#i think this one is weaker than my other written catharsis but this one feels vague enough to maybe be relatable

[spacechampion]

im Rotting away from the inside out

this is not a self deprecation, merely a fact. i’ve been Rotting for a long time i think. possibly since my creation. born with rust on my bones and decay in my blood. as i grow and age my skin begins to peel back, exposing the sick color i am inside

i worry that the Rot is creeping ever more steadily to visible parts of me. others have begun to notice. they comment when they think i cannot hear. my ear may have fallen away, putrified, but that does not mean i cannot hear them

i lash out, blood under my nails and bandages around my fingers, every time the Rot becomes exposed, further isolating myself and turning others away. i do not want them to realize i’ve become spoiled, far past my expiration date. i also didn’t expect to last this long! im at least a decade past when i thought i would finally crumble to pieces. but i’m still here and now unsure what to do with myself

i am unable to plant roots without them coming loose, drying out before even budding, or simply becoming sick. obsessed. consumed by Rot.

i pretend i am planted, just like everyone without the Rot. i never was a very good actor, always getting the shit parts no one else wanted. rotten work. settling down, planting seeds, tending a garden, it all seems to come so naturally to everyone else, have they truly never experienced the Rot before? never a fungus? never a mold?

perhaps my transient upbringing has made permanence impossible. i never learned how to stay put, be still without the Rot becoming identifiable and frightening and grotesque. i repulse those around me. it happens every time. like clockwork, tick tock

it’s almost funny that i hide my self, cover the Rot as long as i can, stash away the dead parts of me to be more palatable.

all i want is to be seen and cared for

[bookandcover]

[Note: This post was primarily written in August/September 2020.]

This book was recently recommended to me by friends, and I read it in three days. I was immediately drawn into the energy and structure of the book, with its genre-defying blend of personal memoir and academic research, and I found it difficult to put down. I also appreciate seeing Iowa City through Machado’s eyes (her appearing housemates like familiar characters), as the events of the book occur during Machado’s years in the MFA program. There’s a thrill to this novel (echoing the horror genre Machado loves), but also a deep introspection—each short section of the book reads more like a prose poem than any other genre (packed with imagery, carefully craft syntax, and moments of parallelism and thematic resonance through repetition and reference). Many of the short sections made me pause, stopping to re-read and to process, but they also catapulted me into the next section, pulling me forward less through a drive to follow plot than through a need to trace themes and draw connections.

The concept of this book is inherently both clever and necessary. Machado uses tropes (literary, artistic, historical) to reframe and re-examine her experiences in the Dream House (a physical symbol she uses to encapsulate her time/identity while in an abusive relationship). The different tropes Machado draws on range in type from highly intellectual to brimming with pop culture relevance. As a young(?), literary reader, I enjoyed this a lot. It felt like I was repeatedly contextualizing Machado’s experiences within frameworks I relate to. Although, admittedly, I didn’t relate to each and every one, there were still so many frameworks that “rang true” to me. Machado’s work comes out of a highly-researched, academic space as well (blending this with the deeply felt, personal and passionate aspects of her experience), and I found myself Googling more words and concepts than I normally do when I’m reading. The framework/project of this memoir did, for me, one the things I attribute to the strongest writing: using intellectual framing not as an exercise in intellectualism, but as a necessary tool, a stopgap measure at the place where language fails. I generally recoil from books that I see as using cleverness (tools, structures) that exist because they are clever, because they show off and flex the writer’s intellect and craft skills. If these tools are not justified—by the content, by the real emotional space they create—I’m inclined to dismiss them as posturing. You can be the cleverest person in the world, but if you’re being clever for the sake of being clever, that is a thin, temporary success—glittery, eye-catching, and, ultimately, vapid.

Machado’s framework/project, on the other hand, is born of necessity—of the real, emotional need to try to understand and express the impossible to understand or express. By approaching her topic again and again through these different academic and popular lenses, she recreates the experience of furious problem-solving and unrest, repeated attempts to solve a problem with every tool able to her, and repeated failures. She, herself, explicitly addresses this within the book, characterizing the experience of abuse as something the exists beyond language, beyond attempts to communicate it. I was particularly moved by her description of Dream House as Half Credit, in which she explained the technique she’d learned as a young student of writing down everything she knew that was relevant to a problem on a test when she did not know the correct, exact answer. This book is that kind of attempt, an attempt to catalogue and to circle around, to get repeatedly close to capturing the truth, while acknowledging that this kind of truth must escape her. “Let it never be said that I didn’t try,” Machado writes.

In addition to this book’s framework/project being a genuine attempt to capture the impossible-to-capture, it also feels like the real instinct of someone who is trying to understand themselves in the face of something that they could never imagine would happen to them. When faced with the fact that she endured and accepted her abuse over a significant period of time, Machado is baffled. So many of us must think to ourselves, when reading or hearing about abuse, “I would have walked away if this were my relationship” and Machado, too, had thought this. And yet, in the real situation, she didn’t. And how can she understand this? How can she show us, her readers, that we do not fully understand abuse if we do not acknowledge that we’re changed utterly while within it and that all our promises to and assumptions about ourselves become void? By going through the frameworks and tropes that Machado knows and loves—from literature, to philosophy, to film, to popular culture—that have shaped her and her thinking, she is trying to understand “the dream house” within other frameworks that she can hold onto, frameworks that make sense and that do not sink like quick sand.

Another dimension in which the experience of Machado’s abuse resists her attempts at comprehension and explanation is the absence of other writing on the subject. This is one of the central projects of the book: to collect the existing literature on domestic abuse within female-female partnerships and organize that information into one volume. Machado is repeatedly baffled by how limited this information is, and by the stereotyping and assumptions that override important accounts of abuse. She addresses the rampant idealization of female-female relationships, often prevalent within the queer community, that uphold female-centric spaces as safe ones, that categorize abuse as a male-on-female issue. Our stereotype of abuse is male-on-female for many reasons tied to a long history of systematic sexism and the very real dangers of domestic abuse perpetuated by men and targeting their wives and girlfriends. This stereotype is far from the full picture, but it’s somehow a stereotype so loud that it drowns out other types of abuse. Our image of the abuser and our image of the abused—both are firm and clear in our minds. And, so, when the people involved do not fit these pre-made images, abuse is harder to spot and harder to understand. This stereotype overlooks the overwhelming aspects of abuse that are psychological and focuses on the physical: surely a larger/stronger man is abusing a smaller/weaker woman. Surely two women, both loving/delicate/gentle (and all the strange, sexist things we (through deeply-ingrained systemic sexism) assume women to be), cannot be experiencing domestic abuse within their relationship.

There are many positive and loving female-female relationships. There are probably some (true and valid) reasons these utopian stereotypes around female-female relationships exist. There are reasons why idealization of these relationships would continue within the queer community, uplifting relationships that have not been given sufficient representation and that have been judged and condemned historically and still are by many today. But the silence around this topic, like so many silences, is harmful, as Machado experiences. Without resources, without references, with her own assumptions about female-female relationships as a bisexual woman, Machado struggles to understand and later to explain the abuse she experiences. This book also holds onto the project of raising awareness, of revealing both the personal experiences of one woman and the larger social context of female-on-female abuse, and hopefully this is a book that could help other women facing similar situations. The happy ending of Machado’s story is certainly alive with hope, although of a crazy, boundless kind—in a “truth is stranger than fiction” plot twist that had me gasping aloud in disbelief, Machado winds up very happily married to Val, the woman who her abusive ex also dated (the two met through the abusive “woman in the dream house”). While Machado never strays into moralizing or advising, her book is a powerful act of self-catharsis...and in vulnerability offers comfort to others. 

[kinetic-elaboration]

10 Fanfic Question Tag Game

I was tagged by @easilydistractedbyfanfic, @marauders-groupie, and @dylanobrienisbatman - Thank you!

Not sure who else hasn’t already done this or already been tagged... Please do it if you haven’t and want to!

*

1. what’s your favorite genre to write?

I mean, I feel like the answer is objectively “Romance” because I write fanfic but tbh I never think of it that way. Maybe because I’m so used to writing fic that I think in the sub-genres of fandom rather than in the sense of how the work would be classified on a bookstore shelf. Within fandom genres, I like to think I write a variety of things, fluff, angst, etc., but mostly it all comes back to pining, longing, softness, desire, uncertainty, and idiots in love.

2. do you pull inspiration from real-life, or do you pull things from other books/fanfic?

I do pull from real-life in a way but... I try not to pull directly and literally. Every now and then I will take a real life location or event and write a fic around it but I feel like those stories tend to not be as good, or at least, I don’t like them as much. I don’t know if it’s because I know the big gap between the fiction and the reality and the fiction pales in comparison, or because it feels or is lazy, or because those stories really are weaker. More often, I pull from real life in the sense that writing is a way to work through things. So I might take a certain feeling that’s real but have it emerge in a different way, or I might take a certain small moment and write it in a different context. There’s an example of this in my most recent Chopped fic but I don’t want to reveal myself--plus it’s kinda personal in a way. The other best example I can think of is a Bellarke fic I wrote once in which Bellarke are college fuck-buddies-with-feelings; there are two incidents there that are straight up stolen from my relationship with my ex-girlfriend but everything else, including the main plot, is completely unrelated. But tbh even that fic kind of toes the line for me into “a little too real.”

In terms of other sources of inspiration... I get a decent number of ideas from songs. I write to prompts/challenges with some frequency. Sometimes I write things that fulfill certain fantasies of mine (A Watch with No Hands is an example). I would say most often, inspiration comes in the form of “Wow, this made me a feel a certain way, I want to create this feeling myself.” And that “this” could be anything; often it’s music, but it could be a TV show (”this makes me feel nostalgic for high school, I want to write something about adolescence,” for example) or something I’ve read.

3. do you tend to write one-shots, short stories, or longer things?

I write one-shots for the most part. I am not good with multi-part fics. At all. Sometimes I write very short things, under 1k, as writing exercises. But in terms of full-sized, I think 4k is about average for me??

4. do you prefer description or dialogue?

I’d say description. If I get on a roll with dialogue I can actually write it faster, but if I’m including long sections of dialogue, it’s because I need to get certain, specific information across, and so I get nervous about it before I start. I don’t want to forget something important! And I don’t want the important things to feel shoved in there, but to flow naturally! With description, I can start out with a general idea and just let it flow and see what happens.

5. favorite fanfic/book of all time?

My favorite book of all time, if I had to pick just one, is The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. I’ve only read it in its entirety once and I recently discovered my English copy is kinda falling apart, which is a bummer. It’s so beautiful and moving; one of those books that just transforms you as a person.

I’m also a big fan of Shirley Jackson, so like literally everything she’s ever written, including stuff I haven’t read yet, must be mentioned. And I’ve been reading Sigrid Undset’s The Master of Hestviken this past... over half a year probably, and she was a genius. America needs to understand this.

I don’t think I read enough fic to have a favorite of all time. :(

6. favorite trope?

SHARING A BED. I was thinking recently about how often I use this trope and I’m like, ‘should I tone it down?’ Then I decided, heck no, it’s not boring me yet. I just... I love beds, I love the comfort of a good bed, and I guess it’s just Absolute Peak Fantasy of me to imagine two people snuggly and happy in bed. Or snuggly and pining for each other in bed.

7. are you the kind of person to work on more than one wip?

Yes. I do tend to focus on one thing at a time in the sense that I might only work on one fic for a week, or two weeks, and I generally do have one ‘front burner’ project that gets most of my attention until it’s done, or it gets irredeemably stuck. But I don’t get an idea, write it, finish it, post it, and then go on to the next idea (unless I’m writing for an event with a deadline, like Chopped, or a gift exchange, where there’s basically no other choice). I always have multiple fics started and/or in the planning stages.

8. how long have you been writing for?

Aw fuck. Well... I started posting fic online in the fall of 2006, when I was a senior in high school. I started writing fic just for myself probably around 2002 or 2003. And I’ve been writing original stuff/in general...for as long as I’ve been able to write I guess? My first long form piece was handwritten in a 70-page wide-ruled notebook--filled the whole thing!--and that was in the fourth or fifth grade, I think. (For anyone who doesn’t want to do math, that was 20 years ago lololol.)

9. do you tend to write more during the morning, afternoon, or evening?

I write mostly in the afternoons/evenings. If I’m having a good week, I can write for a bit after work, like around 6pm or so. On the weekends I say I’ll write in the morning but... it’s usually the afternoon at best. Sometimes I write before bed, if I really need it for the catharsis.

10. do you prefer to post your wip chapter by chapter, or do you prefer to wait until your wip is 100% finished before posting?

I don’t write that many multi-chapter WIPs but I admit I do not wait until the whole thing is done. I have a couple where I’m trying to do that... and I have sometimes been able to write ahead. But I just don’t have the self control. Plus like... writing is a solitary activity, and the great thing about fanfic is that there’s a chance to connect with people through it, to make it less solitary. So in a way, I guess this is a self-serving justification, but, what’s the point of hoarding what you’ve written?

[fuckyeahqueermusic]

FY!QM’s Favorite Albums of 2019 Part 2

Happy Super Bowl Sunday, here have a list of my favorite albums of 2019. You can click here to read part 1 if you missed it, but part 2 is all my absolute favorite releases from the year. Two of them aren’t even EPs, let alone full albums, but it is my list and I am the boss so I can do what I want!!

Obviously a ton of great music was released this year, but I think compared to 2018 it was a little lacking. Which is understandable, that was a bonkers killer year for new music, but I’m already psyched for all that’s coming out in 2020, and I have a feeling I am going to have a hard time doing a round up of everything I loved come next December (or January....or February, who’s to say!)

Anyways, onto my favs of 2019!

Carly Rae Jepsen — Dedicated Okay, so first off we have to talk about how one of the first working titles for this album was “Songs To Clean Your House To”, and how it is a CRIME we were deprived of that. Well, it will always be the real title in my heart.

So, Dedicated is not Emotion. It was never going to be Emotion, and that is okay. It is still an absolutely meticulously crafted, nearly perfect pop record. One that’s not only is full of great singles and individual certified bops (”Julien” anyone????), but actually works as a whole record, an increasing rarity in the mainstream pop landscape. But you can feel how much CRJ cares about what she puts out, and while some songs are weaker than others, there is no filler, and every track has something to enjoy on it. She is still the QUEEN of mid-tempo jams, with “No Drug Like Me,” “Too Much,” and “Automatically In Love” already up in the pantheon of all time mid-tempo jams. Some folks might have been disappointed we didn’t get Emotion 2.0, but I am thrilled CRJ wants to keep growing as an artist, and that she isn’t content to keep releasing the same thing over and over again, even though she very easily could.

Telethon — Hard Pop Telethon is hands down one of the best rock bands in the game right now, and I am thrilled they finally seem to be gaining a bit of traction outside the extremely cult following they’ve been building over the past five years. They have hooks for days, their music a master class in power pop song writing, combined with some of the densest lyric writing I have ever seen. Lead singer and lyricist Kevin Tully crafts each song like a short story about millennial mundanity and quarter life crises: using the exhaustion of finding a new apartment to examine long simmering anxiety, or trying to figure out if contentment is settling, and being too tired to know if you can tell the difference, while getting asked if you have weed at a terrible house party. It’s an album that feels like your late 20’s and early 30’s, with just enough optimism from a synth line to let you know that maybe everything will be okay in the end, maybe not, but it’s not stupid to hope.

Also they are not afraid of a ska influenced breakdown, and for that I must salute them.

Great Grandpa — Four of Arrows This is far and away my most listened to album of the year, and it only came out in October. Every song is masterfully crafted to stick in your head, and whenever I put on “Bloom,” “Rosalie,” or “Treat Jar,” I HAVE to listen to it at least three times in a row. The songwriting on this album is just fucking astonishing, and it completely runs the gamut from acoustic driven indie to 80’s big power chord pop rock, without feeling incongruent at all. It is incredible that this is the same band that made Plastic Cough only two years ago. Not that their debut was bad, but this album is just such a massive leap in skill and sound that it is truly amazing. Just a completely beautiful record from front to back, and I am so excited to see where this band goes next.

that dog — Old LP For the last 3 years that dog’s one semi-hit from 1997, “Never Say Never,” has been in my top 5 played songs of the year on Spotify (it currently has 186,000 plays. I would wager about 100,000 of those are me). I would argue it is the catchiest song ever written. It was on an album, Retreat From The Sun, that is back to back to back catchy jams. that dog should’ve been one of the most famous bands in the world, and I have been lamenting hard for some time that we never got more music from them. They broke up in 1997, scattering to the winds to be involved in making some of your favorite music (Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack anyone???)

Until last year. Anna Waronker got the band back together and that dog released their first album in 22 years, Old LP. And it’s like barely any time has passed. Old LP is practically perfect 90’s pop-rock, insanely catchy with enough of an edge and interesting flourishes (they credit basically a whole orchestra in the liner notes) to make you want to put the whole thing on repeat for a few hours. Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, I am so happy that dog is back in some capacity, and here’s hoping this is not the last we hear of them. 

(Also I picked this live performance of “Bird On A Wire” cause Allison Crutchfield from Swearin’ is there???)

Fireworks — Demitasse single This is not an album, or even an EP, but this is my list and I can do what I want and that includes fawning over a single from what is sure to be one of my top albums of 2020. Fireworks’ reunion was my biggest surprise of the year. They are a band that defined the last decade for me, their lifespan cut too short due to a crowded market and evolving too fast for their audience (they should be The Wonder Years level of famous and beloved, as they were, no offense to Soupy and the boys, the superior band). But after four years away they returned with a 6 minute slow burn of a song, solemn and sparse, until the full band crashes in more than ¾ of the way through. The first time I got to 5:08 in the song, the mix of pure catharsis and active anger that they disbanded in 2015 and we were denied new material from them until now I felt guaranteed Higher Lonely Power will almost certainly be THE album of 2020.

Team Dresch — Your Hands My Pocket “7 Perhaps even more important than Fireworks comeback, the biggest music news of 2019 for me was Team Dresch’s reunion. They are a band that I trace pretty much all my modern musical tastes to, and they are hugely influential to me and so many others in what they proved was possible for queer music to be. When that reunion ALSO came with new music, I about lost my mind. “Your Hands My Pocket” sounds like no time has passed since Captain My Captain came out: perfect hooks, heartfelt earnest lyrics, the vocal trade off between Jody Bleyle and Kaia Wilson, and all the queer pop-punk jubilation I want. The b-side “Baskets,” is classic Team Dresch emo (and yes I will argue to the ends of the earth that Team Dresch is one of the best emo bands of the 90s), with big volume shifts and longing vocals (and that bridge!). The only bad thing about this release is that there’s not more! Maybe if we all beg hard enough, they’ll make one more album.

[i-just-like-commenting]

“Venom” and Romance Story Structure

Given the structural mess of 2018′s Venom as a superhero movie (look in your hearts, you know it to be true) I thought it was worth taking seriously the idea that this works better as a romance. To this end I checked out romance author and editor Gwen Hayes’ Romancing the Beat: Story Structure for Romance Novels, part of her “How to Write Kissing Books” series. Her four-part structure is a modification of the traditional three act screenplay structure, with the lengthy second act divided into two halves, the development then the collapse of the relationship.

How well does Venom match her structure? The answer is that in some ways it actually matches quite well, since it is a story with two protagonists (Eddie and Venom) learning to overcome their aversion to each other and develop a partnership. However, Venom misses some key beats in her outline, and I think looking at these beats can give us an indication of how this movie might have been improved. (And as a side note, I think more writers subdividing their second acts into “it all seems to be going well” and “then it all falls apart” would help the weak second acts of many stories, regardless of genre).

Part 1: Set Up

Hayes subdivides this section into five beats. The first two are introducing your two main characters and their central flaws that they will overcome through their relationship together. To a certain degree, Venom actually does this in its first act. We establish Eddie, the successful and driven reporter who we see violate his fiancee’s privacy to get his story. Eddie can’t compromise on his ambition and goals, even if it hurts the person he cares about the most. Meanwhile, he is irritating and pushy with his coworkers and boss -- he needs to learn to work better with others.

Our introduction to Venom is unfortunately weaker, as we meet them as one of the symbiotes, and their weakness is the same general one as the rest of them: killing their hosts in order to survive. They need to learn empathy. But we don’t get to know Venom as a distinct personality until much later, and in general their development is weaker than Eddie’s.

What is missing entirely are the “meet cute” and “no way” beats where our heroes become aware of each other but reject the idea of a relationship. Instead Venom and Eddie never meet until the fifth beat, “adhesion,” where your couple becomes stuck together.

Imagine if, instead of Eddie’s career dying over a tangentially related  malfeasance, he instead actually encountered the symbiotes. He wouldn’t have to know what they were, just catch a glimpse of them, and be filled with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Imagine if Eddie was discredited as the crackpot talking about aliens in the Life Foundation’s Labs, the symbiotes becoming his obsession even as he hates them, and then he gets infected by one once Dr. Skirth breaks him in.

Or, alternatively, eliminate most of the movie before the time skip, introduce Eddie already disgraced along with why, and turn the “meet cute” and “no way” being Eddie viewing footage of the symbiotes brought to him by Dr. Skirth. This would be my preference, as I felt the first act of Venom was overlong. Either way, however, it would help make the first act more cohesive than it is now.

Part 2: Falling Love

After the point of adhesion, however, Venom meets almost all of Hayes’ beats and structure point by point. We have “No Way 2,” as Eddie slowly realizes he’s been infected and looks for a way to get the symbiote out of him. This beat is more of a slow development than a one-point moment, but Hayes admits the structure can be shifted around and take several scenes.

We get our first “inkling this could work” from Venom helping Eddie escape the lab, and then shutting down his noisy next-door neighbor; we don’t have “deepening desire” because at this point Eddie isn’t aware that the symbiote is sentient and a part of this relationship. This, again, is where the lack of development for Venom continues to be a problem. It needs a few more moments of Venom talking to Eddie, to give us insights into how Venom’s conception of this relationship is changing, how their empathy for Eddie is increasing.

It definitely hits “maybe this will work” during the big action sequence where Venom and Eddie first start collaborating to escape Drake’s goons. Venom reveals themself to Eddie, explaining what their deal is and even declaring that “you are mine.” If anything, “deepening desire” gets shifted to this point, as they negotiate infiltrating the newspaper offices. Ideally this beat would have been more spread out over part 2 to ease up the suddenness of their relationship shift.

Because then we reach Hayes’ “midpoint of LOVE plot thrust.” This is when romance characters have their first moment of true intimacy (opening up about their feelings for the first time, having sex for the first time, having meaningful sex for the first time, etc.), where this becomes a real or serious relationship.

And so, “Mask on.” “Roger that.” Eddie voluntarily lets Venom take over, Venom refrains from eating the police officers when Eddie asks, and they work in sync, and start to say “we.” This is their midpoint, the false high that’s going to collapse.

Part 3: Retreating From Love

Our “inkling of doubt” and “deepening doubt” are also rather quickly back to back on each other. In spite of their established partnership, Venom sometimes switches back to “I,” which Eddie calls them out on. Is this partnership real or is Venom just parasitic? Eddie doesn’t trust Venom enough for them to get in the car together with Annie, and has to be reassured that, no, Venom won’t eat the woman he cares for. We as an audience are reassured that this relationship is good, however, by Venom convincing Eddie to apologize to Annie. Eddie has made Venom more empathetic, and Venom encourages Eddie to be more considerate and admit his past mistakes.

“Retreat” and “shields up” come into play when it’s revealed that Venom has slowly been consuming Eddie’s internal organs and killing him. Even though Venom intends to repair the damage now that they care about Eddie, Eddie isn’t willing to trust him and his defenses go up, demanding that they be separated, even using the knowledge of Venom’s weakness to sound against them. We have our “break up” when Venom and Eddie are separated.

This part goes relatively fast, but given the very real damage that Venom does to Eddie, I feel like this is justified. This isn’t just Eddie’s own failings leading him to think that Venom is betraying him, Venom did in fact betray him by not revealing that Eddie’s sickness was caused by them. That leads to a very precipitous collapse in their newfound relationship.

Part 4: Fighting for Love

The “dark night of the soul” beat corresponds to the low point at the start of the third act in a traditional screenplay structure. Venom is forced into the body of a puppy to survive, Eddie is captured by Drake. The “wake-up/catharsis” comes, I think, to Venom, though again their lack of voice makes the exact moment when they realize they need Eddie - not just as a body but as a partner - hard to determine. But given Venom’s immediate body hopping into Annie and then body-hopping through a kiss back to Eddie, then opening up about how seeing the world through Eddie’s eyes has changed him, it must have happened while at the hospital.

That kiss is the first of Venom’s two “grand gestures.” But since Venom is more at fault here than Eddie was. they make a second, final grand gesture through almost sacrificing themself to save not just Eddie but Earth in general. Venom really has changed, and has proven it to Eddie.

This is where there’s another big problem in the movie: we don’t get to see our couple reunite. The “grand gesture” beat is only complete, in Hayes; model, if you see it accepted. We got a resolve to grand gesture #1 through Eddie’s willingness to work with Venom again, even reuniting with him after their separation in the final fight, but we don’t get one for grand gesture #2. Eddie’s panic over Venom’s seeming death indicates that all is forgiven, but it’s missing the catharsis of seeing them get back together.

The ending of the film does, however, manage to absolutely nail her final beat: “this is what whole-hearted looks like.” Here you show the couple together and mirror scenes from earlier in the story, showing how much more whole and happy they are together than they were apart. We have an interaction between Eddie and Annie that mirrors their scene from the (post time jump) first act, now friendly rather than hostile. Eddie goes back to the same bodega as from the opening, and now with Venom’s help is able to stop the thug terrorizing the owner, whereas before all he could do was look on. Good echoing, good bookends, along with the well-written banter and camaraderie between them this is why the ending is the best part of the entire film.

Conclusion

Venom isn’t precisely structured like a romance, but it gets close, and its strongest moments are when it does. Of course, this structure can work for any kind of story where the central conflict is whether a duo can get along; buddy cop films often follow a similar structure, just centered on friendship. However you want to consider Eddie and Venom’s relationship, I do think viewing this as a relationship-centered story is to its benefit, and had the studio embraced that earlier on, it would have been a better structured film.

[livebythestarryskies-blog]

Phoenix

Written: Early 2014

She jolts awake to the cacophony of loud voices and the hostility of a blood-red rose wrapped delicately in barbed wire. Clammy hands rub sleep-sticky eyes before realization hits like a trainwreck. She is not where she drifted off into slumber. Instead, she is in a stranger’s house, where she cannot dictate her life by her own rules.

The commanding presence of animosity lingers, yet she cannot command a livid expression to accompany the sensation until she realizes the room, devoid despite minimal furniture, is overcast by gray clouds from the opened, unframed window. As the breeze picks up, slowly rotating, then suddenly morphing into the kind of gale that carries the destruction of a rampant typhoon, she dreads the notion that she must make haste towards the white door, which seems to have blended in with the overcast walls save for a subtle golden doorknob.

She bolts upwards, ignoring the screams of pain her legs elicit while making a break for the dim glow of the knob, but just as she reaches for the object a mere hairsbreadth, she falters.

A voice whispers in her ear, and though the words are incoherent, she knows they are laced with malice.

The whispers grow, louder until they can be heard: “Where are your wings, angel? Where are they?”

In the pending silence, she can feel the presence of razor-sharp nails gripping her arm, imaginary rivulets of blood dressing her limb in crimson-crusted webs. She attempts to open her mouth to fire a vicious retort, but something has stolen the speared words from her guarded mind. Something has ripped her voice box out of her throat, leaving behind hoarse, echoing rasps. her numbed limbs are not functioning properly and she cannot break free of the unspoken words materialized in the form of a sinister voice. She struggles and struggles, willing her mind to fuel the mobility in her arms, her legs, but to no avail.

Finally, she is successful. In a broken, mangled voice, she rasps out, “No! I have my wings. I have my wings!” She screeches the single sentence over and over, growing weaker until only disjointed phrases are audible and finally become a mere thought on replay: I have wings. I have wings.

As if eavesdropping on her mind, the voice whispers tauntingly, “But they’re broken, aren’t they?”

The savage gale, ripping mercilessly around the girl, brutally overturning the meager contents of the room, and violently lacerating her skin, reminds her of the little time she has left to spare. She squeezes her eyes shut, desperately searching, scavenging, mulling over the contents of her scattered mind for an undisguised answer:

She knowsknowsknows this voice. She has heard this voice before, she swears.

She blanches.

As quickly as she had given into the undertones of the insinuations, she proudly reconstructs her mind, body, and spirit. All at once, everything that had her shrouded in mists and heavy fogs of doubt disintegrates and illuminates the firm silhouette of her soul. She yanks her clean arms, free of any blossoming stains of incriminating crimson and bruised maroon, no longer bleeding profusely, away from the grasps of the malevolent figure. It desperately screams, “No!” as she twists the golden knob and flings herself past the square arch of the door and into the darkness.

Before long, she is dashing down the foyer, into a dimly illuminated labyrinth. The still air picks up again, gusts of wind reminding her it follows closely wherever she may go. She wanders further into the maze, taking sharp turns, meeting dead ends, but she has yet to retire any thought to despair or escape because she knew from the moment she woke up she could not escape easily; she will push through. With strengthened resolve, she pauses her steps, closes her eyes, but does not rummage her thoughts for any hints.

This time she lets pure instinct take over. Left here. Keep running straight. Now take the third right. Keep running straight and don’t open your eyes. Don’t look back. She is no longer running in circles and is clearing the pathway to the centerfold point. With her eyes still squeezed shut, she breaks through the barriers of illusion, through the walls of her thoughts, the whirlwind behind her no longer in tow. She runs and runs until she bursts into the midst of it all and finally opens her eyes to the sight of wonder unraveling. Above her, the endless ceiling beholds a bright spiraling circle of light, swirling and sucking in any form of darkness that has engulfed the confinements of the room.

And she knows. She knows that this is her ticket out of this embodied prison of her mind, but she also knows the portal hovering above is completely out of her reach as she stands firmly locked on the ground. She stands stumped, confused as to why she has already made it this far but cannot move forward since there is nowhere to go other than up, and she has no means to get there...

But she does, she suddenly remembers.

I’m not an angel, no. But I have my wings. [insert 2017-me-cringe here]

She closes her eyes, once more, and she thinks, for the last time, because this will be the last time she ever shuts her eyes in doubt.

Calming the torrent of jumbled thoughts and the calamity of her mind until they thin out into nothing but a flame, she then ignites the flame to burn brighter than ever and on her back, she sprouts chained wings. They are not white, but rather a deep shade of red, almost like the blood her soul bleeds. She nurtures the burning of her soul until she herself is almost bursting into the flames of a phoenix, as the feathers of her wings struggle and struggle until they expand and shatter the steel chains of her mind.

They’re not broken.

She finally spreads her wings and flaps them up once, twice, measuring the sturdy strength in her bodily extensions, before she takes flight in an endeavor of reaching the hovering light. Behind her, she leaves a trail of uprooted, obliterated miseries and scarlet feathers from her hard-fought battle, as she breaks through the barricade of the portal.

Outside, she dips and soars in warmth, taking the scenery in stride as she flutters on the air with the delicacy of a butterfly, but the speed of a hummingbird. The horizon stretched across her reach is blended a multitude of shades in roses, maroons, orange marmalades, glittering golds that reflect upon the wide open shimmering lake that happens to be where a line is almost forcefully drawn between the invisible atmosphere and the tangibility of the earth.

Above her, the sky painted is a deep hue of blue, deeper than a royal blue but still as velvety as promised, splattered and flickered by the twinkling lights of the celestial spirits of the night, sprinkling glitters on wings like fairy dust. She pauses, watching as twilight gives way to the comfort of the now-glimmering moon, melting away the warm colors of the day in exchange for the cool colors of the night. 

And it is in this moment she looks below her to find the green trees of the forest rooted firm to the ground, the rivers flowing silkily into the the tranquil undulating waves of the lake, the glorious mountains protruding from the ground, almost like a shield for this haven, all bathed in the ethereal moonlight the Luna sheds upon as a safeguard to the land.

This is no fool’s paradise, she knows. 

And so she hums softly, in a liquid gold voice, her lifted spirits flying her above as a guardian of the land. She continues on her flight, the bloody hues of her wings soaring higher and higher into the atmosphere until she becomes one with the stars. And there, she will remain until-

She jolts awake, this time in the confines of her room, to the cacophony of loud voices and the hostility of a blood-red rose wrapped delicately with barbed wire. In her sleepy haze, she realizes she has yet to break the barriers of the world, but before she can do so, she has just broken the barriers of herself, of her voice. She is cold, as her blanket is thrown off her, but the warmth of the phoenix that burns inside her lulls her back to sleep, her bed littered with remnants of her feathers.

A/N: I think I wrote this as a dream sequence for my English class in high school, so all those symbols meant something to me, even if I don’t remember what they mean to me now. Lol hello nearly-16-year-old me.

This was written over three years ago, so my writing has definitely changed since then. When re-typing (when posting these, I like to type them up instead of copying and pasting because I get to revisit them) this piece, I edited some parts to make them seem less awkward and more coherent for readers, but I generally left the piece as was.

Why?

So I can observe the growth in not only my writing, but myself as a person. I recall this piece as being my catharsis at the time, so it kind of reminds me of how I struggled through that time, but made it through.

Lol think what you want, but I’m just going to leave this here.

[themoneybuff-blog]

The death of Anthony Bourdain: Thoughts on productivity, pleasure, and depression

Shares 141 Warning: This is a rare GRS post that contains salty language. If you dont like salty language, dont read this article. Anthony Bourdain killed himself Friday morning. So what? you might be thinking. Hes just another fucking celebrity who didnt know how good he had it. Maybe youre right. But his death has weighed heavy on me all weekend. On Friday morning, as I wrote the weekly Get Rich Slowly email, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. On Friday afternoon, as Kim and I worked in the yard, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. On Friday evening, as we soaked in our new hot tub with a friend, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. Yesterday, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. Today, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. Now Im writing this article as an act of catharsis. Maybe itll help me to stop thinking about Anthony Bourdain. The Depression Trap I believe Anthony Bourdains death touched me deeply for a couple of reasons. I was a huge fan. Since listening him read the audio version of Kitchen Confidential a decade ago, Ive loved his work. Parts Unknown was probably my favorite travel show: raw and real and filled with food. Bourdain connected with everyone he met. His joy for life was contagious and his mind was sharp.Like Bourdain did, I struggle with depression. All my life, Ive experienced periodic descents into darkness. The first time this happened, I missed five weeks of sixth grade. In the nearly forty years since then, Ive developed a variety of coping mechanisms but they dont always work. In recent months since the middle of March the darkness has deepened and I dont know why. (And just as I missed five weeks of school back then, Ive been unable to get my work done in the present.) Let me make it clear that I am not suicidal. Right now, the biggest symptom of my depression is my inability to get shit done. But whereas suicide seems strange and senseless to most everyone else, depressives understand the appeal even if wed never consider it personally. One of the many stupid things about depression is that the condition doesnt care how awesome your life is. It doesnt care how successful you are. It doesnt care how much money you have. Depression is not rational. If it were, itd be easy to think your way out of it. Paula Froelich, one of Bourdains ex-girlfriends, put it like this:

Bourdains death didnt just make me introspective. It also led to a couple of interesting conversations about pleasure and productivity and about what really matters in life. The Productivity Trap Friday afternoon, I received email from a GRS reader well call Michael: Im sure you saw Anthony Bourdain killed himself. This to me was a telling quote: When asked during a recent interview with The Wall Street Journal whether he ever thought about stepping back from the breakneck pace of a job that kept him on the road 250 days a year, he replied, Too late for that. I think about it. I aspired to it. I feel guilty about it. I yearn for it. Balance? I fucking wish.' Obviously I didnt know Bourdain personally, or even know much about him as a public figure, but I think that mentality is common: Once youve become successful, the thought of ever ratcheting back seems unthinkable. Obviously, suicide is rare, but I think this mentality is common among successful people they stay in an unhappy status quo simply because they have so much invested in their self-image and public perception of themselves as successful people. I think Michael is onto something. Ive seen this in my own life, in the lives of friends and family, and the lives of colleagues. They fall into what you might call the productivity trap. (Heres an article I almost linked to the other day about the productivity trap: If youre so successful, why are you still working 70 hours a week?) I have one friend, for instance, with an enormously successful career. He has a popular blog, a popular podcast, best-selling books, and even an annual conference that attracts attendees from across the planet. Yet hes never satisfied not with himself nor with anybody else. Hes always looking for ways to make things bigger and better. He seems unhappy with who he is and what he has. Hes written publicly about his struggles with mental illness, but he hasnt revealed its full effects. Its not just my friend. Its me too. I see this pattern in my own life, and its something Ive deliberately decided to approach more mindfully. Why do I want to have a hot tub or travel to Ecuador? Why did I repurchase Get Rich Slowly and how often should I publish here? Why do I keep agreeing to public speaking gigs? Do I really want these things? Are they aligned with my personal mission statement? Will they really make me happy? (Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no.) In his email, Michael continued: I think this is really the key to personal finance and early retirement actually stepping back and figure out what is important to you, and doing it, even if it seems like youre turning your back on a great career, or a nice house or whatever. That is the hardest part, which keeps most people in a life they dont want. They think I went to school X or work at company Y, so therefore I must live in this city or have that job or have that wardrobe and never ask themselves what, as individuals, makes them happy. The Pleasure Trap As our email conversation continued, Michael brought up another interesting point. He noted that our culture and this is especially true in the world of financial independence blogs is obsessed with experiences, such as travel. Yet in many ways, collecting experiences is no better (nor any different) than collecting things. Heres Michael again: [Bourdain] had the ne plus ultra of modern life: rich, famous, a job that 99% of the population would kill for, saw everything he wanted to see, ate everything he wanted to eat, Im sure slept with tons of women if that is what he wanted, took all the drugs he wanted. You name it, he had it. And, he hung himself in a hotel room in France, a twice-divorced man a continent away from his daughter and girlfriend. Im not bagging on him. I just think he illustrates something: A meaningful life doesnt consist of a series of cool experiences, or traveling or eating cool stuff. Bourdain did that stuff to an incredible degree, and it still didnt make him happy. I think that is what our society has forgotten. I feel like were always being told we should move a lot, travel a lot, be vaguely or overtly dismissive of the town or state we were born in, move for college and never move back homein short, basically be a free agent with fewer and fewer personal connections, or weaker connections. And, we get this [higher suicide rates]. [] I think this relates to personal finance. There is always this thought that thrift requires these huge sacrifices less travel, fewer new experiences, fewer new restaurants. But what if [these arent sacrifices]? What if irrespective of cost, that stuff isnt really a source of happiness? I mean, people accept that with respect to possessions nobody says a Cadillac or a 5000-square-foot home is the key to happiness but many, many people in our culture think new experiences are crucial to a happy life. It may be the opposite the continuity and free-time to invest in loving relationships may actually be the key to happiness. I told Kim about my conversation with Michael. Its the pleasure trap, she said. People fall for the lie that momentary pleasure equals happiness. But pleasure isnt the same as happiness. Shes right, of course. Happiness is like planting a garden, watching it grow, then enjoying the harvest. Pleasure is simply eating the fruit. Happiness is deeper and richer and longer lasting. Pleasure is fleeting; happiness is not. But happiness involves time and work and patience. Now, Ill admit: Im guilty as anyone else of falling into the pleasure trap, and in oh-so-many ways! I have to make a deliberate effort to look past immediate pleasure in order to consider long-term happiness. This often requires enduring unpleasant activities. Do I really want to go out in the cold and the rain to dig in the mud and plant my garden? No, not in this moment. Id rather sit in the hot tub. But if I dont plant the garden, Im sacrificing greater happiness in the future. Final Thoughts While I think that Kim and Michael are onto something the productivity trap and the pleasure trap are both real and both problematic I keep coming back to Anthony Bourdains battle with depression. During my recent road trip through the southeastern U.S., I talked with two friends who are fighting depression in their own lives. One friend has a spouse who cannot shake the condition despite counseling, despite exercise, despite a loving family. The other friend fights the condition himself and its led to weight gain and addictive tendencies. Therapy has helped some but its not a cure-all. As for myself, I havent yet returned to therapy although Im considering it. (Not so long ago, I spent a year working with a therapist to find ways to cope with anxiety and depression. It helped.) I want to stress again that I am not suicidal. But the depression has most definitely affected my daily existence, including my relationships, my health, and my work here at Get Rich Slowly. It sucks. It sucks. It sucks. But I know that itll get better someday. Shares 141 https://www.getrichslowly.org/death-of-anthony-bourdain/

[alittlelessdemocracy]

Naming and Necessity

We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know.

W. H. Auden

But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing….”  

Brett Easton Ellis - American Psycho

The title above is taken from the analytic philosopher Saul Kripke, who gave it to a set of lectures he delivered in 1970, and later to a book containing the written version of these lectures, and other essays, published ten years later. I have chosen to borrow it as a provisional flag of sorts, beneath which and in the name of which to explore, or even simply re-claim, or re-proclaim (if I ever did properly proclaim it in the first place) the title I gave to this blog – a little less democracy – when I began it a little over five years ago.

First of all I must confess that, unbeknownst to me at the time, the title I had chosen, although I recognized it in some sense as a re-performance of an attitude or a pose I had adopted much earlier in my life in response to a relatively different set of circumstances, was also a reversal, and perhaps even an unconscious mimetic inversion of a similarly oblique, though seemingly holey other posture assumed by a mentor of mine when, a little over ten years previously, close to the age I am now, she titled an exhibition of then recent work “A Little Less of Me,” after a song I had never heard by Glen Campbell, that I can only assume she may have heard when she was a child in the seventies:

Let me be a little kinder

Let me be a little blinder

To the faults of those about me

Let me praise a little more

Let me be when I am weary

Just a little bit more cheery

Think a little more of others

And a little less of me

Let me be a little braver

When temptation bids me waver

Let me strive a little harder

To be all that I should be

Let me be a little meeker

With the brother that is weaker

Let me think more of my neighbor

And a little less of me

Let me be when I am weary

Just a little bit more cheery

Let me serve a little better

Those that I am strivin' for

Let me be a little meeker

With the brother that is weaker

Think a little more of others

And a little less of me

What was startling to me when I stumbled upon this coincidence shortly after my Spring semester classes ended a few weeks ago was just how meaningful the lyrics of this song were to my own self-declared project as an occasional writer, even though I had never heard the song, and had forgotten the title of the exhibition which I had just re-remembered in order to describe it to a group of students.

As I recalled, the exhibition took place in the Fall of 2001, when I was just beginning graduate school at the school where I now teach, and have taught intermittently for the past nine or so years. I did not recall whether or not the exhibition opened before the events in September, but a little digging reveals the show was in October, which sounds right to me. It was one of the first serious exhibitions of contemporary art I saw in what was to become my adopted home for the next seventeen years, and still one of the most memorable. It consisted of two discreet works: a flocked wall spray painted with the faintest of rainbows – like the kind you might see on the counter while you are washing dishes (but even fainter); and a monitor displaying a silent video loop of the record by Glenn Campbell referred to in the title of the exhibition, shown at an angle from above, hypnotically spinning its rainbow gradient above your head as you looked up at it. The flocked wall was made and titled in homage to work in similar materials by the post minimal sculptor Keith Sonnier. For some reason at the time I caught that reference easily (though at the time I didn’t know the work the piece was re-contextualizing) – even as what might have been the more accessible reference for someone a little older than I was escaped my attention until now.

If the lyrics to the song she chose were “let me be a little kinder,” the lyrics to my inverted copy would have been “let me be little wiser;”

in place of the next line “let me be a little blinder” (though this turns out in practice to be the place where my cover overlaps with hers) I would have chosen, had I known what I was choosing “let me be little clearer” (to the faults within myself – though not the ones the original lyrics name). To continue in this vain:

Let me praise a little less

Let me be when I am weary

just a little bit less cheery

think a little less of others

and a little more of me.

Let me be a little braver

When temptation bids me waver

Let me strive a little harder

To be all that I should be

Let me be a little tougher

With the brother that is rougher

Let me think less of my neighbor

And a little more of me

Let me be when I am weary

Just a little bit less cheery

Let me serve a little better

That which I am striving for

Let me be a little tougher

With the brother that is rougher

Think a little less of others

And a little more of me.

In both the original version and my own, the theme (ironically) is one of self overcoming. But where the original is rooted firmly in the tradition of Christian piety, my own might be read as a rather juvenile, (typically masculine, and unintentionally and embarrassingly Thatcherite) Nietzschean reversal, which roughly matches the fatalistic mood of moderate self indulgence I went into all of this with to begin with. Isn’t this attitude of antisocial grandiosity how a lot of us have secretly approached social media (which this in fact also is, though we - that is I - like to pretend it’s not.)

To restate what I apparently went into this restating six years ago, if only indirectly at first – the title of this blog had at least three meanings for me when I chose it. The first was prescriptive, and irrevocably addressed to myself in front of anyone who might read it so that I might not get away with disavowing it as my intention: Be Yourself. The second meaning was descriptive, and the third was predictive. To put it simply – like my mentor, I was raised in the Midwest, so like a lot of Midwesterners I often struggle to express myself sincerely in situations where it feels absolutely  necessary but decidedly difficult...not because I have any difficulty naming my point of view, but rather I often find it taxing to share it with others (or even with myself.) In other words, like a lot of people, I habitually, one might even say preemptively, avoid conflicts. But as anyone in the habit of avoiding conflict learns to understand, more often than not, certain conflicts are unavoidable, and can only be postponed, and rarely indefinitely. So the title was an attempt to call out this tendency in myself by describing it in terms of a pseudo-democratic impulse, and to prescribe a cure by forcing an intentionally anti-social heading over it, as a reminder of what is real, and of the consequences of denying reality. So a little less democracy began as a commandment of sorts – and a prediction of what happens when that commandment is broken with impunity.

To those who grew up in contexts where conflict was expressed more directly, without shame (in contexts which for all intents and purposes might be accurately described as more genuinely democratic) all of this will undoubtedly look rather morbidly self-involved and unnecessary. But to anyone who grew up as I did, in a place without a lot of room for what we now might euphemistically refer to as “difference,” (of opinion, of expression, of identity - a fact complicated in my case by the additional fact that I was also fortunate to be raised in a family that actually valued and cultivated the articulation of difference, setting me up for some interesting dilemmas when my own sense of what was possible and desirable came into conflict with the expectations of a more conservative milieu) this pseudo-Luciferian melodrama around the need to overcome self-censorship will likely ring a bell (and will likely ring another bell in reference to contemporary debates around the Right’s commandeering and the Left’s disavowal of the value of “free speech.”)

Nevertheless, to be entirely fair, it’s not so much difference as overt evidence of difference that would be legible to outsiders that is most lacking in small towns like the ones where I grew up. And of course, even this has changed considerably during my own lifetime, as global displacement has brought ever more disparate populations to these small, relatively homogeneous places. But regardless, these places, like most others, have always been full of unique (if often quiet) expressions of individual differences to those close enough to know where to look – you just wouldn’t know it if you judged such things on the basis of outward tokens of diversity, which are strikingly absent compared to cities like Chicago, where dramatic inequality, coupled with other obvious differences make for a much more strikingly diverse environment, where it’s pretty difficult to convince anyone that everybody is basically the same. Perhaps this is why cities sometimes feel so much more democratic: since it’s more or less impossible to disguise differences in a place with so many of them, each of us is forced to stand our ground, and learn to negotiate with others who are not like us.

My hope in beginning this blog was that even though my motives were selfish (’non servium’) my “selfish” behavior might still be of use to others. So even as I continue to try to be less “democratic” in the false sense of suppressing my own cognitive dissonance (i.e. hiding my differences), in so doing I also try to be more genuinely democratic, if for no other reason than to do what I can to make the title of this blog what it was always meant to be - an ironic self correction - rather than what it has largely turned out to also be – an uncanny prediction of where this society is headed.

Ironically perhaps (and it’s taken me a long time to see it clearly, even though I think I suspected it from the beginning) the material conditions prompting and governing this ongoing utterance (social media - et tu tumblr) are making a lot of us into Midwesterners in all of the worst ways – making us far too self conscious, and far from self aware. What makes all of this especially surprising is that this pressure towards greater unanimity of opinion and voluntary suppression of difference is actually so wrapped up in the ubiquity of ongoing confessions like this one – motivated by a desire for self expression. In other words, the means at hand for connecting us all and giving us an expressive platform to broadcast our thoughts through social media are turning us from a nation of actual cities where people who are strikingly different live and work together back into a nation of isolated and self segregating small towns, with all of their homogeneity and social controls augmented by 24/7 surveillance and algorithmic sorting unimaginable when more of us actually lived this way in the real world. Even the prevalence of online disagreements in the form of virtual shouting matches between adversaries (typically strangers connected by two or more degrees of separation) in the comment sections (which at a glance would seem to disprove my argument) really only serves to isolate us further – since the purpose of these disagreements is rarely persuasion or negotiation over immediate conditions affecting both parties directly, but rather self righteous virtue signaling and scapegoating of outsiders for the benefit of our audience (which has replaced our community - to the extent that such a thing ever really existed - even as the word takes on monumental proportions for Public Relations.)

But as most of us discover eventually, the dirty little secret about a certain kind of apparent concern for others is that it often masks an enormously inflated and untested sense of one’s own power and importance, barely concealing an overwhelming desire to meddle with and preempt all authentic expression, in the hopes of concealing one’s own vulnerability (and aggression, which often enough amounts to the same thing), or of avoiding the barely concealed aggression and vulnerability of (and concomitant responsibility to) others. What makes it worse as these conditions become more prevalent is that call out culture increasingly becomes one of the only societally sanctioned conditions for acting on (now mostly repressed) aggression - which in part accounts for the zeal of those who engage in it. (And of course, in a sense, that’s what I’ve also been quietly doing here all along, even now). It’s a bit of a truism at this point, but one worth repeating: worrying so much about what others will think of us, we forget how little others actually think of us at all, and how little we are actually thinking of others (or they are really thinking of us) when we think of each other in these terms; or, conversely, we underestimate what others can handle, and in so doing passively contribute to a climate of fear in which none of us knows anymore who we in fact may be, what our interests are or might be, and (to borrow a phrase from one of my favorite writers) what we may be equal to.

In choosing to remain silent within ourselves, or worse, to voice the voice of others in order to win their approval, we foreclose the possibility of democracy not by silencing the marginal when we forget to “check our privilege”, but by making the margin everywhere, destroying what privilege any of us even had to begin with, foreclosing the possibility of truly giving it up by making it universal.

[andrewdburton]

The death of Anthony Bourdain: Thoughts on productivity, pleasure, and depression

Warning: This is a rare GRS post that contains salty language. If you don’t like salty language, don’t read this article.

Anthony Bourdain killed himself Friday morning.

“So what?” you might be thinking. “He’s just another fucking celebrity who didn’t know how good he had it.” Maybe you’re right. But his death has weighed heavy on me all weekend.

On Friday morning, as I wrote the weekly Get Rich Slowly email, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. On Friday afternoon, as Kim and I worked in the yard, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. On Friday evening, as we soaked in our new hot tub with a friend, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. Yesterday, I thought about Anthony Bourdain. Today, I thought about Anthony Bourdain.

Now I’m writing this article as an act of catharsis. Maybe it’ll help me to stop thinking about Anthony Bourdain.

The Depression Trap

I believe Anthony Bourdain’s death touched me deeply for a couple of reasons.

I was a huge fan. Since listening him read the audio version of Kitchen Confidential a decade ago, I’ve loved his work. Parts Unknown was probably my favorite travel show: raw and real — and filled with food. Bourdain connected with everyone he met. His joy for life was contagious and his mind was sharp.

Like Bourdain did, I struggle with depression. All my life, I’ve experienced periodic descents into darkness. The first time this happened, I missed five weeks of sixth grade. In the nearly forty years since then, I’ve developed a variety of coping mechanisms but they don’t always work. In recent months — since the middle of March — the darkness has deepened and I don’t know why. (And just as I missed five weeks of school back then, I’ve been unable to get my work done in the present.)

Let me make it clear that I am not suicidal. But whereas suicide seems strange and senseless to most everyone else, depressives understand the appeal — even if we’d never consider it personally.

One of the many stupid things about depression is that the condition doesn’t care how awesome your life is. It doesn’t care how successful you are. It doesn’t care how much money you have. Depression is not rational. If it were, it’d be easy to think your way out of it.

Paula Froelich, one of Bourdain’s ex-girlfriends, put it like this:

Bourdain’s death didn’t just make me introspective. It also led to a couple of interesting conversations about pleasure and productivity — and about what really matters in life.

The Productivity Trap

Friday afternoon, I received email from a GRS reader we’ll call Ben:

I’m sure you saw Anthony Bourdain killed himself. This to me was a telling quote:

“When asked during a recent interview with The Wall Street Journal whether he ever thought about stepping back from the breakneck pace of a job that kept him on the road 250 days a year, he replied, ‘Too late for that. I think about it. I aspired to it. I feel guilty about it. I yearn for it. Balance? I fucking wish.'”

Obviously I didn’t know Bourdain personally, or even know much about him as a public figure, but I think that mentality is common: Once you’ve become successful, the thought of ever ratcheting back seems unthinkable. Obviously, suicide is rare, but I think this mentality is common among successful people — they stay in an unhappy status quo simply because they have so much invested in their self-image and public perception of themselves as successful people.

I think Ben is onto something. I’ve seen this in my own life, in the lives of friends and family, and the lives of colleagues. They fall into what you might call the productivity trap. (Here’s an article I almost linked to the other day about the productivity trap: If you’re so successful, why are you still working 70 hours a week?)

I have one friend, for instance, with an enormously successful career. He has a popular blog, a popular podcast, best-selling books, and even an annual conference that attracts attendees from across the planet. Yet he’s never satisfied — not with himself nor with anybody else. He’s always looking for ways to make things “bigger and better”. He seems unhappy with who he is and what he has. He’s written publicly about his struggles with mental illness, but he hasn’t revealed its full effects.

It’s not just my friend. It’s me too. I see this pattern in my own life, and it’s something I’ve deliberately decided to approach more mindfully. Why do I want to have a hot tub or travel to Ecuador? Why did I repurchase Get Rich Slowly — and how often should I publish here? Why do I keep agreeing to public speaking gigs? Do I really want these things? Are they aligned with my personal mission statement? Will they really make me happy? (Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no.)

In his email, Ben continued:

I think this is really the key to personal finance and early retirement — actually stepping back and figure out what is important to you, and doing it, even if it seems like you’re turning your back on a great career, or a nice house or whatever. That is the hardest part, which keeps most people in a life they don’t want. They think “I went to school X or work at company Y, so therefore I must live in this city or have that job or have that wardrobe” and never ask themselves what, as individuals, makes them happy.

The Pleasure Trap

As our email conversation continued, Ben brought up another interesting point. He noted that our culture — and this is especially true in the world of financial independence blogs — is obsessed with “experiences”, such as travel. Yet in many ways, collecting experiences is no better (nor any different) than collecting things.

Here’s Ben again:

[Bourdain] had the ne plus ultra of modern life: rich, famous, a job that 99% of the population would kill for, saw everything he wanted to see, ate everything he wanted to eat, I’m sure slept with tons of women if that is what he wanted, took all the drugs he wanted. You name it, he had it. And, he hung himself in a hotel room in France, a twice-divorced man a continent away from his daughter and girlfriend.

I’m not bagging on him. I just think he illustrates something: A meaningful life doesn’t consist of a series of cool experiences, or traveling or eating cool stuff. Bourdain did that stuff to an incredible degree, and it still didn’t make him happy.

I think that is what our society has forgotten. I feel like we’re always being told we should move a lot, travel a lot, be vaguely or overtly dismissive of the town or state we were born in, move for college and never move back home…in short, basically be a free agent with fewer and fewer personal connections, or weaker connections. And, we get this [higher suicide rates].

[…]

I think this relates to personal finance. There is always this thought that thrift requires these huge sacrifices — less travel, fewer new experiences, fewer new restaurants. But what if [these aren’t sacrifices]? What if irrespective of cost, that stuff isn’t really a source of happiness? I mean, people accept that with respect to possessions — nobody says a Cadillac or a 5000-square-foot home is the key to happiness — but many, many people in our culture think new experiences are crucial to a happy life. It may be the opposite — the continuity and free-time to invest in loving relationships may actually be the key to happiness.

I told Kim about my conversation with Ben. “It’s the pleasure trap,” she said. “People fall for the lie that momentary pleasure equals happiness. But pleasure isn’t the same as happiness.”

She’s right, of course. Happiness is like planting a garden, watching it grow, then enjoying the harvest. Pleasure is simply eating the fruit. Happiness is deeper and richer and longer lasting. Pleasure is fleeting; happiness is not. But happiness involves time and work and patience.

Now, I’ll admit: I’m guilty as anyone else of falling into the pleasure trap, and in oh-so-many ways! I have to make a deliberate effort to look past immediate pleasure in order to consider long-term happiness. This often requires enduring unpleasant activities. Do I really want to go out in the cold and the rain to dig in the mud and plant my garden? No, not in this moment. I’d rather sit in the hot tub. But if I don’t plant the garden, I’m sacrificing greater happiness in the future.

Final Thoughts

While I think that Kim and Ben are onto something — the productivity trap and the pleasure trap are both real and both problematic — I keep coming back to Anthony Bourdain’s battle with depression.

During my recent road trip through the southeastern U.S., I talked with two friends who are fighting depression in their own lives. One friend has a spouse who cannot shake the condition despite counseling, despite exercise, despite a loving family. The other friend fights the condition himself and it’s led to weight gain and addictive tendencies. Therapy has helped some but it’s not a cure-all.

As for myself, I haven’t yet returned to therapy although I’m considering it. (Not so long ago, I spent a year working with a therapist to find ways to cope with anxiety and depression. It helped.) I want to stress again that I am not suicidal. But the depression has most definitely affected my daily existence, including my relationships, my health, and my work here at Get Rich Slowly.

It sucks. It sucks. It sucks. But I know that it’ll get better — someday.

The post The death of Anthony Bourdain: Thoughts on productivity, pleasure, and depression appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

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[bunnybbomb]

Trying To Tie Loose Ends (Catharsis Continuation): Bonus Chapter 1: Going Home

Brivere is just…tired. All he wants to do is go home, but he can’t go there without the only thing he has left in the world: his beloved little brother.

(An angst AU of Coma Baby, a sidlink fic by BanishedOne. It takes place roughly after Brivere last sees Prince Sidon when he took the spirit potion and occurs over the week that Sidon was knocked the fuck out. It borrows dialogue from CH 48 of Coma Baby, to keep in the spirit of this being like an alternate timeline.)

This is a fanfiction for a fanfiction called Coma Baby by BanishedOne on AO3 (tumblr @banishfics / @banishedone), and a continuation of the other one I wrote called Catharsis. If you like a grumpy Link and really well developed, deep characters and an amazing take on the political structure of the Zora Domain, then definitely check out Coma Baby!

I know that I haven’t posted all of TTTLE yet, but I actually finished everything already and I just wanted to get this chapter out there before the next big chapter of Coma Baby, 49′s epic boss fight! This particular chapter is written with my own experiences of depression and suicide, so hopefully it feels real in that aspect.

   My tumblr is bunnyb0b! I post memes and fics for Coma Baby there, you can chat with me any time about anything!

   Huge thank you to my amazing beta reader Alina! Her tumblr and ff.net is @ipromiseitsnotanobsession. She actually does editing shit for a living and she is the one that makes sure these things aren’t trash, so. Also this particular chapter was made for her, because she loves angst lmao

   Disclaimer: In no way does this have any true ties or canon to Coma Baby unless stated otherwise. It’s really just an indulgence AU to feed my obsession for Brivere drama.

Brivere was just… tired. Tired of everything, really.

The past and the present were taking a toll on him. He had accidentally lashed out at his only true friend, Prince Sidon. And the way that his prince had stared at him a few days later, as if they were strangers or perhaps even worse, had absolutely crushed the golden knight’s heart. Seeing the wretch that had stolen his beloved Sidon’s heart, standing there, watching all of it with a triumphant look in his smug blue eyes, infuriated Brivere to no end.

He had no one now. Prince Sidon had been the only one to ever really be there for him, allowing him to drink up constant praise and affection that he didn’t deserve. Uncertainty tugged at Brivere’s heart at the fact that he wasn’t sure if his crush on the prince was true love or… just a broken attempt to hang onto every ounce of positive attention that came his way, to get absolutely drunk off of the prince’s genuine care and concern.

And, as Brivere sat at the edge of the cistern in his home, legs dangling in the possibly contaminated water, he wondered if he could blame himself for that. After all, the prince’s attention was the only positive attention that he really received. It was clear that all of the other soldiers didn’t like him, or anyone else, really. This was exemplified when the Guard Captain refused to help give his younger brother rations, despite Estuu’s extremely sensitive palate. It was also apparent when the other nobles would glare at him when he was just trying to do his job as First Knight.

Then he thought about why. It had all begun when his so-called father had hastily married his mother, claiming to love her but leaving no evidence of it, dooming her and her unborn son to a life of torment and humiliation. And when he was born, no one had believed her story, and they were stripped of nobility status. Then, in her grieving state, she had been taken advantage of by a smooth talking noble named Zambezi, who had just gotten her pregnant and had eventually abandoned them. The only good thing to come out of it had been his younger brother, who he would lay his life down for.

Estuu. The only person he had left.

Brivere glanced over his shoulder to watch the younger Zora, who was completely wrapped up in a blanket and surrounded by piles of his favorite books. They were the only things that had survived the wreckage.

Right. Their house had collapsed in the earthquake. And as if they hadn’t lost enough already, Estuu had lost the lower half of his arm, also losing both his ability to shoot a bow and arrow along his power to quickly heal people. The rare ability that had given them some sort of worth in society.

Now, they had nothing. They were nothing.

Brivere let out a deep exhale, fully turning to his younger brother. “Estuu.” he said quietly, rolling around the bottle in his hands. “May you come here? I must talk to you about something urgent.”

The younger Zora didn’t move, the only thing indicating that he had even heard a word at all being the slight flicker of his golden eyes. Finally, he relented, unraveling his mangled body out of the blanket cocoon, the only thing that protected him from the world that threatened to overwhelm him every second that he dared to live in it.

Estuu slowly made his way over to his older brother, settling down beside him and dangling his feet in the water. That was when Brivere knew that his younger brother was thinking the same thing.

Because it didn’t matter that the water was contaminated with the Water Blight, considering what they were about to do.

He held up the familiar bottle, shaking it in front of the younger Zora’s dull eyes. Sensing the hesitation there, Brivere decided to fully explain the implications to his little brother, to eliminate any chance of doubt. “As you must recognize, this is mother’s bottle. The same one from that day.”

Estuu nodded. Neither of them could forget a single detail from the moment they had found their dead mother, floating in their poisoned cistern.

“Perhaps it is morbid, but I have kept it all this time. Both because it is the only thing we have of her, other than my longsword and our memories, and also…” his voice trailed off, trying to force the words out of his chest. “… because I thought we may need it someday. This poison is so strong that it isn’t even allowed in the Domain anymore.”

His younger brother just continued to stare at him, unflinching. Brivere sighed. “I know. But I promise that I hid it because I thought that we would never need it. Because I hoped that things would get better.” He absolutely hated the way his voice was getting weaker by the second, the way he was breaking down in front of the one person he was supposed to be strong for.

But he just couldn’t be strong anymore. Maybe he never had been.

“However, I cannot lie anymore, Estuu.” he explained. “It is not fair to me. It is not fair to you. I have lost all hope. There is no future for either of us other than the torment that we have been putting ourselves through for nothing.” He wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not when Estuu nodded in agreement.

But he still caught the hesitation that lingered in his little brother’s golden eyes. “Estuu…” he said. “Do you miss mother?”

The younger Zora nodded feverishly. “Of course.” Brivere sadly chuckled. “It would be foolish to think otherwise.” He sat the bottle in his lap along with his hands, slightly rocking it back and forth. “She was the only home I have ever felt. I am sure you feel the same way. Not that I do not love you or that I am accusing you of not loving me, of course. But she made the world feel… safe. Like it was a place that would forgive us for simply trying to live among everyone else.” Estuu nodded, clearly agreeing with him.

“Estuu…” he whispered, voice barely audible. “All I want to do is go home. Don’t you desire that as well? To feel safe, to feel loved. And perhaps it is selfish of me, but as always… I could never go anywhere without you.”

To his surprise, his little brother suddenly slipped his small hand over his own, gently squeezing it as he nodded. Estuu had always hated touch. For him to do this…

He blinked away the tears that welled up in the corner of his eyes. “Thank you, Estuu. But I will only allow this if you promise that this is something you desire as well, without my own feelings to persuade you.”

Estuu gestured at the bottle. “Are you just worried that it won’t be efficient enough?” Brivere questioned, raising his brow. Nodding, the younger Zora let out a whine and pointed between the two of them with his only hand.

“Enough for both of us?” Brivere asked, holding up the bottle to closely examine it. The dark liquid inside only filled up the bottle halfway, and sure, perhaps that was enough to quickly kill his mother when she had used it. But that was over a century ago, so it may have lost its potency. Besides, he and Estuu weren’t children like they were back then. Both of them were much older now. “I am sure it is enough. Perhaps it won’t be as quick, but it will certainly be painless, and it is the best way I can imagine seeing mother again.”

Nodding, Estuu gently lowered himself into the water, floating around. Brivere watched him fondly, remembering how they both used to do that before bedtime while waiting for their mother. It just appeared that the tables had turned, because now she was waiting for them.

He quickly lowered himself in as well, treading water as Estuu slowly swam around him. Grabbing the bottle, he held eye contact with his younger brother, who was staring back at him intensely. Usually, Estuu hated direct eye contact. But this would be the last time he could have it.

Brivere shook the bottle and held it up. “I promise that it will not hurt. It will feel like you are just going to sleep. In fact,” he swam over, tilting Estuu until he was on his back, “why don’t you try and take a nap? You will miss less that way.”

His younger brother hesitated, pointing his only hand at Brivere, who chuckled softly. “It is alright. I will still be here, watching you. I will make sure we go home together.”

Estuu slowly closed his eyes and nodded. Brivere hovered his hands underneath of his little brother, making sure that he didn’t move too much. When the younger Zora’s breaths became even and shallow, Brivere waved his hand in front of his little brother’s face. He was certain that Estuu had fallen asleep. Quietly, he uncorked the bottle and poured the dark liquid inside of the cistern.

The second it hit the water, Brivere could instantly feel the effects. His body suddenly felt very heavy, and eventually he let go, allowing himself to drift in the contaminated water. He watched Estuu’s body tense up for a second, eventually relaxing until his body went fully limp, bobbing gently in the water. Using the last of his strength, he pushed himself off of the wall and over to his little brother, cradling the tiny Zora into his broad chest.

Estuu wasn’t breathing. Before, this would’ve sent the golden Zora into hysterics, but in that moment, he let out a sigh of relief. He let the darkness cloud his vision as his head rolled back, completely giving himself over to oblivion.

;

Brivere awoke in the water. As his consciousness slowly came back to him, anxiety began to blossom in his chest. Did it not work?

Panicked, he tried to orient himself to tread water, desperately searching for his younger brother. It was difficult, as his legs felt as heavy as stone. Eventually, he managed to float upright in the water, scanning its smooth surface. Estuu was nowhere in sight. But as he took in his surroundings more, he realized where he actually was.

The medical bay.

A healer standing off to the side quickly looked over, startled by the sudden splashing. “Ah, First Knight!” she yelped, running over to the edge of the pool. “Please, do not move too much! You are still in critical condition!”

This was too much. “Where is my younger brother?!” he cried, pushing her away.

“Please, calm down! I will tell you what happened only if you float on your back!”

Hesitatingly, he did so, finding it difficult once again because of his legs, which felt numb for some odd reason. It took a while, but when he was finally on his back, his gold eyes stared intensely back up at her. “Please, mam, he is all I have. Where is Estuu?”

She shook her head sadly. “I am afraid that he is dead.”

“…what happened?” he croaked, fighting back the tears that stung his eyes. “I… I was supposed to go with him…”

The healer was frozen in place, trying to gather her thoughts. “I am so sorry, First Knight-!”

“Please do not call me that.” he whispered sharply, tightly shutting his eyes. “I do not deserve the title. Just… just Brivere is fine.”

She nodded. “Then, Brivere… I am so sorry. Some guards had entered your house because someone had reported that you were filling up your cistern, which is prohibited due to the Water Blight still spreading around. They were prepared to just arrest you, but…” her voice trailed off. He hated that he didn’t even have to look at her to see the pity on her face; it was practically dripping off of her words. “…no one expected to see you and your brother floating in poisoned water. They retrieved you, but your brother… he died long before they came in. I am sorry.”

“…Why?” he croaked. “Why didn’t I die too?”

“I am sorry that you felt the need to take your own life.” she said in a quiet voice. “Everyone is aware of your situation and background, and, in retrospect, they could see why. But even then, you shouldn’t have done this, Brivere. You have so much ahead-!”

“NO!” he screamed, eyes flying open in rage. “WHY DIDN’T I DIE TOO?!”

The healer flinched and jumped back. “The poison… it was extremely old. It was enough to kill your younger brother because he is still a child, but you’re a fully grown adult so it would have taken more time. If the guards hadn’t gotten you out, you certainly would have-“

Brivere rolled over, ignoring his legs that uselessly dragged through the water, instead using his strong arms to push himself over to her. “Then they should have left me there.” he spat.

She shook her head. “Brivere, please-!”

“You don’t understand!” he shouted in her face. “No one understands! I have nothing! I don’t even have my little brother anymore!”

Brivere’s voice cracked suddenly, as he was unable to hold back the tears anymore. He absolutely despised how much his voice dropped after that, so he fought the pain swelling in his throat to force out the words trapped inside. “All I wanted…” he whimpered. “I just… I just wanted to go home.”

The healer reached down and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was too tired to smack it away. “I am so sorry, Brivere. Please, just rest for now. We will have more healers come to talk about what the plan will be in regards to your situation.”

He nodded weakly. It didn’t matter anyways. “Just… is there anything else I need to know?” Catching the apprehension that flashed on her face, he continued. “If there is anything else, just say it. Just get all of the bad things out now so that I won’t break again later.”

She nodded hesitantly. “Well… the poison was in your system enough to still have an impact on your body. As a result, your legs don’t work anymore. And as such… you were dismissed from your position as First Knight.”

Brivere stared back at her, and she prepared for another melt down, but to her surprise he just laughed weakly. There was no humor in it, though. “I don’t know what I expected.” he murmured. “Just when I thought there was nothing else I could lose…”

“Brivere…”

He shook his head and tried to float on his back again, only using his arms. “Please. Just leave. I just need to be alone.”

Nodding, the healer shot him an apologetic look before stepping out of the archway, leaving him alone to soak in the healing water and his new reality.

;

The next few days in the medical bay were a horrible blur.

Muzu came by to officially dismiss him from his position as First Knight. He just nodded back numbly, too exhausted to say anything. After an awkward moment of silence, the old Zora had quickly bowed and apologized before scurrying out of the archway.

Healer after healer had come in, all of them talking in a coddling tone of voice that infuriated him. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t deserve their help. All he wanted was to go home. But after a mental examination, they had deemed him too unstable to leave. In his sleep, they had cuffed his ankle to a chain bolted to the bottom of the healing pool, keeping him on a leash that wouldn’t even let him reach the edge of the medical bay.

So after losing his younger brother, his respected position, and his own damn legs, he apparently lost his freedom as well.

And to top it all off, it appeared that the goddess was also coming for whatever was left of his dignity, which luckily for him, was next to nothing, meaning that he at least wouldn’t have to lose much. Soldiers and nobles came in all the time trying to apologize, but he could tell that many were doing it more out of false sympathy than real sorrow and regret. Or perhaps they thought that a simple “sorry” would somehow even out the other vicious words they had pierced him with over the past hundred years. But he still caught the way they looked at him with pity, silently thankful that they hadn’t ended up as low as he had.

Even then, he could still see a hint of satisfaction in some of their eyes. As if he deserved this. As if it was punishment for some crime that he had never committed. Although he was chained to the pool, he could still hear their whispers in the hallways, calling him a monster for dragging his little brother into it, saying that it was about time that he tried at all. Apparently a common joke now was that he even failed at killing himself. Just like how he failed at everything else in his worthless life.

Captain Betaal, or rather, First Knight Betaal, visited a week in. She looked down at him, and he couldn’t tell if it was disgust or glee shining in her remaining eye. Probably both. She simply said her apologies, just like everyone else, and then promised that she would take care of Prince Sidon. Whatever he saw in her eye before turned to pity as she silently looked over his broken form one last time before leaving.

What finally broke him was when the Hylian Champion came the next day.

Link had walked in during a rare moment when no healers or any other Zora had come to visit. He wondered to himself if the Hylian had done it on purpose.

Brivere stared as Link made his way to the edge of the water. When he sat down, he snarled at the golden Zora. “Pathetic.” the Hylian spat.

“…I beg your pardon?” he growled, feeling the heat rising in his chest. It wasn’t an apology. It was an invitation, daring Link to explain his audacity.

“I didn’t think you could sink any lower than you were before.” the Hylian scowled, staring him down with icy blue eyes. “What, is this because you’re still mad that Sidon didn’t choose you? You hurt him enough with your words, did you intend to fully destroy him and guilt trip him into not seeing me anymore?”

Brivere snarled, baring his sharp teeth. “Not everything is about you, you selfish wretch.”

“Oh, I’m selfish?!” Link laughed incredulously. “I don’t recall dragging my own disabled and clearly emotionally unstable brother into some poisoned water! I don’t recall being enough of a coward that I let him die before me!”

The golden knight let out a roar and shot forward, lunging at the Hylian. He would have torn Link apart if it hadn’t been for the metal cuff that dug into his ankle. Not as if he could feel it anyways. “Do not pretend to be higher than me!” Brivere shouted. “Do not act as if you are one to pass judgement! You have no idea what kind of torment I have gone through, especially because of someone like you!”

“Same to you!” Link screamed back in his face. “Do you know how much you hurt Sidon with what you fuckin’ said to him?! I’m the one who had to comfort him while you jacked yourself off of your own self-pity!”

“As if you could take care of him!” Brivere spat. “I refuse to accept that someone as low and vile as you could possibly be the one that will be a good lover to him!”

Link’s face contorted into a crazed sneer as he leaned in, knowing that Brivere couldn’t grab him. “Well then you have to accept it. Sidon already knows that I’m better for him.” he chuckled. “Your fits of jealously are honestly just pitiful and annoying at this point.”

“It is not jealousy.” Brivere hissed, narrowing his gold eyes. “I have dedicated my life to protecting the prince. I have already accepted that I will probably never be his friend again after what I have done, and that is alright. If it is good for his health, then I will give up everything for him. But you!” he scowled, stabbing a finger at the air right in front of the Hylian. “You are just as bad for him as I am, if not worse! All you do is destroy everything that comes near you. Yet you dare to pretend that you are better than me, as you ignore all of the damage you have caused.”

“Oh, what the hell are you even babbling on about?” Link laughed. There was clearly no humor in it.

“Do you honestly believe that I do not know about what you have done?” Brivere spat, boring a hole into the Hylian’s head with his blazing eyes. “You took our prince and forced him to commit sexual acts that he was not comfortable with out of concern for your safety. And then, as if you had determined that you didn’t break him enough, you summoned his sister’s spirit so that she could heal the wounds that were a result of your selfishness.”

The Hylian Champion stared back in disbelief, jaw slightly ajar. “You… you knew? How-!”

“As if my lord wouldn’t tell me! We have been friends long before he even knew of your existence!” the Zora snapped. “You bring up how much I hurt him? Then you should have seen the way he begged for my forgiveness when he couldn’t focus on our sparing because of your sins!”

Brivere stopped himself and clenched his fists, absolutely trembling with fury. But he couldn’t tell if it was directed more at the heinous man in front of him or at himself. He had failed to protect the man he loved, the man he had sworn his life to protect. The man who was too caring, too kind, too naïve to see the danger within the Hylian that sat there as if he had done nothing wrong.

“You…” the golden knight hissed, vitriol dripping off of his words, “You are nothing but a worthless parasite feeding off of his kindness and love, hiding behind the false pretense that you could ever be a proper lover to him.” He glared at the Hylian, rage boiling in his chest. “Truly, how dare you. You are as wretched as they come.”

To his surprise, Link recovered easily, staring back at him with triumph in his cold, blue eyes. “I could say the exact same thing about you.” he purred, voice disgustingly sweet. “But the fact remains that at the end of the day, Sidon still deemed that I was more worthy than you.”

Brivere numbly bobbed in the water as the Hylian’s words sank in. Satisfied, Link got up and began walking out of the archway but stopped, looking back over his shoulder to eye the broken Zora in the water. “You have nothing because you are nothing.” he said simply.

And with that, Link walked out of the room, leaving Brivere with nothing but the truth echoing in his head.

;

That night, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to see his family.

Diving under the surface, Brivere pushed through the water with his strong arms until he reached the bottom. He grabbed onto the metal chain and pulled with all of his might, feeling his joints pop and muscles burn from the effort. It wouldn’t budge. Eventually, he let go when his arms felt like they were on fire, despite the cool water he was submerged in. His fingers were sore and bruised from being so harshly clenched around the chains.

He warily eyed the cuff on his ankle. The silver leash would be impossible to take off without the guards or healers, who would never accept such a request.

But he could take off his foot on his own.

Bending himself at the waist, he opened his mouth and bit down on his ankle, hard. He smothered the scream that thrashed around in his chest when pain began to shoot up his leg and make his body buzz with agony. Trying to ignore it, he bit down harder, moving his head back and forth to saw through his own bones. If he imagined hard enough, he could pretend that he was just eating another fish for dinner. This was admittedly a bit difficult, as he had refused most of the meals given to him anyways, so he couldn’t exactly remember what eating a good dinner actually felt like.

With a sickening crack that loudly echoed through the water, he watched his foot slowly sink to the bottom of the pool as a cloud of blood began to taint his whole world red. Brivere quickly pulled his stumped ankle out of the metal cuff with ease.

He ignored the pain that burned his leg as he used his arms to swim back up to the surface. It wouldn’t matter anyways. None of it would matter soon.

When he broke through the surface, he scanned the room for any late night visitors or healers. By Hylia’s first blessing to him, no one was there. He swiftly shot over to the edge of the pool, hoisting himself up. It was harder to accomplish than he had anticipated, as days of inactivity and refusing meals suddenly took its toll on him as the adrenaline subsided. Nonetheless, he fought through the screaming of his muscles as he dragged himself out of the pool, crumpling against the cool stone with panting, labored breaths.

Shit. He hadn’t actually thought this far ahead.

Brivere quickly ran through the options in his mind, wanting to get this over with quickly before someone came in to stop him like last time. He didn’t have the poison on him. Obviously, he couldn’t drown himself. He couldn’t bite his own heart out… but perhaps he could claw at his throat?

He reached up to try it, but cursed when he felt his trimmed claws scratch at his scales. Damn. The healers must have anticipated that.

Looking around the empty room, his eyes finally settled on the window. No bars, no screen. Just an open hole in the wall, letting the moonlight flood into the room. A silent prayer echoed in his mind as he dragged himself towards it, begging Hylia to have mercy on him just this once.

And apparently, she had finally decided to show him some generosity, because his heart soared when he saw how high up his medical bay was. He could see most of the Domain, and the few people who were still awake at this ungodly hour looked like ants from his window.

There was no way he could fail this time.

Drawing up every last bit of strength within his quickly weakening body, he propped himself onto the edge and threw himself over. No hesitation, no last thoughts. He had had too much of that already when he had been imprisoned in the medical bay. Maybe he had had too much of it even before then.

And as he plummeted towards the cold stone pavement below, he closed his eyes, content.

He was finally going home.

;

Prince Sidon slowly opened his eyes, groaning at the pain that racked his body. Such was to be expected after taking the spirit potion. It took a toll on him both mentally and physically, and he was exhausted beyond belief. Despite this, he smiled softly at the sight of his Hylian lover sitting beside him, his small body sunk into the water bed.

“Ah, Link.” he croaked. “I am happy to see you.”

The Hylian Champion smiled back, but the gesture didn’t reach his cold blue eyes. Even without his empathy ability, Sidon could tell that something was wrong. “Love?” he asked. “Has something happened? You can confide in me, you know.”

Link’s eyes darted to the side as the smile quickly stretched into a taut frown. “Yes, but… it isn’t something that has happened to me. Well I mean, it has, and I didn’t expect it to, but…” the Hylian’s voice trailed off, slowly coming to a stop as he buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

Grunting, Sidon tried to prop himself up so that he could rub Link’s back, but the Hylian glared at him and pushed his large body back down. “No, I’ll talk.” Link said, eyes softening. Tears were prickling at the corners of them.  “Just lie there, okay? Don’t push yourself.”

Sidon nodded and leaned back into the water bed, letting out a relieved sigh. His lover carefully laid on top of him, relaxing his body when he could tell that it didn’t hurt the Zora prince. Link rubbed small circles on his arm and both of them laid in a comfortable silence.

Eventually, Sidon decided that it was time to begin other projects. He may have been knocked out for a whole week in agony due to a spirit potion, but nonetheless, he was still a prince. There were many things to be done. Sidon glanced to the doorway, surprised to not see his First Knight obediently guarding his room like usual. “Link,” he said, drawing the Hylian’s attention. “Where is Brivere? May you call-?”

He instantly stopped when he felt Link’s body stiffen on top of him at the sound of Brivere’s name. While the two of them were certainly not on good terms, the Hylian had never reacted like this before. “Link?” he asked. “What’s wrong? I know you two may not like each other, but-!”

“He’s dead, Sidon.”

Sidon just blinked. “…I beg your pardon?”

His lover pushed himself up on Sidon’s broad chest, revealing the tears that were threatening to flow out of his blue eyes. “Sidon…” Link said, voice cracking. “They found him outside of the infirmary. He jumped out of the window. I’m so sorry. I know you two were very close.”

Sidon felt numb. He asked the question that wasn’t gnawing at his mind, for he knew that if he asked the one that was actually eating him alive then it would just confirm it all. “Why was he in the infirmary?”

Link opened his mouth, but a strangled gasp was all that came out. He got off of Sidon and sat up on the water bed, rubbing his throat and wiping at his eyes. After a few strangled grunts, he turned back to the prince. “He tried to kill himself a few days ago too. Apparently they found him almost half dead in his poisoned cistern. Estuu was there too and…”

His blue eyes shut tightly. “He’s also dead.”

Not knowing what to say, Sidon numbly stared the ceiling. Tears flowed out of his eyes as he silently wept, the screams writhing around in his chest fighting for a way out. And eventually they won, turning Sidon’s heaving breathing into howls that shook the whole room.

He quickly sat up, ignoring the pain that erupted all over his body. “What in Hylia’s name happened?!”

Link stared back at him. “It’s my fault.”

“…What?”

“It’s…” the Hylian slammed his fists into his head, grabbing at his blond hair. “It’s my fucking fault, Sidon!”

Sidon just blinked at him. “No… gods, Link… what did you do?”

"I said a bunch of shit to him!” Link screamed back. “I shouldn’t have! I know I shouldn’t have! He literally tried it a few days ago and lost his little brother, and his legs, and his First Knight position!”

Dumbfounded, Sidon continued to stare back. “…how…”

“The goddamn poison! It was enough to kill Estuu but when they got Brivere out he was still alive! It damaged his legs, and he was dismissed!”

Sidon sat there, trembling. He had had no idea that Brivere had felt that way. But now that he looked back on it, he was absolutely furious with himself for not seeing it sooner, especially when he literally had the ability to read other people’s minds and emotions. His beloved friend… who had lost everything. His mother, his nobility status, his reputation, his pride, his home, his brother, his job… just, everything.

It should have been obvious.

The prince shuddered, remembering the last things he had said to Brivere. The cold way he had looked at the golden knight. The threat to remove Brivere from his position if he ever dared to say such things again, when the golden Zora was delirious, sick with the Water Blight. The empty promise of possibly considering rekindling their bond. It hit Sidon so hard that he crumpled into himself, hugging his knees so hard that he could feel them bruise.

Brivere had died thinking that Sidon hated him. That he had lost his only friend on top of everything else.

Slowly, the prince straightened up, glaring at Link, who was still tearing at his hair and mumbling to himself. “What did you say to him.” he said in an unsettlingly steady voice.

The Hylian jumped, staring back at him wide-eyed. “No… I, I didn’t mean to-!”

“What did you say to him?!” Sidon shouted.

After a pause, Link gulped, speaking in a weak voice barely above a whisper. “I… I said that he was selfish. That he hurt you. That he killed his brother, and that he was a coward. And then he said that I was a horrible person, that I am the lowest of the low… and I said that he was too, but you still chose me over him. I said he had nothing because he was nothing. And then… I left.”

The Hylian gasped for air, looking at Sidon with pleading eyes. “Sidon, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I never wanted him to die-!”

“Get out.”

Link flinched at the coldness in the prince’s usually soft voice. “N-no… please, Sidon, don’t, im sor-!”

“GET OUT!” he roared, slamming his fist into the wall next to his bed. Link jumped off of the bed and backed up slowly, but quickly rushed out when he caught the deadly glare that Prince Sidon was giving him.

His chest was heaving, fury burning his body alive. “AND DO NOT DARE TO COME BACK!” he screamed at the entranceway. He didn’t even know if Link had heard it. He didn’t even care at this point. It had to be clear enough from the moment he had ordered him to leave.

Sidon crumpled back into himself, curling into a hopeless ball that sunk into the water bed. The room became filled with desperate gasps of air, in between heavy sobs and weeping. His mind was filled with apologies that would never be heard by the one person he wanted to say them to.

He couldn’t help but laugh hopelessly at the irony of the situation. Now he was the one who had nothing. He had lost his knight, the one Zora who had felt like a true friend among the many who just used the prince for his power and status. He lost his lover, his sister, his people were dying…

Sidon just wanted to go home, wherever that may be.

[totesmccoats]

9/20/17

Batman: the Red Death The first of the Dark Knights rises! In Earth -52, Batman hunts the Flash for his speed force. With the Bat-Family dead, Bruce wants to steal Barry’s powers so that he can protect the entire world, much less Gotham. After a long and, for Barry, torturous chase, Bruce succeeds in merging himself with the Speed Force, becoming Batman the Red Death. Shortly thereafter, he is approached by the Batman Who Laughs, who tells him that his world is destined to die, but he knows of one destined to live – they just have to take it.

Metal continues to be, well, metal as hell. Let’s start with the Red Death’s awesome name and better costume. He looks insane! And instead of lightning, he leaves a trail of bats as he runs like some kind of super-fast Dracula! Dude! This is extremely my shit! The first half of the issue is the stronger one, really setting up how scary the Dark Knights are even before their new powers. Earth -52 Batman is just as intelligent and prepared, but completely ruthless. The second half is weaker because, one: it feels like a retread of the first, and two: the Red Death railroads the Flash. No build-up, no tension, just a straight curb-stomping. At least it looks dope as hell.

Batman #31 KITE. MAN. HELL. YEAH. Kite Man gives Batman and the Riddler the location of Joker’s final remaining safehouse, but it’s on top of a tower filled with traps. Only way in is through the windows, and only way to get Riddler’s army through 73rd floor windows is with…kites. That’s it. That’s the issue. Kite Man’s coup de grace. Riddler also manages to give an actually rattled Joker a beat-down, but Kite Man finally gets his win. And in the next issue, Batman does the unspeakable.

Superman #31 Another Lois issue! On assignment by the Daily Planet to interview a cartel boss, Lois goes to Bolivia only to find that Deathstroke had gotten to him and his crew first. Inspired, Lois decides to instead track down and interview the most dangerous killer in the world, and, being Lois Lane, succeeds, but also attracts the attention of another group of killers. Give. Lois. Lane. Her. Own. Book! Seriously. These issues where we follow Lois on her investigations are some of the best in the series, and offer a perspective that no other superhero book really does. If this were just a Superman story, it would involve Clark flying around the world to stop Deathstroke from killing people; but Lois goes to watch him, to interview him, even. Almost every other protagonist in a superhero book does things to change the world in some way – usually by saving it; but Lois’ actions are motivated by observation, not participation. She usually does end up being a part of every story she covers, but her goal is always to let things play out around her rather than intervene herself. And while I think James Bonny understands and nails this perspective, if Lois should get her own series, I wish it would be written by someone with a journalism background whom could also capture journalistic language as opposed to the novelistic style writers usually make Lois write in.

Green Arrow #31 With Hal unconscious and floating in space, it’s up to Green Arrow alone to take down the Ninth Circle’s satellite and also the goon in the mech-suit protecting it. Not the easiest task when you also consider Ollie can’t breathe in space. Luckily, he’s recently made some friends who might be able to help. Like last issue, the finale drops the political overtones from earlier in the arc for pure explosive action, but is still satisfying as a conclusion to Ollie’s personal arc of rebuilding bridges with DC’s other heroes. Ollie still has to take down the satellite on his own, but at least now he has friends to help clean up the mess he makes in doing so. And this change really does show an evolution from the fallout of the last arc with the destruction of Seattle, where it all fell on top of Ollie and his small team, with no-one coming in to help. Meanwhile, Black Canary also completes her arc, taking out the underground men with a triumphant catharsis over her own abusive upbringing, helping others so they don’t suffer as she had. All and all, and ending that reestablishes hope for Green Arrow’s corner of the universe, even as he heads straight into Metal and it’s dark universe.

The Wild Storm #7 We’ve got an info-dump! IO’s Jacklyn King, their chief of analysis checks in at work and assigns her team to look into the Angela situation before Skywatch finds out about the stolen technology and sparks a war between the two most powerful agencies on and off Earth. Meanwhile, John Colt needs a quick rescue from an IO blacksite he broke into before he gets found out and killed, which would prevent him from giving the HALO team the aforementioned info-dump about what IO knows about Jacob Marlowe and machine telepathy. As Cole says in the issue, it’s a lot to take in. Thankfully, Ellis still writes some of the most electric dialogue in comics, and still manages to squeeze in a propulsive fight scene right before the info-dump to give us something to wind-down from. But even then, it’s one of those “here’s what we know they know we know they know” info-dumps – one of the worst kinds – and after reading it three times I’m still not sure if I’ve taken away everything I was supposed to from it.

Wonder Woman/Conan #1 As a child accompanying his father to council, Conan was awe-struck by a black-haired girl named Yanna. Years later, after becoming the Barbarian, Conan happens upon a gladiator match between three men and one black-haired woman who manages to beat them. She demands her freedom, but cannot overpower all of her slaver’s warriors and is taken back in chains. Conan, once again awe struck, goes to rescue her. So far, this is unfolding as a Conan story with Wonder Woman in it. While Conan is full Conan here, WW is amnesiac, forgetting everything including her name, remembering only that she has powers, and once had a golden lasso. And, for some reason, she also fashions a passable enough facsimile of her costume out of rags and mud. We get plenty of Conan being Conan in this issue, fighting bandits, looking for gold and wenches, and sneaking into places; I just wish we got more Wonder Woman. Hopefully next issue.

Generations: The Marvels Under (pre-Secret Empire #10) mysterious circumstances, Kamala Khan is sent back in time to when her hero, Carol Danvers, was still Ms. Marvel; and working on a failing women’s magazine spun out of the Daily Bugle. Kamala accidentally becomes an intern at the paper, and has to help Carol save the magazine, and the world, from an alien invasion. As she’s tended to do with crossover stories, Wilson seamlessly blends what could’ve been an interruption into a natural extension of her main Ms. Marvel story, turning this one shot into another part of Kamala’s growth from being Carol’s acolyte to a Ms. Marvel entirely her own. Working closer with Carol than she really has before allows Kamala to really nail what their differences in personality and heroic philosophy are, and how she can be true to who she is while still being the Ms. Marvel the world needs her to be. And Wilson also makes this arc into Kamala’s strategy for saving the magazine, by having her explain to Carol the sort of balance between fun and function that modern women want from their reading material. Villanelli and Herring’s art is a perfect match for the alternate history setting of this story too. My impression was that the issue looks almost like a 70’s manga, with Villanelli’s manga-inspired character designs and style and Herring’s coloring giving the book an aged patina. The whole aesthetic really gives the impression of something foreign but familiar that I really enjoyed, and also fit Kamala’s experience in the issue.

Spider-Men II #3 The origins of Miles Morales 616. Miles had taken a fall for the Rigoletto crime family, finding himself in Rikers; and Wilson Fisk gets himself thrown in to tell him he’ll be out sooner than expected. Morales helps defend Fisk while their both in their, starting a friendship that takes them to the top of the family. Honestly, not a great origin? Having our earliest introduction to this new minority character finding him already arrested for gang activity is pretty problematic, even considering he’s supposed to be a bad guy. But even besides that, it’s just an origin that we’ve seen before way too many times. And like in most things, Wilson Fisk completely steals the spotlight. And while there are are definite similarities in flirting style during a scene where Miles meets his future wife, this issue doesn’t do much to make the two Miles’ feel like doppelgangers, which was kind of supposed to be the conceit of the story. Really, more than anything, after reading this I want more young-Kingpin, and could care less about Miles-in-name-only.

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #4 Spidey, Teresa, and Torch manage to survive the Tinkerer’s assault in Kingpin’s penthouse, but find out they’ve been fighting a decoy the entire time. And they come home to more bad news: that JJJ is running with the Spider-Man aiding a traitor to SHIELD story he was leaked, meaning that Spidey and Teresa are also now on the lam! Luckily, there’s one place Peter can think of that nobody would think to look for them, but asking to crash on someone’s couch is a big ask before even a second date! This is probably the loosest issue of Spectacular so far, having enough slack for Spidey to do a tight-five of stand-up while on the run, but I honestly like it. Compared to where Amazing is right now, I enjoy having a Spider-Man series that is more loose and silly, even a little chill despite itself. Spidey’s stand-up sticks out from the issue like a sore thumb, but it’s fun page; and I really wouldn’t mind if the entire series continues the trend and leaves slack in the story for silly side stuff life it in the future.

Snotgirl #7 Lottie takes Caroline to Haters’ Brunch in an attempt to integrate her new friend with her old ones, but it doesn’t go that well. But later that night, Caroline’s brother Virgil convinces Lottie to invite her to a comic con party with the other girls, take her out of the city for a while on a road trip. Meanwhile, a slightly amnesiac Charlene wakes up from her coma to a waiting Sunny, and, under the advice of a mysterious stranger, begins to retrace her steps from New Years. What makes this such an interesting series is that, for all the exquisite detail the book gives us into each of these character’s inner lives and monologues, they never seem to be the details we need to solve the series’ main mysteries – mostly surrounding Caroline and now her brother. Instead, the issue is more concerned about Lottie’s continued attempts to impress Caroline by hiding how much she enjoys things like waiting in lines to get into fancy restaurants, and comic-con. But of course, it turns out that Caroline actually wants to go to the party after all, despite it being nerdy. Plus, showing us Lottie’s self-conscious side does do a great deal humanize her, keeping us on the love-hate relationship rollercoaster this book’s set up between us and the protagonist. It’s super interesting how the book divides our attention, really – because it wants us to care about Lottie, and gives us so much of her that we’re kind of forced to despite how terrible of a person she may be, but never lets us forget about this big mystery that Lottie barely even knows is something to be solved. It’s a really fun push-and-pull to play with/against, especially as you never know what the stakes of any given issue is gonna be.

Bitch Planet: Triple Feature #4 Another successful book of short stories from the Bitch Planet universe. Deschamps, Lee, and Olea’s “Life of a Sportsman” shows us a corner of the world we haven’t gotten to before, revealing the hyper toxic-masculinity of sports in this world, following the career of a megaton player who gets off better than OJ and Brock Turner combined. Sara Woolley’s “Bodymod” shows us the extremes that plastic surgery went to in Bitch Planet, making women into literal angels and mermaids who live in constant pain for their beauty. And Ayala and Gifford’s “To Be Free…” is a heist, where a ballerina is recruited to steal something of incredible value from a history museum in order to help the resistance. Unlike last issue, none of these stories feel like they’re repeating themselves or stepping on each-other’s toes. This issue also has some of the most distinctive art of these collections yet, further expanding the universe.

—

9/27/17

Marvel Legacy #1 One million years ago, Odin and Agimotto joined ancient versions of the Pheonix, Starbrand, Iron Fist, Ghost Rider, and Black Panther to lock a Celestial deep under the Earth. Today’s versions of those heroes begin having dreams of those events, not understanding what they mean in the context of a world removed from its status quo. Welcome to Marvel Rebirth, essentially. Secret Empire really messed things up for the Marvel Universe, and it’ll take another universe threatening cataclysm to shake things back into shape. Not gonna lie, the Avengers One Million BCE is badass, if archeologically bonkers, and I’m excited to see more of them. And I’m also all about the return of Marvel’s first family. And also Space Wakanda. But overall, this felt a lot like Rebirth #1 without the soul. Just a bunch of hints to future stories.

Generations: Spider-Man Bendis does what he does best and writes an issue where two people just sit and talk to each-other. Miles Morales wakes up in the past, at Empire College, where he runs into a young Peter Parker, who is about to have one of the worst nights of his life. But instead of seeing that story (again), we see what happens when Miles talking to an exhausted Peter after the action, and learn what it means to live as Spider-Man, and the person under the mask. When forced to tell a story in one issue, Bendis really can do wonders, even in his normally dialogue heavy style. At its core, this issue is one Spider-Man revealing to another that being Spider-Man is never easy, it’s always sacrifice, and it’s always personal. And that’s exactly the sort of thing the first needs to talk about to learn when he’s won, and the second needs to hear to learn that he’s doing a good job.

Black Panther #18 The Midnight Angels go on a mission to retrieve Asira as T’Challa and Shuri investigate a village whose people were stripped completely to the bone. Shuri recognizes this from a Wakandan legend involving the Originators, but further investigation points towards a different origin. A lighter issue than most of Black Panther, consisting almost entirely of two action scenes with a last act reveal. Really not much to review in this one; it’s mainly a set-up for a big Legacy rematch.

Wonder Woman #31 Well, it’s not a great sign when the first issue of your Wonder Woman run barely has Wonder Woman in it. Instead, most of this issue concerns a fight between Hercules and Darkseid’s daughter, Grail. Wonder Woman’s only job in the issue is to find out who won. Like, the set-up is interesting enough, but I pick up this series to read about Wonder Woman, not Young Darkseid.

The Flash #31 Flash tries to evacuate the city before Bloodwork can hurt anyone, but with his powers still causing destruction everywhere he goes, realizes he has to stop this problem at the source. But hearing Bloodwork’s motivation helps Barry realize that his negative powers may be feeding on the same impulses, and realizing that can help the hero and villain alike. The end of this arc masterfully threads the needle from moody black-suit hero to reformed opportunistic hero, without letting Barry off the hook for being a jerk to his friends and family. Barry understands why his negativity has been ruling him, and promises to take steps to fix that, the first one being accepting responsibility for his actions. This ain’t a clean-slate for better-Barry. It’s self improvement, and it’s work. And its great that Williamson isn’t ending this arc with everything hunky-dory. It ends with Barry on the first step to healing, himself and those he’s hurt.

Batgirl #15 Dick and Barbara try to get some info on the Red Queen out of Mad Hatter, but he’s not talking much while in critical condition, and the hospital might not be the safest place for them at the moment, anyway. And in the past, Robin and Batgirl go undercover at a high school party to investigate where the drugs are coming from, but only find a strange song. And Barbara begins work on Ainsley’s project, which involves nano-bots with an intriguing glitch. I’m still charmed by this book strictly on the basis of DickBabs. It’s like, the one ship in fiction I’m actually invested in, and this story is handling it so well! Honestly, all I’m asking for are more Robin and Batgirl adventures, cute awkward flirting and all!

Nightwing: The New Order #2 Finally, a superhero about fascism I can get behind! Ok, “finally” is a bit much considering that this is basically an X-Men mutant registration story with DC characters; but what makes it work, unlike, say, Secret Empire, is that it addresses fascism’s marriage with bigotry. This issue flat-out says that this started because people were afraid of their neighbors, of the “others” that creeped in until it seemed like they suddenly overwhelmed the “normals.” And it shows that Nightwing, in a state of panic, gave into the fear and slippery-sloped the world into fascism. The details are unrealistic, of course, but the broad strokes ring true. The story does have one of the big issues that most X-Men stories like this also share, which is that unlike skin-color or religion, a superpower could actually pose a bodily threat to other people, and like weapons, should have public oversight…but that’s one of those dissonant you’ve just kinda gotta accept as part of the genre. Also, Bat-MVP Alfred-fucking-Pennyworth, refusing to stand down to fascism, bringing a bat to a gunfight, and showing Dick how it’s done. Next issue hopefully begins the Nightwing apology/ass-kicking tour.

Saga #47 We catch up with The Will, whom has been kidnapped by the vengeful widow of one of the many many many people he’s killed, who is using a magic VCR to playback his memories to find someone close to him that she can kill, and make him watch. Sadly, for both of them really, she’s having more trouble finding someone close to The Will still alive. It has been a minute since Saga featured the universe’s most unfortunate bounty-hunter, but this issue more than makes up for it. Through the magic VCR we witness the childhood incident that turned him into a freelancer, and an early mission with The Stalk, before his kidnapper discovers a memory she can do something with. The developing rapport between the Will and his kidnapper is also golden. She’s trying way too hard to play the supervillain, prancing around and taunting, to break the Will, but he’s already too broken to care, and has nothing left to lose anyway. I really can’t wait to see how she eventually becomes his new sidekick or partner and the sorts of hijinks they’ll get into.

Crosswind #4 After a pleasurable, but confusing, night out with Cason’s fiance, June finally decides to try and call the man whose body she’s inhabiting by calling herself. Fortunately, Cason – in June’s body – picks up, and the two have a conversation about being each-other. And June needs the advice, as Case’s life is about to get very very dangerous. It’s really an accomplishment that this issue can have a body swap conversation – in a silent medium, remember – with characters that are rarely using their own names, and still have it be completely legible. Case and June just have such distinctive “voices” in syntax and diction and style, that they’re clear even coming out of the other’s mouth. Just from a writing perspective, that’s super impressive on Simone’s part. But it’s also the rare body-swap conversation where the characters aren’t complaining to the other about how hard their lives are, the opposite in fact. Each compliments the other for the good in each-other’s lives. Cason compliments June on her son and gentleness, while June tells Case how impressed she is by the respect everyone shows him. But they also tell the other to be careful and not mess their lives up before they can swap back. And the issue rounds off with each actually making steps to work on maintaining the other’s appearances, with June hiring some people to watch her back; while Case goes to a neighbor’s house to find out how to be more ladylike. The conflict in this book isn’t with each-other at all, it’s already present in their own lives, and the other just has to deal with a completely foreign situation. Also, Simone gets in a couple of good boner jokes! Always a plus. Lastly, Staggs is doing so much with these characters’ body language. Posture, reactions, how they hold phones or go to sleep tells us so much about every character completely wordlessly, and in the sort of fine detail that’s not easy to come by in most comics. This is a wonder on every level.

Comic Reviews for 9/20/17 and 9/27/17 9/20/17 Batman: the Red Death The first of the Dark Knights rises! In Earth -52, Batman hunts the Flash for his speed force.

[daveblume]

Representation and ownership; the delicate case of W. Eugene Smith’s Tomoko image

“Even the most compassionate photojournalism is under pressure to satisfy simultaneously two sorts of experiences: those arising from our largely surrealist way of looking at all photographs, and those created by our belief that some photographs give real and important information about the world. The photographs that W. Eugene Smith took in the late 1960s in Minamata . . . move us because they document a suffering which arouses our indignation—and distance us because they are superb photographs of Agony, conforming to surrealist standards of beauty.”

                                                                                    * Susan Sontag

You will be told we must continuously show these images as a reminder of what must never happen again! These arguments, I believe, are specious when looked at without the filter of the mass media. The classic Aristotelian notion of tragedy, which calls for the dramatic presentation of  “ . . . incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions,” seemed prescient in the age of photographic representation. Yet while such photographs may arouse pity, fear or anger, it is hard to imagine what cathartic value the perpetual viewing of, to put things crudely, a dead or dying body might have, regardless of it’s historical or political significance. 

To this end, Sontag has also written:

“To suffer is one thing; another thing is living with the photographed images of suffering, which does not necessarily strengthen conscience and the ability to be compassionate. It can also corrupt them . . . after repeated exposure to images it also becomes less real . . . The sense of taboo which makes us indignant and sorrowful is not much sturdier than the sense of taboo that regulates the definition of what is obscene. The vast photographic catalogue of misery and injustice throughout the world has given everyone a certain familiarity with atrocity, making the horrible seem ordinary . . .” 

Outside the realm of censorship, however exercised, photojournalists, documentarians and defenders of the genre have historically shown little restraint or reflection in the use of more “important” images. Actions against this deeply ingrained sense of representational duty are rare, if not blasphemous.

In 1998, pundits were aghast when Aileen Mioko Smith, the widow of master photo-essayist W. Eugene Smith, heeded the pleas of the Uemura family to bar all future use of one of Smith’s most enduring images, “Tomoko is Bathed by Her Mother.”  The photograph, a classic example of Smith’s unabashedly Romantic sensibility, with trademark high-contrast printing to further enhance the chiaroscuro lighting, had been taken in 1971 as part of an essay on the effects of mercury poisoning in the Japanese fishing industry. The photographs published in Life magazine, and in the book entitled “Minamata,” came to symbolize the plight of the families afflicted with birth defects and other illnesses. Notwithstanding concerns expressed by purists that Smith had engaged in some decidedly questionable journalistic ethics by staging the image in the most dramatic light that could be found, the photograph is held up as a shining example of humanitarian documentary work, nearly as impressive symbolically as it is narratively.

The Uemura family eventually prevailed in the first Minamata Disease trial against the Chisso Corporation, but a few years later Tomoko, only twenty-one years old, passed away. In an emotional letter written in 1998, Tomoko’s father outlines how the famous photograph has, over the years since their daughter’s death, become a crucible, outliving it’s original usefulness:

“ . . . we were faced with an increasing number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the struggle for the eradication of pollution, we agreed . . . as a result rumors began to circulate . . . `They must be making a huge amount of money from all the publicity’ . . . I do not think that anybody outside our family can begin to imagine how unbearable these persistent rumors made our daily lives . . . in 1977 we were contacted by a French television company who were planning to produce a program entitled `One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth Century,’ and they said it was vital for them to use . . . Eugene Smith’s `Tomoko.’” I did not want to take part in this program so I turned them down . . . I wanted Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.”4

In response, Smith, who had worked with her husband on the Minamata project, and had been intimate with the Uemura family, agreed. In a letter to the media, she wrote:

“Generally, the copyright of a photograph belongs to the person who took it, but I think that it is important to respect the subject’s rights and feelings. Therefore, I . . . promised that I would not newly exhibit or publish the photo in question. In addition I will be grateful if any museums who already own or are displaying the work would take the above into consideration . . .”5

Aperture magazine, widely respected as among the most excellent arbiters of important photography, dutifully published a response that brushed aside copyright concerns. Instead,  it served to chastise Aileen Mioko Smith for giving away what was not hers, violating a trust rendered sacred forged by an unconditional, long-held sense of protective ownership.  Never! Imagine the precedent! Aristotle himself might’ve appreciate the manner in which the removal of the photographs from public view would provide those most personally affected with the catharsis necessary to complete the dramatization of the tragedy, but it was not to be…

 Eugene and Aileen Smith's Photograph of Tomoko and My Family

by Yoshio Uemura

Tomoko was born on June 13, 1956. A few days after her birth, Tomoko began to exhibit trembling fits. She cried every day and we were unable to leave her side. We thought this strange and took her to various hospitals in Minamata City, but none of them were able to say what was wrong with her. She was later suspected to be suffering from cerebral palsy. However there was really no treatment for her but to give injections to her tiny, thin body.

It was not until November of 1962 that Tomoko was recognized as suffering from congenital Minamata Disease. At this time she already had three younger sisters. On December 26th of that year another sister was born and by 1969 she had a total of six siblings. Despite having so many children, looking after Tomoko took a lot of our time. A single meal would take about two hours for her to eat and so just feeding her would occupy more than five or six hours every day.

The first Minamata Disease lawsuit began in June 1969 and went through forty-nine hearings before the proceedings were concluded with the final judgment being handed down on March 20, 1973. During this period, people from all over the country offered their support and among them were Eugene and Aileen Smith, who had rented a house near ours in Detsuki from Tadaaki Mizoguchi and were photographing the families of the victims of the disease.

Among the many photographs they took, there was one of my wife Yoshiko holding Tomoko in the bath. Yoshiko told me that Tomoko had let her body lie straight without trying to curl up. To be honest, we had thought that the photograph would only take a brief moment so we had agreed to the shoot without giving the matter a second thought. I was told that Tomoko seemed exhausted when she got out of the bath.

The photograph went on to become world-famous and as a result we were faced with an increasing number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the struggle for the eradication of pollution, we agreed to the interviews and photographs and the organizations that were working on our behalf used the photograph of Tomoko frequently in their activities. However, as a result, rumors began to circulate in the neighborhood and among other people around us. "They must be making a huge amount of money from all that publicity." This was untrue. It had never entered our minds to profit from the photograph of Tomoko. We never dreamt that a photograph like that could be commercial.

The truth is that we did not benefit financially at all from the photograph. I do not think that anybody outside our family can begin to imagine how unbearable these persistent rumors made our daily lives. Sometimes we had to face the flashes and hot lights of television interviews, and although she could not speak herself, I am sure that in her heart Tomoko felt that because of her, we --her father, mother, sisters, and brother-- were having to go through such pain. As her father, I found the thought that this concern existed in the corner of her mind extremely unpleasant. Several years before she died, she began going to the hospital many times and each time she came home she was smaller than when she went in. She never smiled any more and seemed to become progressively weaker.

Despite this, Tomoko still had a strong will to live and she was treasured by everybody in the family. I regret so much that I could do nothing to soften her pain…the fevers from colds, the suffering, the only slight relief she could get from the injections and medication. The treatments probably provided but slight relief for her. I have now come to believe that the sole thing that sustained Tomoko was her parents and siblings, her family's love gave her reason for living, and perhaps enabled her to survive as long as she did.

I am sure that it must have pained Tomoko not to be able to express her gratitude to those who helped her come as far as she did, but I think it was the absolute love and affection my wife offered her that made her life worth living. The industry as well as the national and regional government sent us and untold others to the bottom of hell. And the whole lot of them neglected to save lives but instead bailed out the company. And the company that caused thousands to fall victim now survives as though it has never committed any sin.

The court case was concluded, but victory has no value to the deceased and the seriously ill. And even if the government were to apologize officially, this would do nothing in the slightest to relieve the symptoms of the victims. Tomoko died on December 5, 1977. She was 21 years old. All we could do was to hold vigil before Tomoko who had departed us in silence. I could not hear the words of those that paid homage to her in the funeral procession. Their words could not enter my ears. In blank stupor, Tomoko departed to heaven ahead of her parents, leaving behind her sisters and brother…

In 1997 we were contacted by a French television company named CAPA who were planning to produce a program entitled, "One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth Century" and they said that it was vital for them to use "the picture that captured the environmental problems of Minamata, Eugene Smith's 'Tomoko'."

I did not want to take part in the program so I turned them down. I know what television interviews involve and also, many of the organizations that are working on our behalf are using the photograph in various media, many of them in places we do not know about. I realize that this is necessary for numerous reasons, but I wanted Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.

Hearing the way I felt, Aileen came all the way from Kyoto to visit me on June 7th last year and she promised to revert all rights of decision to the picture of Tomoko to my wife and I. We later received this promise in writing and a copy of it appears on the following page [below]. I and my family are filled with gratitude from the bottom of our hearts toward Aileen. I thank her deeply for this wonderful gift to Tomoko. I feel that Tomoko is now finally resting in eternal peace. I ask all of you for your support and understanding.

His letter ended:

1. I,  Aileen Smith, return the photograph entitled "Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother" to Mr. and Mrs. Uemura.

2. This means that the right of decision concerning the use of this photograph reverts to Mr. and Mrs. Uemura.

3. In the future, when any requests are made to me concerning this photograph, I will explain the following (see separate sheet) and refuse use of this photograph.

 October 30, 1998

Aileen Mioko Smith

Regarding the Photograph, "Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother"

by Aileen Mioko Smith

The photograph entitled "Tomoko is bathed by her Mother" was taken in December 1971 by Eugene and Aileen Smith. At the time, Tomoko was a plaintiff in the first Minamata Disease trial and was suing the Chisso Corporation for damages. Her parents wanted society to know about their daughter and therefore agreed to the taking and publishing of the photograph.

Since 1972, this photograph has been published in Life magazine, a book of photographs entitled "Minamata" (1975 in English, 1980 in Japanese) etc., causing a huge response, and became a symbol of Minamata Disease.

The plaintiffs won their case in March of 1973 but sadly, Tomoko died in December 1977 at the tender age of twenty-one. Despite this, however, the photograph continued to be used as a symbol of Minamata Disease in books and exhibitions, leaving a strong impression on a large number of people. I later heard that this resulted in a certain amount of conflict within the minds of her family, who wanted to see the end of the kind of pollution that caused the problems, while at the same time wished to let Tomoko rest in peace.

Generally, the copyright of a photograph belongs to the person who took it, but the subject also has rights and I think that it is important to respect the subject's rights and feelings. Therefore, I went to see the Uemura family on June 7, 1998 and promised that I would not newly exhibit or publish the photograph in question.

For the above reasons, the photograph entitled "Tomoko is bathed by her Mother" will not be used for any new publications. In addition I will be grateful if any museums etc. who already own or are displaying the work would take the above into consideration when exhibiting etc. the photograph in the future.

October 30, 1998

Aileen Mioko Smith (Copyright Holder)