to include every type of vegan who is working positively to help others.  

The most successful religion in the world is Christianity.  The little I know about it from getting kicked out of Sunday school for telling everyone in my class the historical and scientific inconsistencies in the bible when I was 8 is still enough to share this comparison, because the nun at St. Joseph’s Church told my mom that religion isn’t for everyone and that she should let me do what I am passionate about.  Thanks again Sister!

These are works in progress.  I could not find anything similar online.  My attempt is to cover all the bases in a positive and future looking way.

The Commandments of Veganism.

#1. Thou Shall Not Kill or contribute to the death of any living creature within the reasonable measures of existence.  (meaning, bugs will be crushed on bike & car rides, animals will be lost in the harvest of crops & displacement of civilization, all life results in loss, perfection is impossible, better is achievable)

#2. Thou Shall Improve. (making conscious decisions to reduce our impact on the life we share this planet with, purchasing vegan items, participating in veganic farming, taking better preventative measures to prevent pest control, embracing minimalism to reduce displacement of shared habitat, are ways to lessen the given impact of sharing this planet)

#3. Thou Shall Not Stand in Judgement of Others (the path of moral superiority does not win converts it only builds a deeper divide resulting in more animal suffering. when you say “I am morally superior” you are inherently calling your audience inferior & that is a losing strategy.)

#4. Thou Shall Advocate in a manner based on results not ego.  (what is most important is that advocacy draws people into veganism and does not widen the gap.  Some forms of advocacy are harmful to veganism and animals.  Our goal should not be what makes us feel vindicated or purposeful, but what actually helps more people go vegan & reduces the most animal suffering for effort expended.  Don’t break laws, make new laws or repeal bad ones so you can continue to serve.)

#5. Thou Shall Forgive.  (We all make errors & mistakes & are faced with trials that test our veganism continuously.  These don’t make us less of a vegan, but more prepared and experienced to help others and ourselves overcome them the next time.  There is no vegan police, lead by example and counter missteps in others with education, kindness and the nurtured understanding that will keep them motivated to do better.)

#6. Thou Shall Educate.  (The recidivism rate, even among celebrity vegans is very high, people who were once pillars in the vegan movement are no longer vegan.  They lacked the ability to obtain & evaluate information.  Continuous education & sharing the tools to find & evaluate information is essential for countering anti vegan propaganda.)

#7. Thou Shall Cook.  (It is mind boggling how many vegans can’t cook simple dishes such as rice or baked a potato.  These rudimentary skills are necessary for long term survival and are essential for influencing others with delicious meals & the ability to pass along these essential skills.)

#8. Thou Shall Accept.  (BE KIND. People are on different paths & places in their journey of life, by accepting them into veganism & creating community we hold them close where we can educate and empower them to be better vegans.  Lacking tolerance for even the most challenging case displaces our ability to engage.)

#9. Thou Shall Explore.  (The world is the most precious gift we have in life & by getting out there and interacting with other people you will find the goodness in humanity and they will see the kindness in veganism.  The mutual benefit is the greatest gift in life.  Exploration is personal growth.)

#10. Thou Shall Protect.  (We owe a duty to share our intelligence and ability with the life we share this planet with & some day this universe.  Be assured we are not alone & how we treat life on this planet will be reflected in how life will treat us.  As a protector our decisions, actions & consequences of them should be weighed against well tracked results.  Many times good deeds have ill consequences.  Feeding a wild animal creates dependance and when the hand out can no longer be sustained the animal can die from their learned helplessness.  Just because something sounds good doesn’t guarantee it will be good.)

So please don’t #3 me here I free styled this while playing rockabye baby with Tate & instead #2 this list.  Make veganism something people are proud to be a part of, COMMUNITY is what made Christianity so popular & is what is Veganism’s greatest strength RIGHT NOW. 

[readbookywooks]

24 A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn't say, "Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up," or even "whoever she can't live without." Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I "can't survive without." There's not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me. I'll just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It's a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment, the choice would be simple. I can survive just fine without either of them. In the morning, I have no time or energy to nurse wounded feelings. During a predawn breakfast of liver pate and fig cookies, we gather around Tigris's television for one of Beetee's break-ins. There's been a new development in the war. Apparently inspired by the black wave, some enterprising rebel commander came up with the idea of confiscating people's abandoned automobiles and sending them unmanned down the streets. The cars don't trigger every pod, but they certainly get the majority. At around four in the morning, the rebels began carving three separate paths - simply referred to as the A, B, and C lines - to the Capitol's heart. As a result, they've secured block after block with very few casualties. "This can't last," says Gale. "In fact I'm surprised they've kept it going so long. The Capitol will adjust by deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when their targets come in range." Almost within minutes of his prediction, we see this very thing happen on-screen. A squad sends a car down a block, setting off four pods. All seems well. Three scouts follow and make it safely to the end of the street. But when a group of twenty rebel soldiers follow them, they're blown to bits by a row of potted rosebushes in front of a flower shop. "I bet it's killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," says Peeta. Beetee gives the broadcast back to the Capitol, where a grim-faced reporter announces the blocks that civilians are to evacuate. Between her update and the previous story, I am able to mark my paper map to show the relative positions of the opposing armies. I hear scuffling out on the street, move to the windows, and peek out a crack in the shutters. In the early morning light, I see a bizarre spectacle. Refugees from the now occupied blocks are streaming toward the Capitol's center. The most panicked are wearing nothing but nightgowns and slippers, while the more prepared are heavily bundled in layers of clothes. They carry everything from lapdogs to jewelry boxes to potted plants. One man in a fluffy robe holds only an overripe banana. Confused, sleepy children stumble along after their parents, most either too stunned or too baffled to cry. Bits of them flash by my line of vision. A pair of wide brown eyes. An arm clutching a favorite doll. A pair of bare feet, bluish in the cold, catching on the uneven paving stones of the alley. Seeing them reminds me of the children of 12 who died fleeing the firebombs. I leave the window. Tigris offers to be our spy for the day since she's the only one of us without a bounty on her head. After securing us downstairs, she goes out into the Capitol to pick up any helpful information. Down in the cellar I pace back and forth, driving the others crazy. Something tells me that not taking advantage of the flood of refugees is a mistake. What better cover could we have? On the other hand, every displaced person milling about on the streets means another pair of eyes looking for the five rebels on the loose. Then again, what do we gain by staying here? All we're really doing is depleting our small cache of food and waiting for...what? The rebels to take the Capitol? It could be weeks before that happens, and I'm not so sure what I'd do if they did. Not run out and greet them. Coin would have me whisked back to 13 before I could say "nightlock, nightlock, nightlock." I did not come all this way, and lose all those people, to turn myself over to that woman.I kill Snow. Besides, there would be an awful lot of things I couldn't easily explain about the last few days. Several of which, if they came to light, would probably blow my deal for the victors' immunity right out of the water. And forget about me, I've got a feeling some of the others are going to need it. Like Peeta. Who, no matter how you spin it, can be seen on tape tossing Mitchell into that net pod. I can imagine what Coin's war tribunal will do with that. By late afternoon, we're beginning to get uneasy about Tigris's long absence. Talk turns to the possibilities that she has been apprehended and arrested, turned us in voluntarily, or simply been injured in the wave of refugees. But around six o'clock we hear her return. There's some shuffling around upstairs, then she opens the panel. The wonderful smell of frying meat fills the air. Tigris has prepared us a hash of chopped ham and potatoes. It's the first hot food we've had in days, and as I wait for her to fill my plate, I'm in danger of actually drooling. As I chew, I try to pay attention to Tigris telling us how she acquired it, but the main thing I absorb is that fur underwear is a valuable trading item at the moment. Especially for people who left their homes underdressed. Many are still out on the street, trying to find shelter for the night. Those who live in the choice apartments of the inner city have not flung open their doors to house the displaced. On the contrary, most of them bolted their locks, drew their shutters, and pretended to be out. Now the City Circle's packed with refugees, and the Peacekeepers are going door to door, breaking into places if they have to, to assign houseguests. On the television, we watch a terse Head Peacekeeper lay out specific rules regarding how many people per square foot each resident will be expected to take in. He reminds the citizens of the Capitol that temperatures will drop well below freezing tonight and warns them that their president expects them to be not only willing but enthusiastic hosts in this time of crisis. Then they show some very staged-looking shots of concerned citizens welcoming grateful refugees into their homes. The Head Peacekeeper says the president himself has ordered part of his mansion readied to receive citizens tomorrow. He adds that shopkeepers should also be prepared to lend their floor space if requested. "Tigris, that could be you," says Peeta. I realize he's right. That even this narrow hallway of a shop could be appropriated as the numbers swell. Then we'll be truly trapped in the cellar, in constant danger of discovery. How many days do we have? One? Maybe two? The Head Peacekeeper comes back with more instructions for the population. It seems that this evening there was an unfortunate incident where a crowd beat to death a young man who resembled Peeta. Henceforth, all rebel sightings are to be reported immediately to authorities, who will deal with the identification and arrest of the suspect. They show a photo of the victim. Apart from some obviously bleached curls, he looks about as much like Peeta as I do. "People have gone wild," Cressida murmurs. We watch a brief rebel update in which we learn that several more blocks have been taken today. I make note of the intersections on my map and study it. "Line C is only four blocks from here," I announce. Somehow that fills me with more anxiety than the idea of Peacekeepers looking for housing. I become very helpful. "Let me wash the dishes." "I'll give you a hand." Gale collects the plates. I feel Peeta's eyes follow us out of the room. In the cramped kitchen at the back of Tigris's shop, I fill the sink with hot water and suds. "Do you think it's true?" I ask. "That Snow will let refugees into the mansion?" "I think he has to now, at least for the cameras," says Gale. "I'm leaving in the morning," I say. "I'm going with you," Gale says. "What should we do with the others?" "Pollux and Cressida could be useful. They're good guides," I say. Pollux and Cressida aren't actually the problem. "But Peeta's too..." "Unpredictable," finishes Gale. "Do you think he'd still let us leave him behind?" "We can make the argument that he'll endanger us," I say. "He might stay here, if we're convincing." Peeta's fairly rational about our suggestion. He readily agrees that his company could put the other four of us at risk. I'm thinking this may all work out, that he can just sit out the war in Tigris's cellar, when he announces he's going out on his own. "To do what?" asks Cressida. "I'm not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me," he says. "What if you...lose control?" I say. "You mean...go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back here," he assures me. "And if Snow gets you again?" asks Gale. "You don't even have a gun." "I'll just have to take my chances," says Peeta. "Like the rest of you." The two exchange a long look, and then Gale reaches into his breast pocket. He places his nightlock tablet in Peeta's hand. Peeta lets it lie on his open palm, neither rejecting nor accepting it. "What about you?" "Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss," says Gale with a smile. "She won't give them the satisfaction of taking me alive." The thought of Peacekeepers dragging Gale away starts the tune playing in my head again.... Are you, are you Coming to the tree "Take it, Peeta," I say in a strained voice. I reach out and close his fingers over the pill. "No one will be there to help you." We spend a fitful night, woken by one another's nightmares, minds buzzing with the next day's plans. I'm relieved when five o'clock rolls around and we can begin whatever this day holds for us. We eat a mishmash of our remaining food - canned peaches, crackers, and snails - leaving one can of salmon for Tigris as meager thanks for all she's done. The gesture seems to touch her in some way. Her face contorts in an odd expression and she flies into action. She spends the next hour remaking the five of us. She redresses us so regular clothes hide our uniforms before we even don our coats and cloaks. Covers our military boots with some sort of furry slippers. Secures our wigs with pins. Cleans off the garish remains of the paint we so hastily applied to our faces and makes us up again. Drapes our outerwear to conceal our weapons. Then gives us handbags and bundles of knickknacks to carry. In the end, we look exactly like the refugees fleeing the rebels. "Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," says Peeta. It's hard to tell, but I think Tigris might actually blush under her stripes. There are no helpful updates on the television, but the alley seems as thick with refugees as the previous morning. Our plan is to slip into the crowd in three groups. First Cressida and Pollux, who will act as guides while keeping a safe lead on us. Then Gale and myself, who intend to position ourselves among the refugees assigned to the mansion today. Then Peeta, who will trail behind us, ready to create a disturbance as needed. Tigris watches through the shutters for the right moment, unbolts the door, and nods to Cressida and Pollux. "Take care," Cressida says, and they are gone. We'll be following in a minute. I get out the key, unlock Peeta's cuffs, and stuff them in my pocket. He rubs his wrists. Flexes them. I feel a kind of desperation rising up in me. It's like I'm back in the Quarter Quell, with Beetee giving Johanna and me that coil of wire. "Listen," I say. "Don't do anything foolish." "No. It's last-resort stuff. Completely," he says. I wrap my arms around his neck, feel his arms hesitate before they embrace me. Not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong. A thousand moments surge through me. All the times these arms were my only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever. "All right, then." I release him. "It's time," says Tigris. I kiss her cheek, fasten my red hooded cloak, pull my scarf up over my nose, and follow Gale out into the frigid air. Sharp, icy snowflakes bite my exposed skin. The rising sun's trying to break through the gloom without much success. There's enough light to see the bundled forms closest to you and little more. Perfect conditions, really, except that I can't locate Cressida and Pollux. Gale and I drop our heads and shuffle along with the refugees. I can hear what I missed peeking through the shutters yesterday. Crying, moaning, labored breathing. And, not too far away, gunfire. "Where are we going, Uncle?" a shivering little boy asks a man weighed down with a small safe. "To the president's mansion. They'll assign us a new place to live," puffs the man. We turn off the alley and spill out onto one of the main avenues. "Stay to the right!" a voice orders, and I see the Peacekeepers interspersed throughout the crowd, directing the flow of human traffic. Scared faces peer out of the plate-glass windows of the shops, which are already becoming overrun with refugees. At this rate, Tigris may have new houseguests by lunch. It was good for everybody that we got out when we did. It's brighter now, even with the snow picking up. I catch sight of Cressida and Pollux about thirty yards ahead of us, plodding along with the crowd. I crane my head around to see if I can locate Peeta. I can't, but I've caught the eye of an inquisitive-looking little girl in a lemon yellow coat. I nudge Gale and slow my pace ever so slightly, to allow a wall of people to form between us. "We might need to split up," I say under my breath. "There's a girl - " Gunfire rips through the crowd, and several people near me slump to the ground. Screams pierce the air as a second round mows down another group behind us. Gale and I drop to the street, scuttle the ten yards to the shops, and take cover behind a display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller's. A row of feathery footwear blocks Gale's view. "Who is it? Can you see?" he asks me. What I can see, between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, is a street full of bodies. The little girl who was watching me kneels beside a motionless woman, screeching and trying to rouse her. Another wave of bullets slices across the chest of her yellow coat, staining it with red, knocking the girl onto her back. For a moment, looking at her tiny crumpled form, I lose my ability to form words. Gale prods me with his elbow. "Katniss?" "They're shooting from the roof above us," I tell Gale. I watch a few more rounds, see the white uniforms dropping into the snowy streets. "Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they're not exactly crack shots. It must be the rebels." I don't feel a rush of joy, although theoretically my allies have broken through. I am transfixed by that lemon yellow coat. "If we start shooting, that's it," Gale says. "The whole world will know it's us." It's true. We're armed only with our fabulous bows. To release an arrow would be like announcing to both sides that we're here. "No," I say forcefully. "We've got to get to Snow." "Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," says Gale. Hugging the wall, we continue along the street. Only the wall is mostly shopwindows. A pattern of sweaty palms and gaping faces presses against the glass. I yank my scarf up higher over my cheekbones as we dart between outdoor displays. Behind a rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper propped against a strip of brick wall. He asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun. At the intersection, he shoots a second Peacekeeper and we both have firearms. "So who are we supposed to be now?" I ask. "Desperate citizens of the Capitol," says Gale. "The Peacekeepers will think we're on their side, and hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets." I'm mulling over the wisdom of this latest role as we sprint across the intersection, but by the time we reach the next block, it no longer matters who we are. Who anyone is. Because no one is looking at faces. The rebels are here, all right. Pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways, behind vehicles, guns blazing, hoarse voices shouting commands as they prepare to meet an army of Peacekeepers marching toward us. Caught in the cross fire are the refugees, unarmed, disoriented, many wounded. A pod's activated ahead of us, releasing a gush of steam that parboils everyone in its path, leaving the victims intestine-pink and very dead. After that, what little sense of order there was unravels. As the remaining curlicues of steam intertwine with the snow, visibility extends just to the end of my barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel, citizen, who knows? Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively, and I'm no exception. Heart pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy. Except Gale. My hunting partner, the one person who has my back. There's nothing to do but move forward, killing whoever comes into our path. Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people everywhere. As we reach the next corner, the entire block ahead of us lights up with a rich purple glow. We backpedal, hunker down in a stairwell, and squint into the light. Something's happening to those illuminated by it.They're assaulted by...what? A sound? A wave? A laser? Weapons fall from their hands, fingers clutch their faces, as blood sprays from all visible orifices - eyes, noses, mouths, ears. In less than a minute, everyone's dead and the glow vanishes. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over the bodies, feet slipping in the gore. The wind whips the snow into blinding swirls but doesn't block out the sound of another wave of boots headed our way. "Get down!" I hiss at Gale. We drop where we are. My face lands in a still-warm pool of someone's blood, but I play dead, remain motionless as the boots march over us. Some avoid the bodies. Others grind into my hand, my back, kick my head in passing. As the boots recede, I open my eyes and nod to Gale. On the next block, we encounter more terrified refugees, but few soldiers. Just when it seems we might have caught a break, there's a cracking sound, like an egg hitting the side of a bowl but magnified a thousand times. We stop, look around for the pod. There's nothing. Then I feel the tips of my boots beginning to tilt ever so slightly. "Run!" I cry to Gale. There's no time to explain, but in a few seconds the nature of the pod becomes clear to everyone. A seam has opened up down the center of the block. The two sides of the tiled street are folding down like flaps, slowly emptying the people into whatever lies beneath. I'm torn between making a beeline for the next intersection and trying to get to the doors that line the street and break my way into a building. As a result, I end up moving at a slight diagonal. As the flap continues to drop, I find my feet scrambling, harder and harder, to find purchase on the slippery tiles. It's like running along the side of an icy hill that gets steeper at every step. Both of my destinations - the intersection and the buildings - are a few feet away when I feel the flap going. There's nothing to do but use my last seconds of connection to the tiles to push off for the intersection. As my hands latch on to the side, I realize the flaps have swung straight down. My feet dangle in the air, no foothold anywhere. From fifty feet below, a vile stench hits my nose, like rotted corpses in the summer heat. Black forms crawl around in the shadows, silencing whoever survives the fall. A strangled cry comes from my throat. No one is coming to help me. I'm losing my grip on the icy ledge, when I see I'm only about six feet from the corner of the pod. I inch my hands along the ledge, trying to block out the terrifying sounds from below. When my hands straddle the corner, I swing my right boot up over the side. It catches on something and I painstakingly drag myself up to street level. Panting, trembling, I crawl out and wrap my arm around a lamppost for an anchor, although the ground's perfectly flat. "Gale?" I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized. "Gale?" "Over here!" I look in bewilderment to my left. The flap held up everything to the very base of the buildings. A dozen or so people made it that far and now hang from whatever provides a handhold. Doorknobs, knockers, mail slots. Three doors down from me, Gale clings to the decorative iron grating around an apartment door. He could easily get inside if it was open. But despite repeated kicks to the door, no one comes to his aid. "Cover yourself!" I lift my gun. He turns away and I drill the lock until the door flies inward. Gale swings into the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. For a moment, I experience the elation of his rescue. Then the white-gloved hands clamp down on him. Gale meets my eyes, mouths something at me I can't make out. I don't know what to do. I can't leave him, but I can't reach him either. His lips move again. I shake my head to indicate my confusion. At any minute, they'll realize who they've captured. The Peacekeepers are hauling him inside now. "Go!" I hear him yell. I turn and run away from the pod. All alone now. Gale a prisoner. Cressida and Pollux could be dead ten times over. And Peeta? I haven't laid eyes on him since we left Tigris's. I hold on to the idea that he may have gone back. Felt an attack coming and retreated to the cellar while he still had control. Realized there was no need for a diversion when the Capitol has provided so many. No need to be bait and have to take the nightlock - the nightlock! Gale doesn't have any. And as for all that talk of detonating his arrows by hand, he'll never get the chance. The first thing the Peacekeepers will do is to strip him of his weapons. I fall into a doorway, tears stinging my eyes.Shoot me. That's what he was mouthing. I was supposed to shoot him! That was my job. That was our unspoken promise, all of us, to one another. And I didn't do it and now the Capitol will kill him or torture him or hijack him or - the cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break me into pieces. I have only one hope. That the Capitol falls, lays down its arms, and gives up its prisoners before they hurt Gale. But I can't see that happening while Snow's alive. A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself back together. Okay, I'm still an anonymous refugee. Or did the Peacekeepers who caught Gale get a glimpse of me as I fled? I remove my cloak and turn it inside out, letting the black lining show instead of the red exterior. Arrange the hood so it conceals my face. Grasping my gun close to my chest, I survey the block. There's only a handful of dazed-looking stragglers. I trail close behind a pair of old men who take no notice of me. No one will expect me to be with old men. When we reach the end of the next intersection, they stop and I almost bump into them. It's the City Circle. Across the wide expanse ringed by grand buildings sits the president's mansion. The Circle's full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. I fit right in. I begin to weave my way across to the mansion, tripping over abandoned treasures and snow-frosted limbs. About halfway there, I become aware of the concrete barricade. It's about four feet high and extends in a large rectangle in front of the mansion. You would think it would be empty, but it's packed with refugees. Maybe this is the group that's been chosen to be sheltered at the mansion? But as I draw closer, I notice something else. Everyone inside the barricade is a child. Toddlers to teenagers. Scared and frostbitten. Huddled in groups or rocking numbly on the ground. They aren't being led into the mansion. They're penned in, guarded on all sides by Peacekeepers. I know immediately it's not for their protection. If the Capitol wanted to safeguard them, they'd be down in a bunker somewhere. This is for Snow's protection. The children form his human shield. There's a commotion and the crowd surges to the left. I'm caught up by larger bodies, borne sideways, carried off course. I hear shouts of "The rebels! The rebels!" and know they must've broken through. The momentum slams me into a flagpole and I cling to it. Using the rope that hangs from the top, I pull myself up out of the crush of bodies. Yes, I can see the rebel army pouring into the Circle, driving the refugees back onto the avenues. I scan the area for the pods that will surely be detonating. But that doesn't happen. This is what happens: A hovercraft marked with the Capitol's seal materializes directly over the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in this chaos, the children know what silver parachutes contain. Food. Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes, five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes simultaneously explode. A wail rises from the crowd. The snow's red and littered with undersized body parts. Many of the children die immediately, but others lie in agony on the ground. Some stagger around mutely, staring at the remaining silver parachutes in their hands, as if they still might have something precious inside. I can tell the Peacekeepers didn't know this was coming by the way they are yanking away the barricades, making a path to the children. Another flock of white uniforms sweeps into the opening. But these aren't Peacekeepers. They're medics. Rebel medics. I'd know the uniforms anywhere. They swarm in among the children, wielding medical kits. First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I'm almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off.

[noctis-hq]

congratulations ROSIE! you’ve been selected for the role of Leopold “Leo” Durant, also known as the escape artist. please look over the checklist here. you have 48 hours to send your account to the main. welcome to the family!

MAN. you guys did not make this one easy on me either. i really struggled on who to go with this one but in the end, i think leo really captured what i envisioned for the escape artist. i could feel his turmoil in your bio. i was with him every step of the way hoping it would work and breaking when it didn’t. and the details about his nana’s grimoire freaking got me. chills. honestly, i’m so excited to see leo and just can’t wait for my heart to break some more with your beautiful writing!

&&. THE AUDIENCE

alias: Rosie

age & timezone: 21, PST

activity. I try and post at least once a day, and I try and get all my replies done before bed.  I’d say a 9 or 10.

&&. THE ACT

skeleton

: The Escape Artist

reasoning: The fact that they’re always on the run and are now stuck at the school intrigues me.  I think this is going to cause a lot of inner turmoil for this character, and I hope to explore that.  

name: Leopold ‘Leo’ Durant

faceclaim: Thomas Doherty

age & birthday: June 6th 1995 (23)

gender: Male

key traits:

Headstrong - Once Leo makes a decision, he sticks with it and no one can change his mind. As long as he thinks he is taking the best route, he will steady his course.  His focus has helped him get through life, and when he was younger it resulted in many awards and accomplishments in school.

Fearful - While he is focused and set in his decisions, he mainly makes them out of fear.  Fear is his driving force. He doesn’t want to get hurt or hurt anyone else. This all began when his powers started to manifest.

ability:

Necromancy - Leo can communicate with the dead, and revive small creatures.  However, whenever he brings something back to life, something else dies. He can see and hear spirits, but when he sees them it is only for a brief moment and when he hears them their words are often jumbled and he cannot decipher what they’re saying.  When spirits appear to him, it is only for a split second and they appear how they looked when they died.

I chose necromancy because this is the power I saw fitting best with the character’s history and helped explain why he is the way he is today.

bio. 

Leopold Vincent Durant was born in New Hampshire to Scarlett and Paul Durant when they were both in their late 30s.  He was considered a ‘miracle baby’, since his parents had trouble conceiving and were deemed infertile years prior. He was an imaginative and clever young boy, running around and playing in the woods near his house.  He could make props out of anything. He would play superhero and make capes out of ragged towels. He may have been an only child but he never felt lonely. He had an innate ability to entertain himself, and that creativity is still with him today.  

He was, and is, incredibly focused. Once he sets his mind to a task he cannot stop until it is done, not even taking breaks to sleep or eat.  This earned him high grades in school, and his friendly attitude drew people to him in high school. He joined the school baseball team and was well liked among the student body.  He was voted Most Likely to Succeed by his classmates, and graduated with a plan to earn a business degree at a college nearby. Given that his parents were older, he wasn’t comfortable leaving them with their increasing number of health problems.  Leo had a positive outlook on life, and figured that the pieces were going to fall where they would and he was just going to make the best out of it. His college life started out as he expected. He would go to school, go to work, then come home. All of his friends went away to college so he didn’t have anyone to hang out with, but that was fine.  He had his family. He tried out for the college baseball team but unfortunately didn’t make it. He figured it was for the best, that way he could work more. Leo carried his happy go lucky attitude through his freshman year of college. He made a few friends, but none of them were true friends as they didn’t talk outside of school.

It was his sophomore year, when he was 19, that things began to change.  He started seeing figures out of the corner of his eye, and hearing voices.  At first he thought it was just stress and that it would go away after a while, but it didn’t.  It began happening more and more. He would see a lot of elderly people with ashen skin, standing there with their eyes fixed on him as if he were the only one there.  Then, after the blink of an eye, they were gone. He would occasionally see something more sinister. Men and women with blood dripping down their faces from an accident or someone with a bullet wound.  Those were the ones who scared him; they caught him off guard. That was when he started seeing a psychiatrist, who then prescribed him medication. Much to his dismay, it didn’t work.

Naturally, he told his family about what was going on, with the voices and the figures.  They seemed confused and concerned, but his grandmother sat with a smile. He didn’t understand at first, but he would after she passed a year later.  His Nana Jude was an eccentric woman who never hid her interest in curiosities. She had odd figurines lining her shelves and a stylized pattern painted on her walls that looked like something out of a fantasy novel.  She would always talk about the power of the individual and how one could do great things if the discovered then harnessed it. That the world was full of energy that was waiting to be used by the ‘awakened’. There were a few times where he could have sworn she’d summoned household items right into her hand, but later convinced himself he imagined it.  The night she died, Leo was woken up by a loud thud. After turning on the lights he saw what appeared to be a dark green, leather bound book on his desk. He’d never seen it before, and figured he’d ask his parents about it in the morning, thinking they were playing some sort of joke on him. After mentioning it casually at the breakfast table, they claimed to know nothing of it.  Shortly after was when they received word that Nana Jude had passed away.

When Leo opened the book, it appeared to be full of blank pages.  However, handwritten words began to appear. His Nana’s name was written on the cover sheet.  Within it were instructions for rituals and spells, none of which Leo understood. He wasn’t surprised that his Nana was involved in witchcraft, he just didn’t think any of it was real.  In fact, the sort of thought she was a bit crazy to think any of it would actually work. So, he shoved the book under his bed and didn’t think about it for months. That is, until his childhood dog died.

He came home from work one evening to learn that Tino, the Jack Russell Terrier he’d had since childhood, was ill and needed to be put down. Leo saw it coming, but he was crushed.  He wanted to stay in the room with him while they put him down to calm him, even though his parents said he shouldn’t. After they completed the euthanasia, the vet gave the family a few moments to say goodbye.  He was even more emotional given that he was still grieving the loss of his grandmother, but still, he knew he had to let go, no matter how much he didn’t want to lose him. So, he gave him one last pat and walked out the door.  His hand felt warm, and his family told him that his skin had gotten really red. However, he just figured it was because he was emotional.

Just as they were gathering themselves for the ride home, the vet came back and said that Tino had survived the procedure and had no trace of the illness.  They were overjoyed and brought the dog back home. They came to realize though that this wasn’t the same dog. It wouldn’t respond to its name, it was never excited to see them, it didn’t like to eat, and it didn’t like to play.  All it did was lay and stare at whoever was in the room. It was Tino’s body, sure, but Leo didn’t believe that Tino was actually in there.

It was weird to him, and he remembered the feeling in his arm and how his skin was red as if he’d come from running a mile.  During a fight with his dad, he knocked over a planter full of dead flowers, and he felt the same odd burning sensation in his palm.  After going for a walk to cool off, he found the flowers as vibrant as ever in the displaced dirt at his feet, but the grass in their front yard was brown and dry.  That was when he decided to take a second look at the book, and he began wondering if all the magic could be real.

The voices occurred more and more, it became so loud that he couldn’t sleep most nights.  The figures stuck around too. They were always the same ones, it was like they were haunting him.  Though he couldn’t understand their words or get a long enough look to read their expressions, he had the feeling they wanted his help.  There was nothing he could do… except get away.

So, when he was 20, he said goodbye to Hampshire.  Leo dropped out of college and told his parents he’d met some girl and they were eloping.  He wished that were the case. He figured that the souls couldn’t follow him everywhere, and that once he lost them, he’d be free.  He was right. When he got to Maine, the spirits that were forever in his company had vanished. He tried to settle there, to have. Real life.  He got a job, and even made friends with the single mom who lived across the hall of his apparent complex. He would babysit her daughter for a little extra cash.  The girl had a hamster and a dog. While she loved her rodent, her dog Spot was her best friend. When he was watching her one day, her hamster escaped from his cage.  While scurrying around looking for him, the young girl accidentally stepped on him, resulting in his death. Leo, hating to have to see her sad, picked up the hamster and tried to muster up the same amount of emotional energy he had when he brought Tino back.  His arm got really warm and he felt exhausted, and that’s how he knew it worked. She was so happy, but only for a second. In the other room, they discovered her French Bulldog Spot laying dead on the floor. He died suddenly while eating from his bowl. The girl wept and yelled; and Leo just knew it was his fault even though she wasn’t blaming him.  He knew the universe needed balance; a life for a life.

He left that city and went to the next.  He has to leave every few months due to the spirits finding him, and he can’t handle the constant noise on his head.  He’s afraid of death, every time anything dies he panics. It doesn’t matter if it’s a mouse, plant, or insect. He’s afraid he’s going to accidentally bring it back and end up killing something else.  He’s more anxious than he’s ever been, and has resulted to petty crime just to get by. He steals what he needs and breaks into model homes to sleep. It’s a horrible life, but at least he’s not bombarded with constant screeching from souls he can’t help.  His once friendly demeanor has changed to one that is closed off. Getting close to anyone is useless, since he’ll be gone in 6 months anyway. He’s lonely and scared. The longer he has these powers the more frightened he becomes of them. They are the worst thing to ever happen to him.  

When he came across The School the small remnants of his hopeful personality sparked.  He thought, just for a second, that maybe these people could help him. Maybe they could help him control or get rid of it.  There was a possibility for him to have a better life. In less than a day though he decided against that, because it was best to keep on doing what he was doing since it was guaranteed to work.  It had for three years anyway. These people, this place, he knew nothing of it. He didn’t want to be stuck somewhere where getting help was only a slim chance. Although, he’s coming to realize that walking out isn’t going to be as easy as walking in.  

extras.

Headcanons -

He hates going to hospitals.  Whenever he goes he is bombarded with spirits trying to talk to him, even though it all sounds like a blur.  It’s so loud that he can’t hear a live person speaking. However, graveyards are surprisingly quiet.

He learned how to ballroom dance for his senior prom, and surprised his then girlfriend during the dance.

He blames his magic for the way his life has turned out and thinks he’d be better off without it.  

He hasn’t spoken to his family in over two years and it kills him everyday.  Although, he has a fake social media account so he can check up on them.

No one knows about his powers. He doesn’t trust anyone enough and he doesn’t want them to think he’s crazy.

He’s tried to burn his Nana’s Grimoire, but it won’t catch fire. Whenever he tries to ditch it, it comes back to him.

[infinitewatchlistt-blog]

Some Mother’s Failson: AJ Soprano and the Millennial Condition

In upper- and upper-middle class American culture, receiving a new car on your sixteenth birthday is a cherished rite of passage. Countless episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, a seminal work of the early 2000s (known in some online circles as the "McBling" era), feature an eager, bouncing teen rejoicing as her parents hand off the keys to a new convertible or SUV. Mom and Dad grin as they point out all the great safety features of the new car, while daughter or son caress the leather interiors and fantasize about how great the car will look in the parking lot of their school or the background of their MySpace pics. For thousands of teens growing up before the recession, their first car was a material signifier of both adult responsibility and enviable status. Fictional teenager AJ Soprano, from David Chase's masterpiece HBO series, is no exception.

For some participants of "weird Twitter", meme groups, and other obsessive online media-consumption communities, AJ Soprano has become a symbol for the beloved "failson" - a millennial who is pitiable and ironically hilarious for his constant inability to make anything of himself. Though many AJ fans were likely too young to watch The Sopranos when it initially aired, the show's continued popularity and presence on streaming services has led many young people (self included) to revisit the show. Those in the millennial age group - commonly recognized as those born between 1981 and 1997 - are likely to recognize many of the material goods that occupy AJ's adolescence: Mario Kart, metal posters, skate apparel, a personal computer kept in the bedroom (perfect for shirtless message board posting). These are items cherished by those who, unable to fit in with the more socially-adept "cool kids" (ie. those featured on shows like My Super Sweet Sixteen), retreated into a more insular world of teenage angst and video games. But AJ was not just any awkward mid-2000s teenager: he was the son of a wealthy mobster, and thanks to that, he will receive a car.

In the season five episode "All Happy Families", Tony interrupts one of AJ's belabored tutoring sessions to present him with a brand new Nissan Xterra SUV. AJ's face lights up when he sees the car, while his father tells him about "sensors in the seatbelts" and Nissan's "triple-safety philosophy". Though he notes that SUVs are less environmentally friendly, AJ is as pleased as any disaffected teen can be; but his expression changes when Tony tells him that the car will stay in the garage until he can bring his grades up to a "C". It's an attempt on Tony's part to motivate his son, but AJ immediately expresses annoyance at his parents, irritated that the gift has a catch. As in other episodes of the Sopranos, Tony and Carmela attempt to set standards for AJ, but in their materially-obsessed lives, their hopes for his success can only be expressed through expensive goods. By giving AJ a car dependent only on his continued studying and eventual attainment of good grades, Tony provides a physical representation of the gap between AJ's current self and what his parents expect him to be.

It's no wonder, then, that after the car catches fire in the series finale "Made in America", AJ tells his therapist that he feels "cleansed" by watching it explode. On a subconscious level, AJ is able to recognize the chasm of expectation that the car represents. Just moments before the car was destroyed, he was making out with a beautiful young model and listening to Bob Dylan's "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding), claiming to finally "get" Dylan's music. AJ was experiencing a sense of pleasure and accomplishment at having matured in a way that had nothing to do with his parents' vision of his future. Though it was accidental, setting the car on fire was a both a dumb mistake and a youthful "fuck you!", allowing the real AJ to stick it to the imagined one that hangs over each of his failures.

This imagined AJ heavily influenced his family's view of him, but it also had an overpowering effect on how AJ saw himself. Like many teenagers, AJ strived for adulthood, sneaking into clubs, doing drugs, and trying to shrug off his parents at every turn. But AJ didn't completely reject the nuclear family he was born into: the ideal of the strong, mature head of household - someone like AJ's father - led him to pursue Blanca, a young single mother he met at one of Tony's construction sites. Blanca and her three-year-old son Hector were a ready-made family unit, practically an adult male starter pack. When AJ and Blanca start dating, he immediately jumps into the idea of caring and providing for them. Early in the relationship, he attempts to scare off men making noise outside Blanca's apartment because that's what Hector's father used to do. He takes Hector to the Puerto Rican day parade, keeps a baby seat in the back of his Nissan, and invites them to all Sopranos family functions, much to his mother's barely suppressed chagrin. AJ is so enamored with the idea of settling down with Blanca that he proposes to her, presenting a diamond ring of McBling-appropriate bigness. Blanca is unsure, and though AJ tries to convince her by saying that he'll soon be night manager at the pizzeria where he works, she ultimately declines the engagement and breaks off the relationship. This sends AJ into a deep depression, one that culminates in a suicide attempt and hospitalization. Though his father and sister try to give him perspective and insist that he'll recover from the heartbreak, AJ's failure to build a family and achieve this benchmark of male adulthood devastates him. The viewer (and AJ's more mature loved ones) is able to recognize that AJ did not put in the time and effort a nuclear family typically requires. As with the relationship between the SUV and AJ's academic performance, AJ has put the cart before the horse, and thus failed again to meet the standard provided for him.

Cognitive dissonance is the fuel that keeps the Soprano crime family running. Throughout the series, characters are constantly embroiled in petty arguments or obsessed with minor slights while downplaying the violence, death, and destruction that keeps their pockets lined. Though AJ does not participate in his father's "business", he is aware of it, often seeing news reports and internet articles about the mob's crimes. Instead of turning his burgeoning moral consciousness on the Sopranos family's actions, he fixates on other political concerns: the environment, the Israel-Palestine conflict, factory farming. Millennials recognize AJ becoming "woke" and may guiltily relate to the scenes of AJ sitting at the dinner table, claiming the steak his mother cooked with sprayed with pesticides and insisting that his father read the newspaper. AJ is so divorced from the real tragedy in his life that, just weeks after losing his cousin, he snottily tells Tony to "just bury his head in the sand" regarding the injustices of the world. As the privileged son of a well-to-do family, AJ's political concerns are linked more to his youth and his depression than to any real relationship to these struggles - it seems unlikely that he would care so much about the plight of displaced Palestinians if he had a good job and stable relationship.

Thinking that you're the only person who really understands the world is a classic symptom of youth, and AJ is a perfect symbol of perpetual adolescence. Though he's able to spend thousands of dollars on Cristal at the club, his life is largely a monotony of 9:00 AM cartoons, afternoons working at Blockbuster, and “lincoln log sandwiches” prepared by his mother. Robert Iler's round, wide-eyed face always looks thirteen-years-old, even after AJ grows a hideous chinstrap beard. His continued presence in his childhood home and constant in-and-out of academic institutions prevents him - and the viewer - from establishing a clear timeline for his life; in later seasons, I have little sense of how old AJ is from episode to episode. It's difficult to imagine him ever fully extricating himself from the comfortable life that his parents provided for him. Though the viewer sees the ways in which AJ is forced to grow and change, the series suggests that he - like every other character, and like all of us - will always be stuck in the same framework he was raised with. The last scene of AJ's story (diner scene not included) shows him leaving his job at Little Carmine's film company - a gig that his father got for him - in a new BMW M3, driving to pick up his hot model girlfriend. He tells a friend over the phone that, compared to the old SUV, the new car's environmental impact is "not that bad". The girlfriend gets in the car, and they drive off to one of David Chase's pitch-perfect music cues, as the Noisettes sing to "scratch your name into the fabric of this world."

AJ would be 31-years-old in 2017. When his father was that age, he already had a wife and two children. He had a clear career path and a strong foundation for the rest of his life - a foundation built on bodies buried in backyard, but a foundation nonetheless. We cannot know for certain what AJ Soprano’s life is like ten years after the events of the series finale - David Chase, in the handful of post-finale interviews where he isn’t frustratingly coy, hasn’t given indication about where AJ’s life may have lead. The viewer may speculate that, having seen his father die right in front of him, AJ decided to avenge him. It’s possible that he managed to continue his father's legacy as Don, running the Bada Bing stripclub and ruling New Jersey with an iron fist. For this viewer, it's difficult to really imagine sweet, sensitive AJ, the “happy little boy” Carmela remembered him as, the prodigal son whose father tried desperately to steer him away from a life of crime, following in the family tradition. The perpetual adolescent can never truly progress into the realm of adulthood he so long imaged. Here's a more likely scenario: AJ Soprano, 31-years-old, living with roommates, or a live-in girlfriend, piecing together a life working for Little Carmine’s production company, blowing thousands of dollars on today’s fashionable equivalent of Cristal (high-end mezcal? Humboldt County kush?), and still, always, sensing that great chasm, knowing that he can never progress to being the man his father was, or return to the child he used to be.

[lucids]

Texas Flooding 2017

Four articles with source links.

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Houston's historically black neighborhoods devastated by flooding, with little safety net

Houston's historically black neighborhoods were hit hard by Hurricane Harvey — and many don't have the safety net that residents in other parts of town can rely on to recover.

Six-year-old Karla Rogers lingered on the sidewalk outside her apartment in the hot sun on Thursday, refusing to go any farther. Her friend had told her there were snakes inside.

Five days earlier, her father had lowered her down from a second-story window into the arms of a Houston police officer standing in chest-deep floodwater that had appeared almost overnight with the arrival of what by then had become Tropical Storm Harvey.

“She’s been devastated ever since,” said Eddie Rogers, who is 50. “My main concern was just getting her out.”

They returned to their public housing complex Thursday afternoon to meet with a FEMA inspector who would do a walkthrough of the three-bedroom, one-bath dwelling and determine if they qualified for financial assistance that would allow them to get a hotel room. When they arrived, the complex was nearly deserted — a lot of other people had gotten help, Rogers said — and the inspector was running late.

They had to walk a mile from the downtown emergency shelter where they had been staying for nearly a week because their Ford Explorer had been flooded out, Rogers said.

“So we can’t get in our car no more?” a wide-eyed Karla asked, her cheeks gleaming with tears.

“No, baby,” he said.

When he picked her up to carry her toward the apartment, she burst into tears and began to shriek: “I’m scared; I don’t want to go!” The inspector had just called and would arrive in 15 minutes.

The scene at Rogers’ apartment complex was playing out all over Houston's Fifth Ward, which has long been a predominantly black neighborhood. First settled by freed slaves in the mid-1800s, the Fifth Ward and nearby neighborhoods were once thriving communities of railroad and industrial workers in the mid-20th century. But the decline of industry in the neighborhood and a lack of government investment helped contribute to rapid deterioration later on.

Not all of the area is known to flood regularly; some newer homes and apartments escaped the waters even during Harvey. FEMA doesn’t consider Rogers’ complex to be in a floodplain even though it backs right up to Buffalo Bayou, a usually slow-moving river that runs through downtown Houston but which swelled to unprecedented levels during the storm.

“This was the big one,” said Rev. James Caldwell, a community advocate who grew up in the Fifth Ward and has lived here for the past 20 years. “This is the first time that I’m aware of in years that this area actually flooded into homes. It floods — the streets turn into rivers, and all that — but the homes themselves are generally safe. This time, it hit homes.”

Compared to other parts of town, the safety net for many of these residents is severely lacking. Rogers and his daughter had moved to their public housing complex just two months earlier from a homeless shelter in League City. He had lost his job and his apartment after divorcing Karla’s mother, and he fought a long custody battle to keep his daughter.

All over the Fifth Ward, the watermark appeared to be waist-deep in the one-story homes. Yards were full of debris and wet carpet. Many residents who had been flooded out were walking to and from their houses each day to a downtown evacuee shelter — about 4 miles away — to get food and a dry place to sleep.

In wealthy neighborhoods, many residents had kayaks and fishing boats to help rescue their neighbors. But that wasn't the case in one apartment complex just north of the Fifth Ward.

Water had gotten up to 18-year-old Kisha Adams’ waist in her family’s one-story apartment before she sought refuge in the upstairs unit with neighbors. But the water kept rising. Then, the breaker box across the parking lot of the rundown complex caught fire, and Adams watched the smoke and flames as she called 911.

She never got through. Helicopters flew overhead and she tried to wave huge flashlights in their direction, but they never stopped. So Adams, her parents and her 1-year-old daughter waited nervously with no power and spoiling food until the water receded. It took two and half days for them to walk safely downstairs.

“We lost everything,” said Adams, a native Houstonian. “Everybody lost everything.”

Just a few doors down, 61-year-old Marilyn Wilson put her head in her hands as neighbors hauled all of her ruined possessions — furniture, clothes, heirlooms, electronics — from her apartment. They wore masks over their faces to protect from a toxic smell that seemed to permeate the area.

Wilson has a number of severe health problems, including diabetes and high blood pressure, and she usually gets around in a wheelchair. After the water receded in her home, she returned to discover all her medical equipment was ruined. That includes a machine that helps her with sleep apnea and a hospital-style electric bed that keeps her elevated since she cannot lie flat. She said Medicare will replace the items for free but that she doesn’t know how long that will take.

“It was hell. It was hell on earth, I’m telling you,” said Wilson as she recalled the experience. “I wouldn’t wish this on anybody because this is devastating.” A retired cafeteria worker, Wilson takes in just $1,000 a month from a combination of social security and retirement income, more than half of which she spends on rent.

Caldwell said Wilson’s story is not an unusual one for the area. Many residents here, including seniors and disabled people, were trapped during the storm and are now facing what seems like an impossible task: rebuilding mostly one-story apartments and finding somewhere else to live in the meantime. They will have to rely on FEMA for aid, and it may take months for that help to come through.

By mid-week, residents across the city were taking first steps in the rebuilding process — ripping out soggy carpet, running big fans to help dry things out — but they appeared much wearier in the Fifth Ward area than wealthier parts of town.

Hundreds of families have been displaced from city-owned public housing complexes that flooded in the wake of Harvey, said Brian Gage, a senior policy adviser for the Houston Housing Authority. Rebuilding will be a long and painful process for people with so few resources, he said while standing inside a cavernous hall at the downtown convention center where Rogers and his daughter had been staying.

About 90 of the 296 units in Rogers' 1950s-era complex had flooded, according to two maintenance men cruising around the complex in a dirt-crusted golf cart.

By Thursday evening, the FEMA inspector had looked at Rogers’ home, and he’d walked with his daughter back to their evacuee shelter. They had hoped that federal aid might come through quickly, but the inspector told him it would be days before they could get back with him.

Even though the situation seemed dire, Rogers appeared calm. He was doing everything for Karla.

“I’ve got to keep fighting. This is my reason to,” he said, gesturing toward her.

https://www.texastribune.org/2017/08/31/devastation-houstons-fifth-ward-and-trouble-rebuilding

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Harvey Hit Poor Neighborhoods In Northeast Houston The Hardest

Poor neighborhoods on the northeast side of Houston were hit hard by the floods. But residents say they received little help evacuating, and now they are struggling to get basics like food, water and information.

http://www.npr.org/2017/08/31/547646667/harvey-hit-poor-neighborhoods-in-northeast-houston-the-hardest

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Rockport's most vulnerable are the hardest hit from Harvey

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2017/08/27/rockports-most-vulnerable-hardest-hit-harvey/606051001

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In Houston’s Fifth Ward, wrong side of the tracks meant devastation

The rain started slow in the Fifth Ward on the night of Aug. 26. It began with a sprinkle before 8, built to a steady rain before 9 and then Harvey exploded. More than 7 inches of rain fell between 9 p.m. and midnight.

By 3 a.m., Hunting Bayou was 2½ feet out of its banks. Just seven blocks or so away, Sharon Lee woke up, put her feet on the floor and discovered an ocean of water was already in her apartment.

“We had to get out,” said the 53-year-old, who was taking care of her five grandchildren that night. “I was scared to death.”

They stepped out the door and into a water-swept hellscape. The strong current took her walker as they made their way to the street, she said.

“The water came swooping in and I was clinging on for dear life,” Lee recounted, her voice heavy with emotion. “Oh, Lord.”

She said two family members took her hands and helped her make it to dry ground at the end of the street.

Just down the road, Craig Wanza’s home made it through the storm largely untouched. The water made it up past his truck and into his yard, but spared his house. The damage, he said, was limited to some roof repairs and a couple of sections of sheet rock.

“All things considered, for the suffering that a lot of people are experiencing,” Wanza said, “I feel blessed, lucky, fortunate, whatever you choose.”

Wanza and Lee live just a mile apart along Lockwood Drive, the same north-south thoroughfare in this impoverished yet iconic neighborhood, where the difference between losing nothing and everything depended on what side of the Union Pacific tracks you lived on.

“The overpass is the cutoff of the flood plain,” Wanza said. “There’s a skating rink, once you top the rail yard and all, that’s where the flood plain technically starts — and it backs up.”

All it took to see the difference was turning off of Lockwood and onto the side streets, lined with apartments, shotgun houses and modest homes.

On the north side, people along Crane Street where Lee lived carried their furniture and their belongings — their lives — outside and then threw them in dumpsters.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, never, never,” said another man, who lives in the same low-slung collection of 1960s apartments that Lee calls home. He refused to give his name, but was eager to talk. “I’ve seen high water, up to the doors, to the car to the truck, but to my roof? In the Fifth Ward? Come on.”

On the south side, residents on Wanza’s largely spared Chew Street cleaned up and picked up. The sun was out and Harvey was gone.

It’s difficult to quantify the devastation the storm wrought across the Houston area. It dropped so much rain, an estimated 30 percent of Harris County’s roughly 1,800 square miles flooded and raised the sea level in Houston’s Ship Channel an astonishing 12 feet, according to the county’s Flood Control District.

Harvey’s wrath hit neighborhoods rich and poor across Houston. On the other end of the city, in West Houston, former Houston Mayor Bill White’s upscale Memorial City house and neighborhood also were badly flooded.

But the pain of recovery will be most acute in places like the Fifth Ward, which has long been one of Houston’s toughest and poorest neighborhoods.

For decades, the Fifth and the Third Ward anchored the city’s African-American community. The Third was home to historically black Texas Southern University, the city’s major black newspaper and the community’s elite, intellectuals and musicians. The Fifth was “the brawn to Third Ward’s brains,” Texas Monthly wrote in a 1976 profile of Congresswoman Barbara Jordan, who grew up there.

In a subsequent 1979 story headlined “Only the Strong Survive,” the magazine also described the ward was “the heart of the ghetto,” struggling with crime, drugs and joblessness.

Deprived and exploited by segregation, the ward was carved up by freeways in the 1960s and abandoned by many who could afford the suburbs. Crushing poverty remained: On the north side of the Union Pacific tracks, the average household lives on just $22,000 a year; south of the tracks, the figure is just marginally better, $27,000.

Here, many residents live check-to-check with little savings or insurance. Lee is disabled and needs a walker to get around. Her income is her social security disability check — $733 a month, which she fears will be inadequate as they work to start over.

“The struggle is real,” Lee said. “We need help, we need help.”

http://www.mystatesman.com/weather/hurricanes/houston-fifth-ward-wrong-side-the-tracks-meant-devastation/VvCPU2sbRM70RmS2POJEvK

[afrorojo]

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/final/

My personal belief is that though death is the cessation of the physical body the spirit, soul or energy continues to live on.  People form attachments to this earth or to certain experiences especially traumatic ones that cause them to be caught in some sort of spiritual loop from which they cannot escape unless they have help.

Several years ago the museum where I used to work had a Civil War Photography special exhibit.

I was posted in the Civil War photography exhibit at the museum. My Great, Great Grandfather William Henry Halstead fought in the Civil War. There was a steady stream of visitors but everyone was quiet, calm, serious, deeply affected by what they were seeing. During the course of the day as I walked through the photographs taking everything in it was like I began to see through the eyes of my Great, Great Grandfather. I could hear the sounds of battle, the screams of pain from injured soldiers, feel his adrenaline and fear as he surged forth with his 29th CT. Colored Regiment brothers. All I can say it was like I was in his head. I had to make an effort to turn off so I could finish my day without freaking out. Even now I feel he is still with me even I never met him. Maybe this is genetic memory. All the memories of our ancestors stay with us though we are separated by time and generations.

http://www.conn29th.org/history.htm

However shortly afterwards was when my Japanese Buddhist friend came to work for the museum. We built a relationship of trust in our friendship and I felt comfortable telling her of my psychic experience. She listened and later when I went with her to the Shinnyo-en Buddhist Temple I related the incident to one of the Ministers who also listened without judgement.

In Buddhism there are special prayers for the dead to free them from I believe what is called samsara.  My Great, great Grandfather was caught in the cycle of reliving this horrendous battle. I remember asking my girlfriend why did he contact me and it had been nearly 150 years since the Civil War ended plus he had a host of descendants other than me whom he could have chosen.  I can’t remember her entire explanation but apparently he had to wait until one of his descendants had access to the rituals that could free him.

https://berkleycenter.georgetown.edu/essays/samsara-hinduism

Samsara is the continuous cycle of life, death, and reincarnation envisioned in Hinduism and other Indian religions. In Hindu and Buddhist practice, samsara is the endless cycle of life and death from which adherents seek liberation. In Hinduism, the prominent belief is that samsara is a feature of a life based on illusion (maya). Illusion enables a person to think s/he is an autonomous being instead of recognizing the connection between one’s self and the rest of reality. Believing in the illusion of separateness that persists throughout samsara leads one to act in ways that generate karma and thus perpetuate the cycle of action and rebirth. By fully grasping the unity or oneness of all things, the believer has the potential to break the illusion upon which samsara is based and achieve moksha—liberation from samsara.

  As a child I had many psychic experiences that I could never explain and because I was raised in the Baptist church and I did not want my parents to think that I was nuts so I never told my parents what was going on. I knew instinctively that certain things were not to be discussed. So I suppressed them. These experiences continued more or less even into my 20s. But again I did not speak about them.

Finally when I was in my mid-30s both my parents passed away.  As a single person my parents were my life so losing them was like losing a part of my being. I was really broken up, sad and depressed. I would not eat and could barely function. When my Dad passed away in 1995 I recall standing in front of his photo crying my heart out. Then I felt his spirit come to comfort me. I also remember my Daddy telling me in a dream that he would return to take Mable (my mother with him).  Sure enough in 1998 my mother passed away. He returned for his Beloved.

Prior to this every time I would visit my Mom at her health facility and when I took her home with me on weekends she would tell me all the discussions she had with Daddy. I never questioned or mocked her. As far as she was concerned death had only temporarily separated them. They had the same conversations as when he was alive. During this time period of both my parents illness and subsequent deaths I realized that as the Bible says a husband and wife become one flesh. My parents were married 40 years. Death separated them and death brought them back together.

Since then I’ve had many visitations from both my parents usually through dreams during times when I’m especially stressed.  When I was 49 I had a minor stroke and like you hear people say my life literally passed before my eyes. I had severe damage to my left eye and as a result I don’t see too well with that eye despite having Retina surgery in Jan. 2010.

Again another personal belief but for me the onset of menopause and nearly dying kinda re-opened my Third Eye.  For me the “Change of Life” was really a change in many ways not just physical. In 2012 I had a major split with certain paternal cousins over their accusations that my mother had done something to make Stephen “that way.”

It is very difficult to describe but during this time my mother’s spirit joined with mine and I felt all the sadness, hurt, guilt and shame she felt since she knew some of her in-laws blamed her for Stephen’s being developmentally disabled. A dam broke and she cried and cried through me. We were one at that point. Everything she went through. Every emotion. Every fear. All the despair came flooding into me. That was my signal to permanently break ties with those family members.

I’ve strongly felt the spirits of my both grandmothers because as a writer I had the power to tell their stories particularly for my maternal grandmother Hattie Finney Banks.

https://acalltowitness.com/2013/08/10/the-legacy-of-hattie-finney-banks/

    These feelings, emotions, sensations or visitations have not been confined to relatives/family members. Since I got serious about my writing in 2008 I’ve felt the spirits of my African Ancestors who died during the Middle Passage. Many were thrown overboard by the crews of the slave ships. Some when allowed to come up deck threw themselves into the welcoming arms of Yemaya Oshun rather that face an unknown future in a strange land.

I wondered if it was just me who heard ancestral voices until I spoke with a Jewish gentleman who was part of the Shinnyo-en Congregation. He had family members who perished in the Holocaust and he also her their cries, felt their despair and anguish.

Going back to the topic of attachments as some of you already know I work for a large New York museum. For obvious reasons I will Never name my workplace. However I along with many other security officers have had some strange experiences in certain galleries. I never like being posted in the Egyptian Wing. Being their always gave me the creeps. One former guard said that one time while posted there she felt something trying to choke her. Security guards have also reported hauntings in the American Wing. I also had many unsettling experiences/communications while in the African Art exhibits. Sometimes I feel communications in the Oceania exhibits in what we now call New Guinea.  Those populations are thought to have originally emigrated from Africa thousands of years ago.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Guinea

Depending on your ancestry is where you will have the most connection/communications with departed spirits.  These could be genetic memories or what I believe and has been confirmed by other friends that museum artifacts carrying the spirits of their original owners. As for the Egyptian Wing those mummies have been displaced. They are in a place and country where they don’t belong. Probably angry at having their earthly bodies desecrated while being stared at by many disrespectful museum visitors.  Now I work in a different museum location however I had visitations from a security guard who worked in the building when it was under different ownership who passed away but spent years working in the building.

During many visits to the Brooklyn Museum I’ve felt communications from certain items/artifacts especially those that were used in religious worship. There were times when I wanted to take a photo but the artifact would not allow me. Despite being displaced from their Native lands because we share similar ancestry plus they know I understand.

It is my understanding that I am an Empath (and not an Empath is not just a character on Star Trek).  All it means is that I’m extremely sensitive to the energies of others whether they are living now or once lived on this earth. I’m able to easily pick up on others energies both positive and negative. That’s why I must be careful where I’m at or who I’m around.  Being that my original museum workplace is nearly 150 years old not only do I pick up on the energies of my co-workers, visitors both past and present but the energies inside various galleries. So literally on any given day even when the building is completely empty the energies of past workers and past visitors are still contained within the galleries.

I explored this in my prose/poem ~~ A Building at Rest

https://dancingpalmtrees.com/2013/12/08/a-building-at-rest-goth-holiday-at-the-museum/

http://themindunleashed.com/2013/10/30-traits-of-empath.html

  Canopic Jar ~ Perhaps Queen Tiye

                                    Death Maybe not so Final | The Daily Post My personal belief is that though death is the cessation of the physical body the spirit, soul or energy continues to live on.  

[abassi-okoro]

THE SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS AND THE REVOLUTIONARY

by Abassi Okoro

Kwame Toure once spoke on the difference between mobilization and organization of African people in America. I would like to also speak on a difference.

There are two types of black people in America. There are those of us who are interested in "issues" and then there are those of us who are interested in much more. The overwhelming majority of our people believe that they are fighting for the right reasons and in some ways, they are. In the 1960's we fought for Civil Rights and desegregation. That was an issue that was important to us as a people. In the 60's we also fought for fair and equal treatment in the corporate world and in education, and what came out of that was a concept called, Affirmative Action. That was an issue that was important to us. We took it as a victory. The 1980's was a mixed bag. There were some good and some not so good things that took place. We had three black Miss Americas, we had an hour glass shape economic structure (big money in - a trickle down effect and big money out). It was a decade of corporate discrimination, a war on drugs that targeted inner urban black communities, and a new slogan "Afrocentric" which was more about fashion and culture than politics. But we fought the issues that were important to us.

The 90's brought in the crack epidemic, the Bloods and the Crips, the Rodney King beating, riots, the dragging death of James Byrd by white supremacist and, gangsta rap. It wasn't black people's best moment but we fought the issues that were important to us. We didn't win many battles but at least we fought our battles. I suppose there's pride in just playing the game. [It's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. Well that old adage takes away our natural instinct and will to succeed.] The 2000's to now, Racism has gotten perpetually more brazen and in the past couple of years we have protested and boycotted more in the past two years than we did in the entire decade of 60's - proving that we have hardly taken a step towards real social progress. But, thanks to technology we can take our anger and outrage to social media and forge our dissatisfaction with our current government through Tweets and memes. Some even consider THIS "fighting."

Every time there's an act of injustice or a social issue, we (black folks) have no problem responding to that issue. There's no shortage of black people who are willing to boycott, protest or hold mass demonstrations. A clothing store is selling a racist sweater - let's rally and show them we mean business! We won't shop there any longer. No problem! The company will most likely pull the item from their shelves and we will most likely return to the store as happy patrons a couple of months later after it all blows over. We may even feel accomplished. A black man had the police called on him for doing nothing more than walking into his apartment building and a white woman took one look at him and decided that there's no way he could afford to live there and so she called the authorities. Let's rally and show them how upset we are at that sort of racism. No problem! The woman will probably lose her job at the bank as a result of the video of her harassing the young black gentleman gong viral. We may even feel accomplished. People will always come to rally and protest and scream and pump their fist. People will always come together to address "Issues." We will always gather around "Issues." It's predictable.

Those of us who are revolutionaries and progressive thinkers are not concerned with "Issues." We're concerned with the system. You must understand the difference. People who are concerned with issues are not concerned with reformation, they are concerned with equity. They are the people who pose the questions, "How come I can't have the same slice of pie? How come the white folks are entitled to certain privileges and I am not?" This is how they think. This is not how the revolutionary thinks. The protestors and equal opportunity folks don't want social reform; they just want what they think is "owed" to them and they want it with very little change or sacrifice. They want to be black without being African. Their concerns are always temporary. Once they are are satisfied, they move on to the next "issue" like a virus or forget all together about the previous issue. The two black men who were arrested in Starbucks last April, quick . . . what were their names? See? Because of this short-term memory, these people can easily be fooled around the issue and they often become so enamored by one issue that it seems that it's the only issue worth caring about. It's difficult to get these people to organize or to even organize their own thoughts. They lack continuity and consistency. They are simply not organized.

When you are organized, you don't need money, you don't need fame, fortune, popularity or allies. Why? Because you have power. Despite what some may believe, power does NOT come from money or opportunity. Power comes only from the organized masses (Kwame Toure). America is NOT the most powerful nation on the earth. China is the most powerful nation on the earth - not because they have money but because they are organized! Because they are not concerned with "Issues," they are concerned with systems! Capitalism is not a concept, it is an organized system of private enterprise. Europeans in the 1600's traveled to the west coast of Africa and captured in the excess of 10 million Africans for slavery and they accomplished this not because they had money but because they were organized. Only organization could account for several hundred men having the ability destabalize a country of millions.

Out of many of the issues that we love to rally over, we always fail to rally over the biggest issue, our disorganization. It is safe to say that we can not even organize to talk about our disorganization. Black people in America (displaced Africans) will never be able to fight an organized system while being disorganized. Money is not the answer, our national interest in destabalizing the system is the answer. We must understand our national interest and we cannot exercise so much stupidity to allow that system to convince us of what our interests SHOULD be (money.)

They will happily entertain our desire for money as long as we don't desire what we really need, organization (power). They understand that our lack of economic literacy will pretty much guarantee an hour glass result, (big money in - a trickle down down - big money out). Are you going to spend the rest of your life addressing "Issues" or are you going to stop putting your hand out and start addressing the system that gives birth to these issues? The difference between socially conscious folks and the revolutionaries is that the socially conscious are only conscious SOCIALLY and will only respond socially. They are the issue fighters. Revolutionaries on the other hand are globally conscious. GLOBALLY (hence the term: Revolve) and they see all sides of the sphere. We are the system fighters.

"Fighting the system IS fighting the issues. But fighting the issues is not fighting the system."

- Abassi Okoro

[proudsmartass-blog1]

Living Well in the Dark Times of the Doom Cheeto

Lately whenever there’s breaking political news, this meme comes to mind. 

I won’t make this a political rant. There’s enough of that out there right now. We all know what’s wrong with the Doom Cheeto and all that he and his appointed staff (who collectively look like every perp & pedo ever featured on Law & Order, let’s be honest) stand for. 

I knew I would be affected by the orange shitstorm.  I just didn’t know how much or how quickly.  In less than two weeks, I’ve become absolutely disgusted and ashamed to call myself an American. I’ve seen friends and colleagues become fearful for themselves and their loved ones because of a fanatical religious ban that has no root in logic or reason. I’ve seen good people become terrified over deportation (themselves, their parents, their spouses), even though they’ve been taking the right steps on the path to citizenship so far. I’m seeing my rights to my own body & reproductive health being put up for debate by old sleazy privileged white men (who, without a doubt in my mind, have probably impregnated women and demanded that they have abortions at some point). I’m seeing my sexual orientation called into question on my ability to raise a family (good thing electroshock therapy can cure the half-gay outta me....wheeeeee!  <----bitter sarcasm). I don’t want kids, but that’s MY decision to make, based on how messed up and scarred for life my own Italian/Irish upbringing has left me...not based on who I’m attracted to. I fear that this narcissistic waste of flesh will lead us straight into WWIII. 

I’m participating in rallies and protests, but it feels like they are all for nothing.  I’m emotionally, psychologically, and physically drained, and my immune system took a deep plunge during the last month. I managed to catch just about every bug out there...the flu for two weeks, a stomach virus that I’m recovering from at the moment, My mental health took a hit...I’ve had more nightmares than usual, insomnia, and my BDD symptoms have essentially locked me in the boot of the car & been steering the wheel (anxiety attacks over having photos taken, seeing myself in photos, anxiety over having to eat, restriction, involuntarily becoming physically ill after eating).

It might feel selfish at first, but now more than ever it is extremely important to check in with yourself and take extra care if you are feeling unwell.  How? Ive no fucking idea!  But this is what I’ve been doing, and it seems to be helping me a bit. If it helps you as well or gives you some ideas, then have at them!

Allow yourself to feel your feelings.

This sounds stupid, I know.  But I’m the Chief in Command when it comes to burying everything deep down and fighting back tears! How am I? I’m fine. Even though I’m doing my best to put on this fake smile and hope that you don’t hear the screaming going on inside my own head...I’m fine!

It’s okay to feel your feelings. Cry it out. If you need to talk, open up to someone you trust.  They might actually be thankful that you initiated the conversation! I’ve had that very response, when I was afraid that I’d be inconveniencing them with my feelings/mere existence...they felt the same way. Or, try writing in a journal if you’re  not feeling people. Writing in a journal after waking from some pretty horrific nightmares has done me a world of good in trying to figure out the workings of my fucked up mind!

Find the humour.

Whatever it is...a situation, yourself, try to find what’s funny there.  This has actually been helpful in making me feel like I still have some control, perhaps via a displaced sense of having taken some of the power back that was taken from me from the thing (if that makes sense)? Like when I can’t seem to remember anyone’s name (even though you’ve told me five or so times), or recall the conversation we literally just had (that I actively participated in)! Another late notice from the electric company? I probably got distracted by something shiny while I was logging onto the website to pay it last month...whoops! Or like taking back the fear I feel every time the Doom Cheeto announces that he appointed so-and-so to whatever...

Okay, I don’t want a picture of the Doom Cheeto Brigade on my blog, but trust me...they really do all look like every bad guy ever featured on Law & Order!

Physical Health

This is a given, but also only if you’re up for it. I like going to the gym, but don’t always feel the energy for it.  If you’re not a gym fan, try going for walks or biking or indoor rock climbing (or outdoor, if you don’t live in a concrete jungle like I do!)

The worst thing you can do when you’re feeling down is sleep all day and hide away from humanity (which I’ve been guilty of on numerous occasions, so no judgments here).

Looking at sh!te on the interwebz.

Okay, so you’ve ignored said previous step and ventured off to Club Bed, featuring DJ Pillow and MC Duvet.  I respect it! While you’re regrouping, try easing your mind with enjoyable music (save the death metal for working out, maybe), or look at some uplifting/funny stuff on the web.  Avoid the news for now! I’ve needed to take days off from reading anything news-related, which is really hard and requires much effort lately.  It’s not ignorance, it’s not being selfish.  You’re taking a personal breather.

(Sad Ghost Club art :)

Cut toxicity from your life.

This one sucked, but I had to just cut out the people who were making the loudest noise when I asked for silence.  All were very toxic, very pushy and forceful in their disagreement with my opinions on political matters (after all, who am I to believe we’re all entitled to basic human rights in a place known as “The Land of the Free”?), very racist, and very not what I stand for or wish to associate myself with.  The suckage happened after the fact, after the unfriendings and requests that they no longer contact me. That I could not foster positive relationships with people who held that sort of hatred in their hearts (this is not the same as having different political views, mind you...politics does not = hatred!)

I have not regretted losing one of the toxic connections that I’ve cut, and have had improved peace of mind.

Create Community

Seek out others who are experiencing the same struggles as you are.  The internet can be a wonderful resource for this! Plenty of meet up groups out there.  If you cannot find community (and this is NOT easy, and where I’m at in the present moment), then seek to create it. Look into organising meet up groups and dates.  Again, the internet is an amazing resource for this! And remember...the chances of others feeling the same way that you do are greater than you walking around being the only one feeling that way (even though you might hope that you are the only one, because it really does suck, and you don’t wish this on anyone else).

Mental healthcare is, unfortunately, treated like a bit of a luxury item here in the US.  “It’s okay to not be okay...so long as you can afford to not be okay.” Insurance copayments and deductibles can be ridiculous. Meet up groups can be a godsend when therapy is not an option!

Random Kindness

I make a point of giving three random strangers a compliment on a daily basis. I’ve been doing this for the past 15+ years, in an attempt to combat my BDD. By helping others feel good about themselves, by pointing things out that they perhaps do not perceive as attractive about themselves (or maybe they do, and good on them if so!). They feel good. I feel good. WIN!

If I can help someone to not feel as grotesque and forgettable as I feel daily, either via a compliment or a laugh, then I’ve done my part.

(Hat = birthday gift from friends who put up with my emo nonsense & love me anyway! Get your own from TheSadGhostClub dot com )

I hope this babbling comes in useful to someone out there in internet land!