#i used to have an old post that more tangibly tracked what i am talking about in the last paragraph but it's on my old account

[roobylavender]

i don't know if you've ever been asked this before but, roughly speaking of course, do you prefer the pre or post-crisis iteration of dick's split from the robin mantle more? i've seen both sides of the arguement, but i'm curious as to where you fall there considering how complicated your thoughts on bruce & dick's dynamic can be. hope you're enjoying your day!

i'm personally inclined towards the post-crisis version but a big part of that is bc i don't actually believe it's as contradictory to the pre-crisis version as people tend to allege it to be. like i'm honestly very confused by people's reading of the post-crisis issue bc the way it's talked about on here you would think bruce told dick to stop heroing wholesale. what he asked dick to do was to stop being robin at his behest. ig there's a fine line between those two statements if you don't want to read into them too deeply but i think it really makes a world of difference bc the first interpretation makes the decision purely about dick and the latter interpretation makes it all about bruce. and it's funny bc people who go with the first interpretation will act like they're making it about bruce by complaining he's overriding dick's personal agency as an adult, etc., but that to me is in effect making it about dick bc his being an adult is the farthest thing from what's actually impt here. making it about bruce means understanding that bruce is hyper aware and critical of how he introduces danger into dick's life. he recognizes himself as an enabler and he takes that position seriously enough to realize that it would actively be wrong to witness dick go through what he did with the joker and ask him to show up in the colors for another night on the town. which is why i think it's impt to recognize that bruce isn't asking dick to stop being a hero, he's only asking him to stop being robin. he recognizes there's a chance dick could still go on to be a hero and he's fine with it bc he knows dick would be doing it of his own volition and not bc bruce asked him to. i am sure people who really really hate bruce would interpret that as an expression of overindulgent self importance but i think it's nothing more than bruce caring about dick and not wanting dick to do things simply bc he's always seen bruce doing them. he feels that way bc he cares

and i believe it's completely within bruce's rights to ask dick to step down as a concerned parent. obv we can talk about the hypocrisy of his decision in light of later events but in that singular moment i don't think he's wrong to recognize he's enabled this to go on for years and that he's in a position to stop it before it's too late. i think a lot of people get caught up in this idea of like, well bruce allowed it to go on for this long so he has no right to stop it now, and i don't really agree bc i mean if you were a parent and made poor decisions prior that doesn't really negate that you still have a responsibility to exercise as a parent in the future. bruce can't use the fact that he enabled robin as an excuse not to protect robin in the future and he knows that. intimately. i think that is one of the most misunderstood things about him (in part bc of how canon and perceptions of bruce deteriorate over time following jason's death) and frankly i would even go so far as to say it's a really good reflection of how relationships between parents and their children are perceived in the west. there's this prevailing idea that bar whatever else has happened in the past you have no responsibility over your child the minute they turn eighteen years old and are not entitled to caring about them or wanting to guide them in their decisions. it's incredibly baffling to me

to piggyback off of the brief jason parenthetical though, in words that will surely ignite dick fans everywhere, i really like the post-crisis version bc i think the way it overlaps and interlaces with what happens to jason is kind of one of the most ingenious things about post-crisis 80s batman as a whole. i'm unfortunately way too lazy to pull up and screenshot comic issues so you will have to bear with my memory of specific lines but the issue where dick was fired (batman #408) was actually referenced to a month prior in an issue taking place during jason's robin tenure (dc #574). jason has a nearly fatal run-in with the mad hatter and while he's being operated on leslie asks bruce, "didn't that close call with dick teach you anything?" and i think it's really clever how max allan collins works with that to ultimately create this tension between the bruce who recognizes that he cannot justifiably enable children into becoming vigilantes but also desperately hopes to save these children from a life of loneliness and unresolved anger at the perpetrators of their trauma. there's a wonderful see-saw between the way we see bruce treat dick and jason that i think culminates quite perfectly with a death in the family for however horrific the actual storyline is. i know the canon in that period pulls from quite a few different writers but it's interesting how you get these stronger exercises of parenting from bruce when it comes to dick (barring the moments of physical abuse which as i'm sure you're well aware i completely ignore as unnecessary exaggerations purely inserted for purpose of drama and standard wolfman-fare dick prop-ups), followed by moments of regret that i think you could argue influence the way he's a bit softer with jason. but then there are moments like the one in the issue above where he wonders if the way he handled dick was actually the right way to go, so you get him telling jason it's okay to step down, he won't mind. and obv jason doesn't step down and life goes on and is swell for a moment in time until something else happens and then bruce is left to wonder all over again whether the stronger approach is the right one. he suspends jason from duty bc it's what he does with dick but in the end what does it get him? the child he so desperately wanted to save dies. idk if i'm making sense here but that interpolation of parental exercise between dick and jason that starts at how bruce asks dick to step down is incredibly interesting to me. it is a patchwork of canon i have stitched up in my own mind admittedly but i am quite fascinated with it

[nickgerlich]

Finding Resolve

We’ve all done it. We are all part of this new phenomenon, something that barely existed before this century, and only truly gained momentum in the last decade. The worst part is, most of us have forgotten exactly how much we are involved with it, because it is hard to remember what and how much these phenomena cost.

I am talking about the subscription economy, that magical place where software and streaming services are the product, and our monthly bill is usually on autopay. It ranges from SOAS (Software As A Service) providers like Adobe and Microsoft, to all the music, movies, and more that we stream into our homes, cars, and mobile devices.

And it is eating us alive.How many subscriptions do you have? Let’s start with your vehicle. Do you have satellite radio? That’s one. Do you subscribe to cloud-based software? That can be one or more. What about streaming tunes like Spotify or Apple Music? There you guy. The list is getting longer.

And then there are all the streaming TV choices, which runs from services like YouTube TV to Netflix, Paramount+, Apple TV+, Peacock, Max, Hulu, Disney…I could go on. You may have cut the cable at home, but you tethered yourself in other ways to the extent that the net effect is little different.

Then there’s the gaming community, if that’s your thing. More dinero. Maybe you fell for the premium version of an app, like Accuweather. If you’re a regular Amazon shopper, you no doubt have Prime, which costs $139 a year, plus the vitamins and supplements I receive every month from them. Like listening to books? There’s Audible. Old newspapers? There’s Newspapers.com, one of my favorite sites to do research. Cloud storage? Good Lord, I have several, for my thousands of photos and documents.

So successful has the subscription model been that paywalls have appeared everywhere online, like the New York Times, Washington Post, and Atlantic Monthly, each of whom have amazing content, a feast for my eyes and brain. Alas, I have drawn the line, because I sense it has long spun out control. And if CNN goes ahead and paywalls its app and site, I guess I won’t be reading them anymore.

Because I, like many people, have subscription fatigue. I simply cannot begin to consume all of this media. Sadly, I cannot remember all of the services to which I subscribe, and if you aren’t there yet, I bet you will be soon enough. The only way to know for sure is to carefully track your credit card statements to look for monthly billing.

That, of course, is the problem, because we willingly provided our billing data so that we do not have to do this every month. As long as that credit card is valid, those providers will keep hitting your card every month. It is only when your card is about to expire that you get a notification. And if you were not careful and instead provided a bank routing and account number, they can keep sticking their hand into your pocket as long as you have that account.

Ironically, there are new subscription management software sites and apps that supposedly make it easy to track and opt-out of all the things, but they are subscription services themselves. That’s like replacing one drug with another. You’re still on the hook.

It all starts so easily, because many of the subscription services are technically just micro payments, only $5 or $10. We see that as pocket change. Other services offer annual payment options, which provide a slight discount for paying in full in advance. But many of the once-cheap micro payments have started to get expensive, like Netflix and Spotify (I am speaking from experience). They are no longer minor indulgences.

Were these tangible products we had to buy in a store, I bet we would all be a lot more careful. The friction of having to be somewhere to even just tap your credit card would probably be enough to cause us to think. But it is simply too easy in the digital world to keep subscribing, because once we get in that loop, there is never any friction.

We are all going to have to muster a lot more resolve to win this fight, as well as start keeping meticulous records. Otherwise, these things develop lives of their own, lives that will continue hitting credit cards even after our own lives are over. I’m pretty sure none of us will be consuming anything at that point, and there’s no use paying for it.

We don’t have to wait for New Years Day to make this resolution.

Dr “I Honestly Can’t Remember All Of Them” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[ninakaina]

for once i WILL make a long analysis post no one asked for. p2 bad grief and his friendship with artemy below + p2 and classic changeling spoilers. let’s try to be serious about him for just a minute and forget about his giant pores and ugg boots i have no agenda i prommy

i know i’m not alone in thinking that bad grief’s relationship with his friends is one of the most interesting and telling aspects of his character in p2. for a liar, he’s extremely loyal. a lot of people have talked about how he comes through to protect rubin despite their differences, so it’s obvious how much he cares. lara also includes him in her confession, meaning she has reason to believe that he would try to give himself up to help her just as much as artemy and rubin, who it’s a lot easier to imagine doing something like that. he’s also a person constantly looking for acceptance, not by society, but by the people around him-- we learn this from his reflection, who also tells us how much artemy’s perception of him in particular matters to him. 

unlike stakh and lara, he isn’t angry with artemy at any point in the story, even if artemy kills piecework, and doesn’t lash out at him even in the cathedral. he doesn’t seem particularly angry with stakh or lara either; what bothers him most is that they haven’t accepted him (“gravel-hearted lara won’t even look at me”). i think an important difference is that he’s watched stakh and lara grow up and grow away from him. the core of what distinguishes his relationship with artemy from his relationship with stakh and lara is very simply the difference between reuniting with a friend you haven’t seen in years due to them moving away or going to a different school or whatever vs a friend you’ve spent years growing apart from-- there’s no inherently saying that you’re more compatible with the separated friend (although yeah, there’s a lot to be said about artemy being the glue that held their group together), but you see them still as the person they were when they left, and there’s an instinct to jump right back in to the relationship as it was. since that’s the last you remember of them, that past is current in your memory, as opposed to being clouded by everything that came after the sort of halcyon days of youth. grief seems a lot more sentimentally attached to the gang’s past than stakh and lara. in part i think this is because he’s a childish person, but i think it’s also tied to that desire for acceptance. 

when artemy shows up in grief’s nest, the first thing grief does is compare him to how he used to be-- specifically in a way that encourages denial. whether it’s an intentional choice or not, saying “you’re different now; you’ve gone soft” begs the answer “i haven’t gone soft”, with the implied “i’m not different”. similarly, through saying something along the lines of “could that be my old friend? no, you’ve changed,” grief ties artemy’s past identity to their friendship, such that engaging in their friendship is a return to youth. and there is a return to something; as much as artemy and grief trade half-insults, right from the beginning their conversations lack nearly all the tension and resentment in artemy’s early conversations with lara and stakh, and they have a good give-and-take in the way they talk to each other. there’s also a strong contrast here with artemy’s first conversation with lara, in which the first thing lara does is bring up how long he’s been gone, and stakh’s first words to him-- “why did you come? finally thought of some good excuses?” grief puts less emphasis on artemy’s absence than on hoping he’s come back, and less on how things have changed in the town than how things have changed with artemy. i’m talking a lot about it because it’s such a weird exchange, on the line between joking and heartfelt (”you’re no fun. aren’t you happy to see an old friend?” “oddly enough, i am”)

the other important thing that happens before-aglaya is their little railroad field trip. this is a weird moment. the plot itself doesn’t make a lot of logical sense as far as grief’s actions. artemy comes to grief asking to blow up the railroad tracks. grief doesn’t want to blow up the railroad tracks. grief agrees to blow up the railroad tracks, shows up to the railroad tracks, and tells artemy he’s not going to blow up the railroad tracks. and nothing really happens. the player can choose to just sit with him. if it’s a joke, it’s not very funny, and grief doesn’t seem like he’s in a joking mood. you’d kind of imagine he would just say no, or if he wants to send artemy on a wild goose chase he just wouldn’t show up. it’s not like there’s another dynamite supplier artemy would go to. for me, the explanation comes in what artemy says when he asks for the dynamite. the dialogue option that unlocks the event is “why not? let’s do it together. just like the good old days.”

aglaya is a force of maturation, a catalyst of coming-of-age. some of my friends were just talking about how in classic, she says she thinks the powers that be hated her because she wanted them to grow up. i don’t actually think this is a change with the force she represents in p2; she’s tied to a transformative stage of psychological development that deals with questioning authority and the established order of things. in p2 her power is most tangibly illustrated in her effect on bad grief. 

when artemy asks, just like the good old days (and one of the ways he can ask for the dynamite is through reminiscing about their old games and saying he’s feeling sentimental), everything about grief draws him to help. he wants to help his friend, he wants to protect himself, he wants things to be like they used to. but in the shadow of inquisition, he’s starting to mature, and to realize that things can’t stay the same. he’s starting to embrace the future, and i think he wants to face that future head-on with artemy, who has basically re-accepted him, which is why he makes the plans and shows up. he can’t resist going, but he knows better than to bring the dynamite.

their relationship gets more complicated as grief moves into the cathedral. in the conversation that begins with “we need to escape, cub. escape.”, he tries to outline his new philosophy. unlike immortell, grief isn’t concerned with mortality, but with humanity, and he’s become convinced that the only way to become human is to leave-- but he doesn’t leave, because artemy doesn’t leave. he doesn’t say he needs to escape, he says they need to escape. there are two explanations i can think of for this, and i think the truth might be a combination of the two. it’s possible that on some level, he recognizes, like aglaya, that artemy is the only character with some kind of agency. the only way grief would be able to leave the town is through artemy’s agency, although in practice artemy’s agency is limited to make that impossible (no option to agree). still, artemy has what grief calls an “inner freedom”, which he both envies and admires. it’s all pretty similar to aglaya’s fascination with artemy, except more familiar. grief has always known this of artemy, he’s just starting to put it into perspective. it also seems possible to me that grief just doesn’t want to leave without artemy. he exists best in the context of others, as he deals in the web of connections between people; he isn’t one to strike out on his own. the only time we see him alone is at the signal fire by the railroad, waiting for artemy.

artemy has, gives, or represents everything grief wants and doesn’t get: acceptance, a return to youth, and freedom. in the nocturnal ending, grief outlines (if you get lucky i guess) one other thing artemy has that he doesn’t: “a good, honest face”. in the diurnal ending, artemy still struggles to understand what the fuck grief is talking about, but their relationship leaves off on a hopeful note that one day he will. idk i don’t know how to end this there’s just literally so much to think about here

[beachknit]

MYSTERIOUS AUTHOR OF SIGNED, VENUS, "THE WRITER," FOUND

Sorry for the clickbait title. Pretty soon it won't be clickbait, though, and that's what this post is about!

If you don't already know, my name is Hayden. Welcome to my blog! Loyal readers might notice that all my old posts are gone… don’t worry, they’ve just been archived to a different site, and I will be sure to send everyone who was following before this post (which, honestly, wasn’t many people) a link so you can still read those old posts if you’d like. But for what I’m about to do, I think a fresh start and introductions are warranted!

Those of you who are from Coast Venus yourselves (which, I believe, will probably be the majority of you) will be excited to hear that the mystery we've all been keeping tabs on for the last ten years is about to be unravelled. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the anonymous author behind Signed, Venus. The person, the myth, the Coast Venus legend themselves... The Writer!

To start this off with a bang, I have managed to identify and track down the slightly-less-enigmatic illustrator of Signed, Venus to their home here on Coast Venus's beach. Please do not try this at home, though, readers, for in most cases, it is rude to blatantly disregard the privacy and boundaries of others.

Now, I know what you Coast Venus skeptics are thinking, but rest assured: by the time you've finished reading this post, you will be completely convinced that I, Hayden, am the best and most worthy person for the job! But before we get to that, let me explain to our readers from out of town just why any of this matters.

Coast Venus is a little town in the country of Conclaire. If you've heard of us, it's probably because the town is known as a hotspot for authors and creatives. I copied this description from the town's official website, but we've been described as "Everyone's dream vacation, with breathtaking ocean views, world-class resorts, and famously friendly locals who will inspire with storytelling and poetry." The really important thing is that writing means a LOT to us here. You won’t find a person in this town who doesn’t at least read regularly, and I’m told that our local budget for literary arts is much higher than the international average.

The second most important thing to pay attention to is that, apart from Coast Venus, travel to other towns in Conclaire is generally off-limits. There’s a bunch of history behind that, blah blah, but basically for the last eighty or so years travel throughout Conclaire (except for Coast Venus, of course) has been almost completely unheard of. Almost.

Until The Writer did it. The first issue of Signed, Venus was published roughly ten years ago. In it, The Writer explained that they are breaking Conclaire’s travel taboo, going to the different towns, and recording what they find for publication here in Coast Venus. Signed, Venus is the only modern source of knowledge about what the rest of Conclaire is like. It’s such an important project for anyone who is interested in learning more about Conclaire, and The Writer conveys their findings with a unique and personal flair. Signed, Venus is my absolute favourite creative work, and I highly recommend that all of you check it out if you haven’t already.

Now, of course, there is a catch to all of this: nobody actually knows who The Writer is. We know that they’re from Coast Venus (or claim to be), and that they work with a local artist who illustrates and publishes each issue of the series. We know a bit about their personality from their writing, but we don’t actually have any identifying information other than that. Signed, Venus is published completely anonymously, and The Writer has only earned the moniker of “The Writer” from Coast Venus locals discussing their work.

Thank you for bearing with me through that explanation, Coast Venus readers, and you’ll be glad to know we’ve reached the part you actually care about. Here are the five W’s for your convenience:

Who: Me, Hayden, and my partner, Kameron, in pursuit of The Writer of Signed, Venus

Where: We will be going on a road trip throughout five locations in Conclaire, visiting sites that The Writer talked about. Specifically, we will visit Arabella, Sayre, Quidel, Mulani, and Urbina

What: We’ll be meeting and talking to locals of these different towns mentioned in Signed, Venus to ask them about their encounters with The Writer and their impressions of them

Why: The Writer is known for exaggerating. Instead of trying to go straight to where The Writer is right away, we want to try to learn more about what they’re like as a person as part of the process of uncovering their identity. Talking to those who have actually met him will be a great way to get a sense of what their character is really like off the page

When: This plan has been in the works for years, actually, but the first tangible step is happening today!

Okay, I know the “why” didn’t really answer the question you’re actually asking, which is, what prompted this? Why now?

The answer can be found in the latest issue of Signed, Venus, #44, in the final paragraph:

“… with my hammering heart and a tank full of gas, ready to head into what will likely be the last chapter of Signed, Venus, I want to thank those loyal readers who've kept up with my journey over the years. And, if my vain hope I've nurtured all this time ever comes true, that someday these journals will inspire one of you to set out from Coast Venus and explore Conclaire yourself, I'd like to ask that you not come after me or try to identify me."

As you can see, The Writer clarifies here that they have hoped for Coast Venus readers to someday be inspired by Signed, Venus to explore the rest of Conclaire. They then request that those of us who do make that journey do not try to find The Writer.

I believe that The Writer is being purposely facetious here (see issue #31 where they explain at length about their use of reverse psychology when talking to River). In the ten years since the first issue of Signed, Venus was published, no one has ever tried to find and identify The Writer. Sure, there has been plenty of guesswork done as to The Writer’s identity, particularly with astute readers comparing his writing style to the writing of other famous Coast Venus authors, or looking up records of locals who have left town, but no one has actually tried to follow in The Writer’s footsteps for the purpose of uncovering their identity. Also, there haven’t been a lot of attempts to travel Conclaire. The ones who have left end up either returning fairly soon after, discouraged by how this country isn’t exactly built for tourism once you’re outside of Coast Venus, or they create no written record of their travels so it’s pretty well useless to the rest of us. Keeping all of that in mind, it’s curious that The Writer would even bother to mention this, right?

Well, not really. If you’ve read enough of Signed, Venus, you’ll recognize this as a clear sign of encouragement. The Writer mentioned that readers travelling Conclaire is their hope because it’s something that they want readers to do. They love a good twist and a challenge (as we can see from the entirety of the series…), and they’ve been carefully creating a mystery around their identity since the very first issue. There’s a reason that here in Coast Venus we refer to The Writer as our town’s very own urban legend - that is exactly how The Writer wants us to feel about them. Telling us not to try to identify them just makes their identity even more mysterious and intriguing. The Writer knows that, and that’s the entire reason that they said it - they want us to look for them, and they want us to find them.

This morning, Kameron and I took the first steps on our journey. Like I said at the beginning of the post, I’ve figured out who the elusive illustrator of Signed, Venus is and their place of residence. But what I didn’t mention is that today, we actually went over to their house to ask them about The Writer. It didn’t all go exactly according to plan… but that’s a topic for the next post!

Follow my blog to keep up-to-date with me and Kameron as we set out to find The Writer! :) You can also follow Kam on Instagram.

[dust2dust34]

Our New Normal (Olicity, post-8x10, Explicit)

(read on AO3)

The glowing numbers disappeared as she slowly pushed the laptop shut.

Felicity took a deep breath and dropped her head on her crossed arms. Her glasses jabbed her in the nose. Scrunching up her face, she threw them away to land on the pillow she’d woken up on just a moment ago. The very nice pillow in the old Italian villa that she and Oliver had stayed at all those years ago. Except this wasn’t actually Italy. Not that Italy, at least. It had everything their Italy had on Earth 1. Or rather, Earth Prime. Whatever.

Chest tight, Felicity settled on her arms again and closed her eyes.

They immediately flipped back open and latched onto the half-closed laptop.

She could still see the ghostly glimmers of Smoak Technologies’ numbers running across the screen that had just been on an announcement in the Gazette of a wedding engagement.

One good thing about your husband housing a supernatural entity with nearly god-like powers? He had access to computers that let her keep track of things in the world she came from, no matter where they were. Even in a realm that didn’t technically exist… or that existed outside of the multiverse as newly created… or was a bubble outside the… bigger bubble, or…

Felicity sighed into her arms.

They had talked about it at length. She’d asked a thousand and eleven questions and he answered them all as much as he could. But long story short? He was immortal and he policed the new cosmos that he’d basically rebirthed. Oh, and when the Monitor opened the door for her back to her husband, she’d bounced back to the age she’d been when the Monitor had first come for Oliver. And double oh, she was in a sort of… pause. More like Oliver had hit the pause button. She wouldn’t age like she had, because here, in this world, time didn’t exist like that.

Which meant they would, in theory, outlive their children.

The gaping hole that ripped into the center of Felicity’s chest took her breath away.

A warm, callused hand on the small of her bare back pulled her out of her morbid thoughts.

The mattress next to her feet dipped, and then by her hip, and then a heavy, familiar weight fell onto the bed next to her. That very specific, very well-known earthy scent that was all her husband filled her nose. She breathed him in as he smoothed his hand up her spine. A wave of goosebumps erupted under his touch followed by a shiver she felt in her toes.

Felicity turned to face him.

“Hey,” her husband said, his voice soft and gentle, and that beautiful smile…

Her heart jumped at the sight as her own lips curled up in response.

It was as natural as breathing, just like Before. Except now it was a little more insistent. A little more desperate, even. As if she were preparing. As if it might be the last time. Which was ridiculous. She knew that. She was here, with him, and she was staying with him. Forever. But she still wasn’t used to it. When someone spent twenty years missing another person? Twenty years of learning to live without them, of trying to move on out of necessity, of being terrified to let go of that love because the thought of it fading away was worse than death? Well, it made remembering that this new reality of hers was actually happening a little difficult.

Until she looked at him.

And just like that, all the tension melted from her muscles and she relaxed into the bedspread.

His hand paused, his smile faltering the tiniest bit.

Oliver’s eyes lit on the laptop behind her.

She stiffened before she could stop herself.

“Just trying to reach my daily stalking quota,” Felicity said. His eyes found hers again and she plastered on a grin. “Is breakfast ready? Guess I should find a shirt. Although let me tell you, I’m getting way more used to seeing all this young skin I definitely did not appreciate enough when I had it. I should’ve walked around like this way more often. That makes it sound like I’m going downstairs shirtless, which I’m not. Although I could. It’s not like anyone’s here to stop me. But then I don’t think much eating would get done. Well, not the food kind of eating. Although if you lose your shirt, too, I know those abs of yours would make an excellent plate. Lots of experience with that. And whipped cream. All over. All… over.”

And she was babbling.

Years ago, she would have thrown out a joke to cover any accidental faux pas. But that was then.

“Which we should do,” Felicity added. “Like, right now. I’ll make you a whipped cream shirt.”

Oliver laughed, and her next smile was real. Her babbling had come back hard and fast in the last few weeks. It was refreshing and a little startling considering the somber brain-to-mouth filter she’d gained after his funeral had never gone away.

But that it still made him smile like that? It could stay lost forever.

“I am definitely a fan of losing our shirts.” But he didn’t move to take his off, or kiss her, or roll her onto her back and ravage her like he’d taken to doing since she’d arrived. Instead Oliver sighed and smoothed his hand over her back again. Felicity watched his gaze drift to where he touched her. He dragged his fingertips in slow circles, over her shoulder blades, and then up the back of her neck into her hair. He ran his fingers through the long strands, quiet wonder covered his features as he pushed a loose tendril from her face. “But there isn’t any food. Yet. I didn’t make breakfast.”

The shift in the air was tangible.

Felicity couldn’t stop herself from stiffening again. “Then what’ve you been doing?”

“You asked me,” he said, still watching his hand play with her hair, “how I did it for so many years. Watching over you, over William and Mia, and nothing else. How I could stand being so close, but… not there. With you. With them.” His voice cracked. “I could have. I could have been there with you, Felicity, even if it wasn’t always, I could have. But I didn’t.”

A tremulous breath escaped her on a quiet, “Why?”

“Because I wanted this,” Oliver admitted in a tiny voice. “I wanted you, here, with me. I knew what you were going to do, that the Monitor was going to bring you here, to me, because I created the pathway for him to do it. But it had to be just right. It had be the right time. Time is… if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time is fickle. One little change has ripple effects that are felt throughout the entire multiverse. And I knew, if I went to you, that it would be different. Your choice would be different. Whether it was timing, or the way it happened, or how the kids turned out. God, that was the hardest one. Their future is so necessary, in so many ways, and if anything had changed for them because I was there, I couldn’t risk that.

“But that wasn’t why I did it. I wish it was, but… it wasn’t.”

“Oliver…” Felicity whispered, heart in her throat.

“I gave up so much,” he continued, finally looked back at her. He cupped her face, his fingers digging in as a tear fell down his face. “You. Our son. Our daughter. My life. And I know it was the right thing to do, I know that now as much as I did then. But then it was all over, and suddenly all I had was all of this before me. All this work, this balance I had to maintain, all this time… And all I wanted was to be selfish. For once, I wanted to have the one thing I needed more than anything else in the entire multiverse.”

He didn’t have to say it. She saw it in his eyes.

“That’s why I never came to you,” Oliver told her. “Because I needed you. The Spectre can do so much, but I can’t erase choices, I can’t change the consequences of choices people make. And the last thing I wanted to do was jeopardize you coming here. I wanted to be selfish. I am selfish. Because I wanted you here, Felicity. I needed you here. With me. Like this.”

Felicity bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood.

Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them away as she tried to breathe through a suddenly suffocating pressure in her chest.

She had assumed as much, when she first asked him, when he had dodged the question with a non-answer. He could have been there. He could have been there with her, with the kids, building a life together instead of the shattered pieces she’d been left with. They could have been together all those years, those achingly lonely, empty years. Even if he’d only been there sporadically, it would have been better than nothing.

Right?

No.

A burst of air rocketed out of her lungs at that, and the pressure evaporated. Ask her twenty years ago - even ten years ago - and her answer would have been very different.

But now?

She wouldn’t trade those years for anything, she realized, because they had shaped all of them.

It was the struggle - the work, the hardships, the wins, the losses - that made her see what he was saying. It was the joy that came of it, the steel, the glue that kept her family together, that let them thrive the way they did. It would have been so different, if he had been there. It would have changed things, irrevocably, because that’s what love did. That’s what their love did. Did she wish he had been there still? Absolutely. The thought alone made her want to cry with the strength of the yearning that filled her. But could she blame him? Part of her wanted to, still, because it felt like a choice she should have been involved in. Except she couldn’t have been. Because it was bigger than her, than them, all of it - the death of her husband, the opening for the Spectre, the only being strong enough to end the darkness, the only way to reconstruct what had been destroyed. But not their love. The circumstances were bigger than all of them, yes, but not their love. Nothing could destroy that. Nothing was bigger than that, and the proof was right here, wasn’t it? That she was here, with him, in a pocket of time created and maintained solely by him, so they could be together the way they had always wanted. The way they deserved.

It could have been different. They deserve to have that happy ending, the white picket fence, the two point five kids, the dog…

But this was their reality. This was the next best thing. And she couldn’t be angry about it.

Not when she faced an eternity with the love of her life by her side.

Oliver huffed out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “But even then, I couldn’t help myself.”

Felicity frowned, not following.

He stared at her for a beat. “We haven’t talked about any dreams you might’ve had during those years.”

“Dreams?” she asked. “You mean, of you? Of course I dreamed about you. You were always on my mind, you were never… Wait. Are you saying…?”

Vivid pictures filled her mind, so clear and crisp and intense that she always woke up positive it had happened. At first, it had been more than she could bear. She had even resented them for a while, wished they would stop, but then she would close her eyes and her first wish was to see him. And she did. Entire conversations, laughter, tears, words of love, affirmations, sometimes anger and frustration, throwing things and raging, and other times… his touch, all over her, inside her…

A fresh burst of tears blurred her vision as she pushed up onto her elbows.

“That was you?” Felicity demanded. “Those were real? They were… you were…?”

“It was the closest I could get to you, to William, to Mia, without really being there,” Oliver admitted. Agony twisted his face as his hand dropped from her face. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but I couldn’t stand spending that much time away from you, from my family. And you were always open to me, as if you somehow knew-”

“I did.” Felicity grabbed his hand. “I was open to you. Always. God, Oliver, you have no idea what this means. Those sustained me. I was able to talk to you when I needed you most, I was connected to you when I needed to be, I thought… I thought I was losing my mind honestly, but they kept me going, as if they were… as if it was somehow you, and it was. Oh god, you were there, you saw Mia’s first steps, you saw William’s awards, you saw… Oh, that car accident, and when Mia broke her arm, and the fights she got into, and when William’s grandparents died, and work, and JJ, and Connor, god, Connor and everything he went through with John and Lyla, and… Oh, those dates? You… you were so… Oliver, for a few minutes, I felt like I had you back. I had the father of my children back, my partner, my husband.”

“I was with you,” Oliver promised, another tear falling as he squeezed her hand. “The entire time.”

Felicity surged forward, her lips finding his in a graceless kiss. His free hand cupped the back of her head and pulled her closer, holding her there for a long moment.

“And the kids?” Felicity asked, pulling back to look at him.

“Yeah.” Oliver took a shaky breath and nodded, his tears making his eyes luminescent. “It wasn’t as much with them, because I… I wanted to protect them from thinking anything weird was going on. Which it was. And I should have done that with you, but with you, I wasn’t as strong. It was more… memories, with them. They’d revisit something they did that day, or the week before, and I would get to be there. Like… graduations, or plays, or sleepovers. Sometimes they were things I didn’t want to see-” Felicity laughed. “But most of the time, I was able to be present for things that I wouldn’t have been otherwise. And you were there most of the time.” Oliver brushed her hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t the same. I know it would never be the same, but for a second I was with my kids. I was able to be with them the only way I could be.”

Felicity didn’t try to hide the sobs that wrenched out of her. Oliver gathered her close, kissing her, their tears combining.

“There were some mornings where they came downstairs,” Felicity whispered. “And I could see it in their faces. Mia talked about it more than William at first, but you were always there with us. Always. And they knew about it all. About everything, I didn’t keep any of it from them. They knew who you were, before the Crisis, and during.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“And I… I knew I was going to see Mia,” she continued. “As a grownup, when she was still a baby, and I knew that was coming for her. That she would be coming to your funeral. And that she would meet you again.”

“That made it easier,” Oliver confided, emotion choking his voice. “There was another future that had happened, before the Crisis, and their lives… your life… they were so hard, and I hated it, but it made them into the most amazing people. And I got to meet them. I got to talk to them, and hear their stories, and live with them, even if it was just for a moment. They were the most amazing people I’d ever met, and I knew so much of that had to do with you. You raised them into beautiful, strong people, and that… It made it easier, staying away. Knowing that that would happen because of you. Although I had no doubt from the beginning.”

Felicity smiled.

Or, she tried.

When it came down to it, she had still done it alone. She’d had help, of course, and it was nice knowing he’d been there, in some way, but it wasn’t what it could have been. And for a second, she mourned that with every atom in her body.

She ducked her head and burrowed into his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. He was so warm, so alive, his heat seeping through his t-shirt into her bare skin, his arms warm around her.

Oliver pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Felicity.”

“I know,” she whispered. Her voice hitched on a sob. “I know.”

They held each other. The silence settled around them, and tension she didn’t realize had snuck back into both of them slowly slid away. Sounds of an active world outside their room filled the air - cars, birds, people talking in the distance, the pool just outside their window lapping against rock edges, the wind blowing. The comforting noises cleared away the heaviness.

She wasn’t sure who moved first, but somehow their hands wound up tangled tightly together on his sternum.

“I wanted to be here with you, too,” Felicity said after a moment. “You know that, right? I needed to be with you. It was all I worked towards. It was the one thing that got me up the most. I knew when they would be okay without me, and that when they were set up and happy and safe, that I could finally find you. And I don’t regret that. It hurts knowing what could have been, but I don’t regret it. Because I have you.” His arm around her back hugged her tighter. “And Mia and William, they were with me in this, every step of the way. I didn’t hide it from them, and I wouldn’t have called the Monitor when I did if they had asked me not to. But they didn’t. Because they knew as much as I did how much of myself was missing because I didn’t have you. So no, being here now, with you, like this, I don’t regret it, Oliver.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “I don’t regret it.”

A flitting wave of relief crossed his face.

“I don’t,” she reiterated and pushed up so her lips brushed his in a kiss. “You are my everything.”

“And you’re mine,” he replied on a crack before pressing his lips more firmly to hers.

They settled in again. The shared silence a warm cocoon folding them in together.

It was almost perfect…

“But you miss them,” Oliver offered.

“Oh god, I do,” Felicity said. She sat up to see him more fully. “I knew I would, too, that I would miss them so much, and I made peace with that. I did. And with them. But talking about being away from them is one thing. Actually being away from them? And then there’s…”

“What?” he asked, smoothing his hand up to the back of her neck. “Talk to me, Felicity.”

“I know I won’t age here.” Felicity studied his eyes, and saw the instant he got what she was saying.

“But they will.”

That searing pain speared through her chest again as Felicity nodded. “Yeah.”

Oliver opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stared at her, and she saw all of her own heartbreak and grief mirrored back at her, and she knew he’d thought about it, too. But there wasn’t an easy answer. There wasn’t even really an answer that he could give her that would any of it better. Because there was no making this better.

“I was checking in on them.”

Felicity’s heart stopped. “What?”

“When I went downstairs to make breakfast,” Oliver filled in. “I know it’s been bothering you, I know you’ve been keeping tabs on them, and I knew… Well, I hadn’t visited Earth Prime. And I knew I could, but I wanted to be absolutely, one hundred positive that I could before I told you that-”

“What are you saying?” Felicity asked, shooting up taller.

“I’m saying we should go visit our kids.”

“What? We can do that? We… can go home?” A sob cracked her voice. “I get to see my babies?”

“Yes,” Oliver whispered, tears filling his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Felicity gasped, throwing herself at him. A laugh fell out of her as she wrapped her arms around him. “Oh my god!”

His laughter joined hers as he hugged her back.

“How?” Felicity asked, pulling back. “Alright, I mean, I do get how, but-”

“Honestly, I’d thought about it long before you found me,” he said. “About how to bridge things back to the kids, how to bridge our world the way we knew it with what we have now. I can do so much, and I want to give you everything, Felicity. I want to give us everything that I can. And then you were here.” Oliver grinned, but there was a sadness that made her heart hurt. “And I had you in my arms again, and it was everything I’d wanted. I thought about bringing it up, so many times. I waited for you to bring it up, but you didn’t, and I… It just… I was scared. I couldn’t stop thinking about what they would think of me, now, about how everything happened, about the last twenty years-”

“They love you, Oliver,” Felicity told him. “They know who you are, they know everything.”

“I’m still terrified,” he admitted on a rattly laugh.

Felicity cupped his cheek and ran her thumb under his eye. “That’s what makes you human.”

“Even though I’m not technically human anymore?” he replied, and a hint of ethereal green shaded his eyes. “I’m not even technically alive anymore, Felicity. Not like I used to be. The Spectre can’t exist in a living person. That’s part of what ties us together. I don’t actually even know exactly what I am.”

His eyes dropped. “Does that… does that scare you?”

“No,” she said honestly. “Because you’re still Oliver. Because I was with you every step of the way, remember? When you came back from Lian Yu, everything you went through as the Arrow, as Oliver Queen, as a husband, as a father - I was with you. And I know that man can more than handle this. These last few weeks, ever since I got here, things have been so… normal. But I know things aren’t normal anymore. Not like they used to be.”

“No,” Oliver agreed. “I’m not just Oliver Queen anymore. I had the chance to come back, but when I chose to be the Spectre, I became something else entirely. And as the Spectre, I have a lot more to do, to keep the balance, in the multiverse. It’s funny, all those years ago, when I thought I couldn’t be the Arrow and Oliver Queen… It was you that helped me realize I can. That I can be both and so much more. None of this would have been possible without you. All those years, the years you helped me find myself, find my light, my balance, it was all leading up to this moment. I’m Oliver Queen…” His eyes grew bright green, so bright they glowed. “And the Spectre.”

Felicity stared into the glowing orbs.

His reticence was another presence in the room, and she knew he was bearing it all to her, showing her everything. There was more there now, an otherworldly presence, but it wasn’t separate. Because as much as she sensed the power in him that hadn’t been there before, it was still all her Oliver.

“Our new normal,” she said.

“Yeah,” Oliver whispered on a relieved grin.

Staring into his green eyes, Felicity kissed him. She kissed her husband, kissed the Arrow, the Green Arrow, her partner, the father of her children… the Spectre.

New normal was a bit of an understatement, but at the same time, it was exactly right.

When he tried to deepen it, she pulled back.

“So hang on,” she said. “Those dreams, the stuff you told me, was all that real, too? Like an earth made up entirely of shrimp, and when you tried to describe what it was like seeing colors you didn’t know existed-”

“Some of that.” Oliver cracked an amused smile. “I can’t say I’ve run into a planet made up entirely of shrimp yet.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Okay, so that was an actual dream, then. Got it.”

Oliver chuckled. “But the other stuff? It was all true. And I’d like to show you all of it.”

“Really? We can do that? I don’t have to have some special goddess status-”

“You’re already a goddess in my eyes,” Oliver interrupted and she rolled her eyes at him, earning another chuckle. “But no, you don’t need a special status.” He laced his fingers through hers again and lifted them as Felicity settled back against his shoulder. He pressed his face to her temple, and she felt his lips moving as he spoke. “The Spectre and I are like this, entwined together. But so are you and I. You are just as much a part of me as the Spectre, which means where I go, you go.”

“That… will be so frakking amazing,” Felicity said with a laugh.

Oliver kissed her temple. “Not as amazing as you,” he said. He rolled her onto her back and climbed on top of her. Felicity opened for him and hummed at the sensation of his full weight against her as he settled between her thighs. He cupped her face. “Nothing is as amazing as you are, Felicity.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, there is an entire multiverse out there-”

“Nothing,” he reiterated before his lips slanted over hers.

She moaned. “Okay, but you’re talking about me seeing the actual freaking universe-”

“Felicity.”

“I’m just saying, there has to be some sort of-”

He cut her off again, and this time he took advantage of the opening to thrust his tongue against hers. There were more words in her brain, but they disappeared as he kissed her. He pressed her further into the mattress and she pulled her legs up higher. He groaned his approval as he settled more fully against her center, his sweats and the thin sleep shorts she had on the only thing separating her from his growing hardness.

Dragging his lips from hers, Oliver kissed his way down her chin, following the line of her jaw to the delicate spot that always made her gasp before he eased down her neck. Stubble scraping as he went, his t-shirt soft against her bare skin as he moved, Felicity’s hands landed on his shoulders, her nails digging into hard muscle. He licked and sucked and nipped and she fought to keep breathing, pushing one hand into hair that was thankfully growing back, the other sprawling over his upper back. He still had his scars, all of them, and they greeted her even through his shirt in such a familiar way that it brought tears to her eyes.

“Oliver,” she whispered as he moved down to her clavicle, her chest, her breasts. “Oliver.”

“I’m here,” he replied just as his lips found one of her nipples.

The pleasure was immediate and a strangled whimper escaped her, a shudder wracking every inch of her, her back arching to get closer. He flicked at her with his tongue, sucking before grazing the tiny bead with his teeth. Heat spiraled out from that spot, searing, coursing through her right to her core. Felicity gripped his hair tight, holding him closer, her legs wrapping around him as she thrust her hips up into his. The friction was perfect and she cried out, doing it again, earning a deep growl from him. He rotated his hips, sucking harder, pinning her down…

It was exquisite torture, and any other time she would have enjoyed the ride, but on the heels of everything they’d finally admitted to each other, it was suddenly not enough.

“I need you,” Felicity rasped. She pulled at his hair, tugging him away, and he let her nipple go with a wet pop. His lips were as red and swollen as her abused breast, his cheeks flush with arousal, his eyes glassy with need, and it was the most erotic sight she’d ever seen. Felicity grabbed his face and urged him back up to her. “I need you inside him,” she told him just before her lips crashed into his.

Hard and demanding, they kissed each other as if it was their first and last time combined in one. It was inevitable, though, in a way, the desperation that captured them, that controlled them, after everything they had been through.

After everything they had found again.

Oliver pulled back, quick and harried, and he clambered off her, nearly falling when he abruptly found the edge of the bed. Felicity followed him, scooting to the edge, her hands shoving his shirt up as he pushed his sweats down his hips. His hardness popped free, swelling even more where it bobbed between them. She abandoned his shirt and wrapped her hand around him. She didn’t waste a second before leaning forward and wrapping her mouth around his thick head, running her tongue along the slit. A salty droplet greeted her and she moaned, sucking, wanting more as she started pumping him, gripping him tight, his hot skin moving against the thick steel of his need for her. He panted out a tight curse, and then the air above her was moving where he tore his shirt off. She didn’t let him go, her want for this man so intense she felt it in her bones, taking over, controlling her, making her mindless.

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back, forcing her to let him go. She didn’t get the chance to react before he gripped her waist and tossed her back onto the center of the bed. Felicity bounced, a giggle escaping her, and she caught sight of his grin but then he was gone, his fingers finding the hem of her shorts. He tugged them down, tossed them away, and then he climbing onto the bed again.

“Come here,” Felicity whispered, opening her arms, but he stopped at her thighs.

Oliver smoothed his hands from her knees up. She whined his name, spreading her legs, reaching down to grab him, but he evaded her. The look on his face - the hunger, the need, the want, the love - it had her inner walls already spasming and she arched her hips to get closer to him.

“Oliver, please.”

“You are so beautiful,” he replied, his hands finding her inner thighs, moving up. His lips followed his hands’ path, so soft compared to his calloused palms. Her head fell back on the bed with a bounce, her breaths sawing in and out, sensation swamping her. “So beautiful,” he told her again. His hot breath danced over her delicate, trembling skin, sending waves of goosebumps spiraling out. “Beautiful.”

His mouth found her weeping sex.

A cry wrenched out from deep inside her and Felicity’s back bowed again, her leg kicking out. He slid his hands under and around and clamped her hips down, holding her still as he took his fill of her. His tongue stroked against her clit, his lips wrapping around it and sucking, his head moving, his mouth opening wider so he could lick down to her opening where he thrust his tongue inside her. Heat was a living thing under her skin, churning, bright and hot, the pleasure he gave her taking her breath away as he worked her. Felicity grappled against the sheets, twisting them in tight fists, thrusting up, her whimpers and pleas filling the room, the sucking noises and his moans sending her higher.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Oliver…”

Like he knew, like he could read her thoughts, like he was of the same mind as her, Oliver pulled back and climbed up the rest of the way. His face was wet from her, and he left a trail of arousal as he kissed and sucked his way up her abdomen, up the slope of her neglected breast, her nipple, her chest…

Felicity nodded when he finally reached her, when he finally settled the full length of his hard body against her soft one, when she spread her legs for him. His chin was still wet when he kissed her, and she moaned at the taste of herself on his tongue. Felicity wrapped him up in her arms, pulling her legs up as high as she could. His hard length slid across her tender, wet core and their combined moans was music to her ears.

“Yes,” she breathed against his lips as he pulled his hips back, his thick head finding her entrance. His kisses drifted down her cheek and she kissed his stubble, his jaw, his ear, the line of his hair as he buried his face in her throat. “Oliver…”

He thrust home.

Felicity’s mouth fell open in a soundless cry as he filled her, going so deep, stretching her completely. He fit inside her perfectly, like he was made for her, and she held on as he found one of her knees and lifted her leg up, letting him slide in even deeper. It was so good, so, so good, almost too good to be true…

“Is this real?” she choked out.

Oliver froze and pulled back to look at her.

A sudden sheen of tears blurred her vision and she blinked rapidly, needing to see him. He stared at her, his brow furrowed, his breaths ragged, but he didn’t move. She cupped his face, drinking him in, every little tiny thing. “This isn’t a dream, right? You’re really here. I’m here? This is…?”

Anguish twisted his brow.

“It’s real,” Oliver told her, staring into her. “This is real, Felicity, I promise.”

“You’re here?” she said, smoothing her hands over his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders.

“I’m here,” he whispered. He shifted, readjusting, and slipped his arm underneath her and across her back to grab her shoulder. Hugging her. It anchored her to him, so securely it made her chest ache. His other hand found hers. He laced their fingers together, tight and sure, and tugged them close between them, until they were completely wrapped up in each other. “You’re here,” Oliver said. “This is real. This is real.”

Felicity nodded.

“It’s real.”

He kissed her, and she knew he was telling the truth. She was here, with her love, and they were never going to be apart again.

Oliver slowly started moving. He pulled out the tiniest bit before thrusting back inside her. She moved her legs, winding one around his backside, the other slipping down to wrap around his leg. He lifted his other one for more leverage as he filled her, over and over and over…

They made love to each other, every move achingly tender, every touch reassuring. His hand gripped her shoulder, strong and sure, their laced hands never letting the other go, not for anything. When Oliver pulled back to look at her, their eyes meeting as they rocked together, she cupped his cheek, grounding herself to him even more.

Her pleasure built on a silent crest, slow and meticulous, coiling inside her in a crescendo that radiated through every inch of her.

“Oliver,” she breathed, and he nodded, pressing his forehead to hers. Felicity gripped his hand in hers, her other grabbing the back of his neck for something to hold onto. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed his air, taking him inside her in every way possible. “Oliver.”

“I’ve got you, Felicity,” he promised and her eyes flew open to find his already on her. Her pleasure peaked in a sudden swell. She gasped, stiffening, clinging to him, to his gaze. “I’ve got you.”

Felicity came apart in his arms. Fire licked through her veins, but not with the alacrity it usually did. It was slower, hotter, igniting every single nerve in her body. Her eyes slammed shut, her back bowing, her toes curling, pinpricks dancing under her skin in a swath of heat. It consumed her, and it didn’t stop, not as he kept moving, thrusting, filling her, over and over in a primordial dance that echoed in her soul.

Oliver fell against her.

Their tangled hands stayed lodged between them as he buried his face in her neck and doubled his efforts, hips moving faster, their skin colliding, his hold on her tightening.

When tiny, desperate sounds echoed against her throat, his breaths hot and wet, his lips and stubble scraping over her, sending erotic shivers through her that echoed the cascade of pleasure, she opened her eyes…

“Oh god,” Felicity breathed.

The ceiling of the villa was gone, but there wasn’t any sky, not like she knew.

A fresh wave of sensation crashed into her and she cried out as the multiverse above them glowed bright. Colors and swirls and stars and planets glowed against a black background that was as alive as the universes it cradled in its dark palm. The beauty of it was astonishing, mind-bending, filling her with awe as much as…

“Felicity,” Oliver moaned, and on one final thrust, he came deep inside her.

She felt it, felt him, felt his pleasure as much as hers, and another orgasm hit her.

They fell together, holding on to each other, coming together in more ways than one.

It was a long while before Felicity opened her eyes again, and it was only because Oliver moved to slowly ease out of her.

“Oh,” she whimpered and she turned to follow him as he fell onto the bed next to her. He pulled her close, cradling her in the security of his arms, pressing a chaste kiss to her sweaty forehead. Felicity sighed, lifting her leg to wrap around his hip, tangling their legs together. “I love you.”

“I love you,” ghosted across her hair as he readjusted, fitting her into the cradle of his shoulder and pushing his face against the top of her head. She hummed her approval, dropping messy kisses against his broad chest. His hand got tangled in her damp hair, his other skating down her ribs.

“Oliver?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I saw it,” Felicity whispered. She felt him frown in question and she pulled back to look up at him. “The multiverse.” Surprise twisted his face. “I mean, I think I did. This isn’t a play on how absolutely incredible those orgasms were, because they really, really were, and all the kudos to us for the amazing sex we just had, but… When you said my name, the ceiling… disappeared, and I saw… I swear I saw it. And then I also felt… At least I think I did… I felt you. Felt what you felt. Do I sound as insane as I think I do?”

“No,” Oliver said after a moment, his brow furrowing on a thought. “It actually makes sense.”

“Well, that’s comforting, and it also explains nothing.”

“When I’m with you,” Oliver said, staring into her eyes, “you’re all that exists for me. You are my universe as far as I’m concerned, and I think… I don’t have to concentrate to keep this place where we are going, it exists because I say it does, and it exists exactly like the world we used to live in, but I think I… blurred the lines a little bit? I let go… into you. What I was feeling. What I see when I close my eyes.”

“Wow.”

“Is that… okay?” He frowned. “I can try to pull it back-”

“No,” Felicity said loudly. “Don’t you dare. I want you letting go with me. I’m so glad I can give that to you. That I can still give that to you. That was… There aren’t words. I felt more connected to you, to the entire universe, in a way I never have before.”

“I felt that, too,” he replied softly, moving his fingers through her hair. “I felt you, with me.”

“Wow.”

Oliver smiled. “That’s why I know I’ll be able to take you with me when I have work to do. Which yes,” he added off her look, “definitely includes seeing the kids.”

“I still can’t believe that’s possible,” Felicity admitted, her hand drifting up to his chin, his jaw, wonder filling her voice. “I never dreamed that that would be something we’d get to do. That it was even possible. I should probably stop wondering about things being possible, shouldn’t I?”

“At this point?” he asked, that green shading his eyes again. “Probably.”

“So when can we go?”

Oliver grinned. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Emotion filled her chest to the brim. “I’m ready. With you by my side, I’m ready for anything. For all of it.”

“Me too.”

They kissed, a soft, loving touch that sealed that promise.

A quick shower later - and by quick, she meant one of the perks of having a god-like husband was the hot water never ran out and when she complained about pruny fingers, he made them disappear which meant they spent a wonderfully right amount of time having shower sex - they stood together in the villa bedroom.

“Hold on like this.” Oliver laced their fingers together. “Hold on to me tight.”

Felicity grinned. “You know, these might be the very platonic circumstances I was talking about all those years ago.”

He chuckled, and pulled her in close, not even needing a second to remember what she was referring to. Her heart soared as Oliver kissed her, lingering, and it went even higher when he whispered, “And we’ll explore those different circumstances a little bit more later.”

“Good thing we have all the time in the world,” Felicity replied.

He grinned, kissed her once more, and on a, “Here we go,” the world around them shifted…

And when Felicity opened her eyes, they were in a large open room. Against one window was the large face of a clock, and even though it looked wildly different from the last time she’d been in there, she knew they were in the clocktower in Star City.

Movement had both her and Oliver turning around.

What she saw had tears filling her eyes, joy filling her heart, and gratitude and love squeezing Oliver’s hand.

Mia and William sat at a bar against the opposite wall, and they both looked up at the same time. William’s face was drawn, circles under his eyes, and he looked haggard, but he was his same vibrant self, thanks in part to the obvious connection between the siblings, to Mia where she held his hand, so full of light and life.

Her babies.

“Mom…?”

“Dad?”

The End

*

I hope that wasn't too mean of a place to end it! I tweeted this after the finale and I wanted part of this to be a lead-up to a situation where it happens.

A/N: It’s no secret that I really loved the last scene of the finale. I also really wish Season 8 had never happened, for a number of reasons, but also because I don’t think this is how Arrow should have ended. But in the context of the Crisis and everything that S8 gave us? God yes, I loved that we got Olicity together in the end! But, of course, I had questions, and I wanted to understand things. So I babbled out a bunch of stuff. I started this after the finale and it’s slowly morphed into this. I wanted to capture as much as I could that encapsulates how I see Olicity wherever they are now. I have admittedly not looked too much into the lore or the comic books, so...

So this is my headcanon now!

(This was un-beta’d and I’ve been sick, so all mistakes are definitely mine.)

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it - reviews feed the soul and muse.

[rokutouxei]

in a way that would make you proud

bungou stray dogs dazai osamu (& oda sakunosuke) | T | 2913 | [ao3]

warnings: post-canon, alcohol, dazai-typical suicide references, implied/referenced self-harm, oda is still dead, also everything is in lowercase. spoilers for dark era / 黒の時代.

notes: this was supposed to be for dazai’s birthday, but i started it way too late. i didn’t want to rush it, so i took a week to write it and now it’s just a long angsty love letter from me to him (in a way.) + first bsd fic so i wanted to make a good impression LOL

summary:

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 23. hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15. everyday he would wake up wondering (hoping? believing?) that he’d be dead the next day. he never really does. alternatively: june 19th, every year, just feels like a long, long night.

-

(midnight.)

dazai doesn’t celebrate his birthdays, at least in his head. it’s just another likely-humid day in the country’s short rainy season. every birthday is just another reminder, no, a testament to a year of failed attempts to take his own life. it’s miserable at the worst. today, it’s just numb. he doesn’t even wake up feeling any different.

but he doesn’t let that train of thought stop everyone around him for celebrating for him.

dazai considers, for the first few minutes after waking up, skipping work altogether. it’s not going to be surprising, or anything new from him, really. and an earful from kunikida is just going to be cheap fun for the next day. but as dawn slowly gave way to the sun, he figured dealing with the pleasantries (as in, the “surprise” party that had stopped being a surprise a week ago) and sitting in his office chair would make him feel a little more put-together, at least more than just lying in his futon with his new roommate, a growing stack of empty cans of ready-to-eat crab.

dazai sighs, shuffles out of his bed, hearing the imaginary shackles that bind him there clink around.

(one o’clock am)

besides, the members of the armed detective agency think of themselves a small family at best, and for families, birthdays are special. (dazai hums this to himself on his way to work, like it’s a fact he’s learned, not a lived experience.) he’s spent the past two years carving himself a spot in this mismatched little group, and even if his space feels just as impermanent as anything he’s ever wanted, it’s still a place. he isn’t going to lose all that hard work over a random day.

budget is tight this quarter, but when he gets to the office, he’s welcomed with, salad, karaage… and even crab! there’s no alcohol because kunikida is too strait-laced for that and he insists there’s still work to be done. dazai whines and makes complaints, as everyone expects him to.

most of his colleagues have small gifts for him, like an orange from kenji, a candy from ranpo (quickly taken back), his favorite bandages from yosano… nothing really spectacular. kunikida gets him nothing, but the wordless glance they share with each other says otherwise.

atsushi feels indebted to his mentor, so he splurges to get him something nice: a scarf. which is hilarious, to say the least, considering it’s basically summer, but since scarves are off-season they are cheaper, and that’s the only way atsushi can afford something as stunning and high-quality as this—a nice thick cotton one in a deep blue shade. he passes the credit to kyouka for choosing which to get and for wrapping it nicely.

dazai’s eyes flicker with something for a moment before it’s gone. he thanks them with as much heart as he can muster, then does his usual dramatics. asks if the scarf is sturdy enough to hang himself with.

atsushi begs him please don’t and dazai feels something squeeze in his heart.

after the feast, the rest of the day goes as it usually does: dazai smiles and makes jokes and laughs and drives kunikida batshit insane. it’s just a normal day at the armed detective agency office.

just not for dazai.

(two o’clock am)

a work day is still a work day, though, and there’s no getting away from kunikida even on “personal holidays.” there are reports to be written and things to be followed up. dazai isn’t being efficient about it, but he still does his share—at least enough so that it’s even a bit fair for his begrudging partner, who is always gentler to him on this particular day.

an extra serving of patience—that’s what kunikida always gives him on his birthday. and even on this year, dazai’s quick to claim it; two hours before the work day officially ends, he’s already packing up to leave.

not that kunikida’s screaming will really stop him, but it feels a little better when dazai can afford to leave a little early with permission.

atsushi’s a little surprised no one stops dazai from leaving, but he asks no more questions when kyouka shushes him. kunikida only tsks when dazai is out of the building.

(three o’clock am)

out of the office and back into the rush of the city, dazai’s feet bring him to a beeline to that place, like on autopilot. he’s humming all the way there but his brain’s only echoing a sort of static. that is, until the imagery of sitting next to empty seats begins to burrow into the haze of his mind—and it hurts. numbness is okay, but pain? it hurts the same way squeezing into old shoes that no longer fit you does.

and dazai hates it.

so he steels himself, says, no one’s there anymore, insists, there is nothing to come back to.

even if he knows he will find himself there again one day. he always, inevitably does.

but not today. that’s not where he feels safe enough to break.

this time, dazai’s a little more purposeful, a little more awake.

he drops by a liquor store to get whiskey. just goes up the aisle and picks up the first one he finds. it’s not like he’ll remember what it tastes, anyway. the cashier doesn’t make small talk. dazai smiles at them anyway.

he contemplates buying flowers, but he feels a pang of pain at gifting something that’ll die before he does.

and so he begins the long, slow walk to the seaside.

(yesterday, today, and tomorrow)

yokohama is too familiar to him now. he’s lived here too long.

every street bears his secrets. every crosswalk has a memory.

every inch of the city has a weight.

when he was still learning to maneuver the ins and outs of the city, a little boy barely filling in the hollow of his new uniform, there was darkness everywhere. everywhere he entered, everywhere he left. dazai was sure the darkness would quickly consume him.

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 22.

hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15.

every day he wakes up wondering (hoping? believing?) if he’d be dead the next day.

today, he’s 23.

odasaku died at 23.

dazai should have died at 15.

or better yet, it should have been him who died at the hands of mimic.

he’s sure.

(four o’clock am)

even if odasaku had acted of his own accord, he was still given a mafia’s burial. the details, of course, were hushed: it didn’t matter that mori had orchestrated the entire deal with gide. what mattered is that odasaku’s death had led to the granting of their prized business permit.

a piece of paper in a stupid black envelope.

in the months between the port mafia and the armed detective agency, dazai struggled to find a way to put into words what the experience left in him. it was like it was him who was shot clean through the chest. he was walking down the path the end of odasaku’s life had pointed him towards, but then what? at what cost? to what end?

his friend’s death left no trace of him, his private files burnt, the ones still useful to the mafia kept in confidential locations. (dazai knows where everything is.) to the outside world, all that was left of the man named oda sakunosuke was a headstone, on a rather beautiful gravesite on a fancy cemetery overlooking the sea.

it was dazai who overlooked all these tiny details, even while on the run, in hiding.

honor the dead, they said.

he figured it was the least he could do.

dazai always felt like he could offer too little to the only man who ever really knew him.

so now he offers it all, stumbling along the unfinished path of a dead man, even if he didn’t know where was he going with it.

“ya, odasaku.”

(ten minutes past four)

not much of anyone comes to visit this grave, really. ango, maybe, dazai bitterly thinks, but he’s gladly never had the chance to see the man here. (he hopes he never gets to.)

because this is the only place dazai truly feels quiet.

he doesn’t really stop thinking. he doesn’t know how to. there’s always too many things to consider, so much going on, and even when his brain lets go of the tangible, of the here and now, there are other things for thoughts to latch on to, like old wounds that suddenly seem fresh if dazai closes his eyes hard enough, or the phantom sensation of a noose, or the sudden realization that he’s drowning, just not in water.

dazai’s long mastered the art of keeping his forever-rushing thoughts in neat compartments. he doesn’t usually lose track of his spirals, except when he’s here.

here he counts down, 18, goodbye, 17, 16, 15, hello, he is young again, he isn’t wounded in the places that hurt when he’s alone, he is meeting odasaku for the first time. (he’s walking down the port mafia headquarters and he sees him, and something deep within him, six years away from the future, shouts: don’t! spare him! meeting you is a death sentence!)

and then he is meeting him for the last time.

like freshly pumped from a weakened heart, stuttering, begging to live, the spurting red blood is still warm. it sends those in dazai’s veins boiling. there is no rationalizing here—no amount of reason brings the dead back.

he knows that.

but dazai breathes easier when the lines are less muddled, and he can point the criminal to the judge and sentence them to death.

it was mori ougai, sir.

it was gide, sir.

it was me, sir.

it was him—it was oda sakunosuke’s fault, sir.

(it was him who pulled me out of the dark, sir. who forced me to deal with the mess we made, sir. who told me i belonged here, sir.

i don’t want to be here, sir.)

it is only here where dazai’s mask really breaks.

shatters cleanly in half, then falls down with a thump on sacred ground.

(twenty minutes past four)

dazai rests his back against the headstone, staring out at the ocean, the sunset dyeing yokohama bay a lovely vermillion. the tendrils of loneliness cling to his limbs like they’ve sprouted out of the ground, when really it’s from deep inside his heart.

only here does dazai really feel seen: his transparency only to a man buried six feet under.

dazai’s given up on it, now. it doesn’t matter that people don’t “get” him, as long as he’s able to do what he has to do. this is a luxury is long past him, now that he’s slipped into someone else’s unfulfilled dream. he’s trying to be what odasaku would have wanted himself to be.

if there’s one thing, one thing he would ask for, it’s faith: and with his subordinates’ faith comes success—and that’s all he needs.

just bargaining chips he’s collecting under his pillow as he says, “look, odasaku, i’m doing good, look, cruel god, this duty’s given my life meaning, forgive me, forgive him.”

meaning?

no, there is no meaning here, no metaphor, no hope.

just a gaping void.

(four thirty am)

the sun slips under the bay and the sky is a beautiful lavender-violet; the sea breeze makes him chill. rainclouds have begun to crawl over the horizon, hiding the moon.

dazai feels old. too old. he feels too old for someone in a body that’s only twenty-three. he never expected this body to last as long as it has. he was ready to retire at ages much younger than this. his hands crave death with the same vigor his mind races to write strategies for situations where he survives. now, he lives in a world he never expected or planned to be a part of.

he wonders if odasaku felt this exhausted when he was at this age.

all dazai does here is think. until the thoughts stop.

the cap of the whiskey bottle is screwed on tight but when it opens, the smell takes him back to bar lupin so fast that his head spins. dazai takes a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle.

and he was right. he can’t taste it.

only blood. the blood in his hands, the way it stained his bandages, odasaku’s dead weight, the red pooling on the floor. dazai only tastes blood in his mouth.

blood’s always been the only thing that’s filled him.

and he hated it. felt it thrumming underneath his wrist, his jugular, blood that said try as you might, you insolent mortal, you can’t die, that so many times he’s tried to wring himself dry of it.

he never does.

because if he loses his blood what else would be left in him?

odasaku once told him that the emptiness inside of him will never be filled, not by anything that he’ll ever find in this world. and odasaku was right—dazai knew. dazai knew long before he was told. no amount of money, no amount of power, no amount of whatever will get him out of the edge of the cliff he was dangling on.

for a moment, dazai wonders if odasaku knew and was so sure of it because odasaku was aware he was taking it away with him.

whatever “it” was.

(the sun begins to paint the sky violet)

dazai remembers an afternoon a million years ago when the hollow in his heart didn’t have the shape of oda sakunosuke’s hands. ozaki kouyou was teaching two jittery fifteen-year-olds about literature.

well, just one, but dazai’s really only there because he wanted to mess with chuuya, and kouyou spotted him first.

with not a single year of formal education on chuuya’s back, kouyou’s work with him was nearly tenfold. she was tasked not only to refine his abilities (he’s good, but he can be better, a touch of elegance will not hurt), but also teach him other valuable skills.

being part of the organization, after all, was not just about violence and murder.

dazai knew that. chuuya was yet to learn it.

arithmetic and history and science—the redhead had tutors for that. but literature, kouyou had taken into her hands.

it’s not the text itself, or the language and vocabulary, she said, what we’re honing here is critical thinking, and the bits of philosophical thought to be picked up that’ll shape you into a brilliant mafioso in the future. pretty words, dazai thought. she sipped tea while chuuya read. she tapped his back with a fan when his posture broke and he began to slouch.

chuuya read the books religiously, without complaint (at least not in front of kouyou). dazai never really understood all this. he let his mind wander. why didn’t she just let the boy read war strategy books—the kind mori made him devour? oh, but chuuya wasn’t really a strategist, and well, he’s obedient, that’s why he’s a dog—

the silence of the afternoon was broken by chuuya getting up to ask about a phrase he didn’t understand. kouyou smiled in a way that left dazai unsettled. and somehow, that afternoon was burned into dazai’s memory like it was something he mustn’t forget.

the phrase was 無我夢中.

to be totally absorbed in something, you lose yourself in it.

that is, dazai’s long known what he’s doing, he just doesn’t want to admit it.

(the sky is a weak light blue, giving way to an inevitable morning)

the whiskey bottle is empty now. dazai shifts to stuff it into his little paper bag of gifts when his fingers graze the soft cotton of his new scarf, deep blue.

save the weak, protect the orphans, he was told.

he pulls the scarf out and clutches it in his hands.

feels its weight. imagines rope.

please don’t, atsushi said earlier.

and dazai is trying, and trying, and trying, and—

is it enough?

is he enough?

will he be enough?

“odasaku,” dazai says, hums it under his breath like the wind will take it, bring it where he needs it to go, “would i have made you proud?”

(dawn)

fat droplets begin to pour out of the dark clouds. there are no stars out. yokohama glimmers under the thin sheen of rain.

nearby, a child hurriedly grasps his father’s free hand as he digs into his bag for an umbrella, and the little boy goes, “papa, the sky is crying!”

and maybe the sky is. maybe the man sitting behind the gravestone is.

but there are two sure things about rain:

one, that it washes away any and all things if you let it.

two, that it will always, somehow, at some point, stop.

(morning’s just beginning)

dazai gets up on his feet, with just a little sway from all the alcohol. but the night’s still young, and there are better stuff to drink than whiskey out of a bottle. he looks back at the grave with eyes promising he’ll be back soon, a little better, a little wiser than he is, and then off he goes, into the city he far-too-well knows.

maybe he can bother someone into treating him to some good, expensive, old-fashioned wine.

[for-your-therapeutic-smile]

They Never Teach You How to Stop

Rarely do I lack the words to express myself. Perhaps this reflects my failure to maintain my journal consistently throughout 2020. Here goes an honest attempt to capture and document my mental state and the fatigue of Covid, the inertia of this shelter-in-place, the anxiety of this political crisis we face as a nation, the pressure of being a 1L in law school against the backdrop of civil unrest and Justice Ginsburg’s death, coming out - my dad told me he was disappointed -, the possible erosion of my relationship with someone I love, and this feeling of absolute dread and resentment for a system that continuously fails my and future generations (robbing us of a social contract that promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness), among many other things I’m too tired to consider. When did we accept a $0 baseline as the American Dream? Oh, to be debt free - free from this punishment for having pursued an education. Stifling the educated to prevent them (myself included) from organizing and mobilizing the masses so we can supplant this system with a better one is the overall objective of the oppressive class (read: Pedagogy of the Oppressed); it’s the conflict between the bourgeois and the proletariat. The proletariat has swallowed the middle class, leaving only the ruling class. I am essentially on autopilot, forcing myself to go through the motions so I can survive another day. I know others join me in this mental gymnastics of unparalleled proportions, one social scientists and medical researchers will soon study and subsequently publish their findings in an attempt to explain the unexplainable. Despite a lack of air circulation, we are breathing history; the constitution, like our societal norms, must adapt accordingly. Judge Barrett: there is no place for originalism. While I seldom admit weakness or an inability to manage life’s curveballs, this series of unfortunate events seems almost too much to bear. 

And yet somehow I continue to find the energy to submit assignments due at 11:59 p.m., write this post at 1:38 a.m., “sleep”, wake at 7 a.m. so I can read and prepare (last minute!) the assigned material leading into my torts or contracts class. I find the energy to text my boyfriend (or ex-boyfriend) so I can attempt to salvage the real and genuine connection we have, cook elaborate meals to find some solace, wrestle with whether or not to hit my yoga mat (I don’t), apply to a fellowship for the school year and summer internships, prepare my dual citizenship paperwork, manage a campaign for two progressive politicians, and listen to music in an attempt to stay sane . . . ~*Queues John Mayer’s “War of My Life” and “Stop This Train”*~ . . . I realize I have to be kinder to myself, give credit where credit is due. I hate feeling self-congratulatory though.

Mostly, I am too afraid of the repercussions if I stop moving at a mile/minute, that I can just work away the pain and be the superhuman who numbs himself from the low-grade depression and nervous breakdown. My body tells me to slow down, as evidenced by the grinding of my teeth, but I take on more responsibility because people rely on me. I must show up. I am a masochist in that way. This is what I signed up for and I’ll be damned if I don’t carry through on my promise to do the work. Pieces of my soul scattered about like Horcruxes, though they’re pure, not evil, so I hope nobody resolves to destroy them. 

My mind rarely rests. It’s 3:08 a.m., one of the lonelier hours where night meets morning; it’s the hour for and of intense introspection. It makes you consider pulling an all-nighter, one you reserve for an “important” school or work deadline. We always put our personal lives on the back-burner. 3 a.m. sets the tone for a potentially awful day. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m letting some of my favorite albums play in the background: Joni Mitchell’s Blue, Mac Miller’s Circles, Rhye’s Blood, Alicia Keys’ ALICIA, Coldplay’s Ghost Stories, Frank Ocean’s Blonde, Miley Cyrus’ Dead Petz in addition to other playlists, Tiny Desk performances, and tracks (I unearthed last week, like When It’s Over by Sugar Ray). I need to feel something. I need to feel anything. I need to feel everything. We experience such a broad spectrum of emotions throughout the day that we lose track of if we don’t pause to absorb them. Music reinforces empathy; it releases dopamine.

I spent the past two hours reading through old journals and posts, as scattered as they were, on a wide range of topics: poems I had written about falling in and out love, anecdotes about my world travels, and entries on personal, political, and professional epiphanies. The other night I found one of my favorites, a previous post from my time living in Indonesia, centering on the dualities of technology. It resonated with me more than the others. To summarize, I wrote about my tendency to equate the Internet with a sense of interconnectedness (shoutout to Tumblr for being my digital journal; to Twitter for being a place of comedy and revolution; to Instagram for curating my *aesthetic*; to Facebook where I track my family’s accomplishments and connect with travel buddies displaced around the globe all searching for a home). And yet I feel incredibly lonely and disconnected whenever I spend too much time using technology, so much so that I set screen time limitations on my phone recently to curtail this obsession with constant communication and information gathering. Trump and Biden admitted that it’s unlikely we’ll know the results of the election on November 3rd during their first presidential debate. Push notifications don’t allow us to learn of trauma within the comforts of our own homes. I’m already fearing where I will be when that news breaks. 

This global pandemic and indefinite shutdown of the world (economy) undeniably exacerbates these feelings. This is some personal and collective turmoil. But I was complicit in the endless scrolling and swiping of faces and places long before Covid-19. Instead of choosing to interact with my direct environment (today’s research links this behavior to the same levels of depression one feels when they play slot machines), I am still an active on all these platforms, participating the least in the most tangible one: my physical life. I am tired of pretending. I am tired of being tired. I am tired of embodying fake energy to exist in systems that fail me. I am tired of the quagmire. Like Anaïs Nin, I must be a mermaid [because] I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living. This particular excerpt from that 2016 entry was difficult for me to read: “The fantasy of what could have been if a certain plan had unfolded will haunt you forever if you do not come to peace with the reality of the situation. I hope you come to terms with reality.” I am not at peace with my current reality. But is anyone?

It’s a bit surreal for my peers to have suddenly started caring about international relations theory. It’s transported me back to my 2012 IR lecture at Northeastern: are you a constructivist or a feminist? Realist or liberalist? Neo? Marxist? The one no one wants you to talk about. Absent upward mobility, this is class warfare. But I cannot be “a singular expression of myself . . . there are too many parts, too many spaces, too many manifestations, too many lines, too many curves, too many troubles, too many journeys, too many mountains, too many rivers” . . . It feels like America’s wake-up call. But I know people will retreat into the comforts of capitalism if Biden wins and, well, we all enter uncharted waters together if the Electoral College re-elects #45. For those who weren’t paying attention: the world is multipolar and we are not the hegemon. Norms matter. People tend to be self-interested and shortsighted. Look to the past in order to understand the future. History, as the old adage goes, repeats itself. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Taxation without representation. Indoctrination. Welcome to the language of political discourse. Students of IR and polisci have long awaited your participation. Too little too late? Plot twist: it’s a lifelong commitment. You must continue to engage irrespective of the election outcome or else we will regress just as quickly as we progress. Now dive into international human rights treaties (International Covenant on Civil & Political Rights; International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights), political refugees, FGM. No one said it wasn’t dismal. But it’s important. We need buy-in.  

While I am grateful for the continuation of my education, for this extended time with family, for this opportunity to be a campaign manager for two local progressive candidates (driving to Boston to pick up revised yard signs as proof that the work never stops), it would be remiss of me, however, not to admit that I am lonely: I am buried in my books, in the depressing news both nationally and globally, and in precedent-setting Supreme Court cases (sometimes for the worst, e.g. against the preservation of our environment). In my nonexistent free time I work on political asylum cases, essentially creating an enforceability framework of international law, for people fleeing country conditions so unthinkable (the irony of that work when my country falls greater into authoritarianism and oligarchy is not lost on me). I am fulfilling my dream of becoming a human rights lawyer which stems back to middle school. I saw Things I Imagined (thank you Solange). I have held an original copy of the Declaration of Independence that we sent to the House of Lords in 1778 and the Human Rights Act of 1998 while visiting the U.K. Parliamentary Archives as an intern for a Member of Parliament. This success terrifies and exhausts me; it also oxygenizes and saves me. Every decision, every sacrifice, has led me to this point. 

“It’s the choosing that’s important, isn’t it?,” Lois Lowry of The Giver rhetorically asks. This post is not intended to be woe is me! I am fortunate to be in this position, to have this vantage point at such an early age, and I understand the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. My life has purpose. I am committed to the work that transcends boundaries; it is larger than life itself. It provides a unique perspective. But it makes it difficult to coexist with people so preoccupied in the drama they create in their lives and the general shallowness of the world we live. It feels like there is no option to pump the brakes on any of this work, especially in light of our current climate, and that pressure oftentimes feels insurmountable. Time is of the essence. It feels, whether true or not, that hardly anyone relates to my experience, so if I don’t carve out this time to write about it, then I am neither recording nor processing it. 

Tonight, in between preparing tomorrow’s coursework, I realize that I have an unprecedented number of questions about life, which startles me because typically I have the answers or at least have a goal in mind that launches me into the next phase of life or contextualizes the current one. These goals, often rooted in this capitalistic framework, in this falsity of “needing” to advance my career as a means of helping people, distract me from asking myself the existential questions, the reasons for why we live and what we fundamentally want our systems to look like; they have distracted me from real grassroots community organizing until now. They distract me from the fact that, like John Mayer, I don’t know which walls to smash; similarly, I don’t know which train to board. Right now feels like we are living through impossible and hopeless times and I don’t want to placate myself into thinking otherwise despite my relatively optimistic outlook on life. As we face catastrophic circumstances – the consequences of this election and climate change (famine, refugees, lack of resources) – I do not want to live in perpetual sadness. I am searching for clarity and direction so I can step into a better, fuller version of myself. 

It’s now 3:33 a.m. Here is the list of questions that I have often asked myself in different stages of life, but recently, until now, I have not been willing to confront for fear that I might not be able to answers them. But I owe it to myself to pose them here so I can have the overdue conversation, the one I know leads me to better understanding myself:

Are you happy? Why or why not?

What do you want the future to hold? What groundwork are you going to do to ensure it happens?

What does your ideal day/week/month/year/decade look like? Why?

With whom do you want to spend your days? Why?

Who do you love and care about? Have you told people you care about that you love them? Does love and vulnerability scare you?

What do you expect of people – of yourself, of your partner, of your family, and of your friends? Should you have those expectations? Why or why not?

What do you feel and why?

What relaxes you? What scares you? What brings you joy?

What do you want to improve? Why?

What do you want to forgive yourself for and why?

Does the desire to reinvent yourself diminish your ability to be present?

Do you have a greater fear of failure or success? Why?

How do you escape the confines of this broken system? How do you break from the guilt of participation in it and having benefited from it?

How do we reconcile our daily lives with the fact that we’re living through an extinction event? This one comes from my friend (hi Jeanne) and a podcast she listened to recently.

How do you help people? How do you help yourself? Are you pouring from an empty cup?

How will you find joy in your everyday responsibilities, in the mission you have chosen for yourself? What, if any, will be the warning signs to walk away from this work, in part or in its entirety? Without being a martyr, do you believe in dying for the cause?

So here are some of the lessons I have learned during this quarantine/past year:

“I’ve Got Dreams to Remember,” so do not take your eyes off them. Chasing paper does not bring you happiness.

Be autonomous, particularly in your professional life.

Focus on values instead of accolades.

Do everything with intention and honest energy.

Listen to Tracy Chapman’s “Crossroads” & Talkin’ Bout a Revolution for an energy boost and reminder that other revolutionaries have shared and continue to share your fervent passion . . . “I’m trying to protect what I keep inside, all the reasons why I live my life” . . . When self-doubt nearly cripples you and you yearn a few minutes to run away when in reality you can’t escape your responsibilities, go for a drive and queue up “Fast Car” . . . “I got no plans, I ain’t going nowhere, so take your fast car and keep on driving.”

With that said, take every opportunity to travel (you can take the work with you if absolutely necessary). Go to Italy. Buy the concert ticket and lose yourself in the moment. Remember that solo excursions are equally as important as collective ones. But, from personal experience, you prefer the company. Find the balance.

Detach from the numbers people keep trying to assign to measure your personhood.

Closely examine the people in your inner circle and ask them for help when you need it.

“And life is just too short to keep playing the game . . . because if you really want somebody [or something], you’ll figure it out later, or else you will just spend the rest of the night with a BlackBerry on your chest hoping it goes *vibration, vibration*” (John Mayer’s Edge of Desire) . . . so love fiercely and unapologetically.

Be specific.

Go to therapy even when life is good.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

🍪 take a cookie because you deserve it :),, also please tell me about geralt and yennifer and also is the witcher easy to watch without knowing much about the source material ???

I watched three episodes of Witcher with zero context whatsoever, understood everything, enjoyed it hugely, read about 200K of fic, watched three more episodes, read the first book in the series, and finished the show.  As long as you are prepared for the fact that, A, the timelines of the three main characters converge, they are not concurrent, and, B, it’s not Game of Thrones and it’s not trying to be Game of Thrones, you will be ABSOLUTELY fine.

(Do critics just…not use critical thinking skills?  Half of everyone I’ve talked to said that this show was impossible to follow.  It is not impossible to follow.  Yennefer and Geralt are just really old.  Also, everyone and their cousin is like “well it’s not GoT” yeah???? Obviously????  “This isn’t chili” “No, it’s chicken pot pie” “I wanted chili” “Then go have some chili I guess???  This is chicken pot pie.  Still a food, just not that food.”  It’s not Game of Thrones.  If you want Game of Thrones, go watch that instead, or read the books, or maybe watch some Avatar and calm down.  Stop crucifying every fantasy product for not being Game of Thrones II.)

TL;DR: Yeah dude you’ll be totally fine, watch this show.  And then if you don’t mind spoilers for the rest of the (book and game) series, read Astolat’s Witcher fic.

ANYWAY

Geralt and Yennefer.  This got…very long.

Here’s the fairly unique emotion I’m feeling about this relationship: I think it’s absolutely in-character and believable, I’m completely convinced that Geralt and Yennefer would end up together, and I am equally convinced that their relationship has a pretty hard expiration date on it.  I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been interested in a relationship dynamic that I took one look at and went “oh, wow, this is going to break down hard the second your need to help people even when they hate you and her need to get revenge on people who hate her are in conflict.”  That’s very novel for me, because normally I like endgame relationships.  I find breakup drama exhausting.  I have dumped two people ever and both times I was very nice for ten minutes and then very short-tempered for the rest of the conversation.

But I’m really invested in the breakdown here.  And I’m really invested in how completely inevitable the relationship is, despite what I consider to be the equally inevitable calamitous breakup.

The thing is, Geralt has lived his entire life as a witcher, which means that the world is divided into two groups for him: people who are dependent on him as a witcher, and people who hate and fear him as a witcher.  (There are also Other Witchers, but with so few of them left that they fall pretty heavily into the ‘people who depend on him’ category.)  There is a not-inconsiderable amount of overlap in that Venn diagram, but that’s pretty much how it is on this bitch of a Continent.  The people who Geralt is drawn to, in whatever context, tend to be the rare handful who fall outside that binary metric in some way.

Renfri could use help from him, but she’s more than able to handle herself.  In fact, when the chips are down, her final gamble is to just remove him from the field of play, and try to resolve the situation alone.

Triss needs him in a professional capacity, but she brings just as much to the table as he does, both in terms of political knowledge about the striga situation and in terms of dragging his battered ass out of the castle before he can quietly bleed out.  She’s not looking for a rescuer, she’s looking for a tank to complement her glass cannon.

Jaskier needs Geralt to save him (in the show)…but only because he was usually the one to get them into trouble in the first place.  And he sticks around once he’s been saved, once he isn’t depending on Geralt to get him out alive anymore.

Even Ciri, who is absolutely dependent on him in a very literal and legal sense, is distinctly different from the general populace, who need a witcher to pull them out of trouble.  She’s one of probably very few people who’s ever been dependent on Geralt as a person, rather than a hired killer.  Sure, it’s helpful that he can kill anyone who looks crooked at her, but she also needs to eat, and to learn to use a sword, and to be trained in things like magic and languages, and all the things that a kid needs from a parent.  That’s radically different from Geralt’s experience of being depended on as a witcher.

But Yennefer…Yennefer doesn’t need Geralt.  She’s not dependent on Geralt.  She’s not afraid of Geralt in any way, let alone just because he’s a witcher–in fact, she barely seems to notice that he’s a witcher, except in the way that it makes them alike.  Geralt’s taste in partners is obviously “people who are not afraid of him” with very few other requirements, and Yennefer is a powerful mage, someone who would be able to take down a witcher without difficulty.  She’s also well-educated, very clever, and completely fearless about the world in general.  That’s everything Geralt finds compelling, all with the added bonus of an extremely pretty face.  It makes complete narrative sense that Geralt is in love with her.

Incidentally I do not believe that Geralt wished for Yennefer to be in love with him, because it wouldn’t track with the rest of his character and would be a level of vulnerability he works hard to avoid.  I do believe that he might have said something rash like “I wish I wouldn’t lose her” and now they are here.  It’s important to think your wishes through when dealing with an angry wish-granting being.

On Yennefer’s end of things, she has only ever wanted two things: to be respected and to be wanted.  In any capacity that might be available to her.  I think this is really the major driving force of her desire to have children–she’s not overwhelmingly interested in children as a phenomenon, and I think that in another life she wouldn’t want them.  But she said it herself, she wants a child because she always wanted to be important to someone.  It’s not about the kid.  She’s obsessed with the idea that she will always be important to a child.  A child would be completely dependent on her, completely devoted to her, no matter what.

(Side note: this is a bad reason to have kids!  Geralt is right and she would be a bad mother.  She’s also obsessed with having kids because she can’t handle the revelation that she’s not happy with the deal she made, and she’s focused all that discontent into the literal, tangible loss of being able to carry a child.  But “Yennefer actually probably does not want a child and is rampantly projecting all her issues onto the most readily available problem she can find” is a separate post.  Probably the first pregnancy-centric plotline I’ve ever been able to handle without feeling violently dysphoric, though.)

The thing is, when she meets Geralt during the djinn fiasco, he needs her.  He’s dependent on her.  She’s important to him because of what she can do for him, which is how she’s set up her life.  When he comes back to save her, though, he’s not doing it for payment, or for a favor, or for any of the other clean, linear exchanges that Yennefer is used to.  He just…comes back.  For her.  Because she’s a person.

Yennerfer has never been important just as…a person, before.  She’s important as a mage, she’s important as a student, she’s important as a project or a protector.  But from the second Geralt comes back for her, she’s important to him as a person.  The fact that almost any person would be on the level of “important enough to save from a rampaging djinn and their own stupidity” to Geralt is completely superfluous to how hard that hits Yennefer.  Of course she’s in love with him.  Of course she keeps looking for him, keeps pouring on the charm whenever she’s with him–she wants him to keep wanting her.  Because that’s how she knows to make herself important to someone, is to make them want her.

(This is also where it gets interesting with Ciri, because…well, if Yennefer really just wanted kids, she could do worse than the news of the girl who’s Geralt’s daughter in the eyes of the law.  But she’s furious, because her views of family are intensely skewed and limited by her experiences.  Also a separate post that I will probably make after reading some more of the books.)

Regarding the inevitably dramatic breakdown of their relationship (beyond the falling out over the djinn thing, which, see above), I think they’re under the impression that if they do it right, they could stand the test of time.  They’re both extremely long-lived, so the test of time has the potential to be a while, but I frankly don’t think they’d make it outside of a conflict-heavy environment (like, say, a war).  When they have a mutual goal, or at least a mutual enemy, Geralt and Yennefer work together like a right and left hand.  When they do not, they fall apart something fierce, because they’re driven by intrinsically different motives.  Geralt, for all that he tries to be as cynical as possible, has been trained his entire life to protect people, and considers it a worthwhile goal in and of itself.  Yennefer, on the other hand, is as innately self-motivated as Geralt pretends to be, which means that she’s driven heavily by what feels best for her in the moment.  Sometimes that means healing a wounded bard and talking quietly with a witcher about their mutual scars!  Sometimes that means leaving a woman to die for calling her a worthless bitch!  This is a morally neutral statement that I’m making, there’s a generous and an ungenerous way to read Yen’s decisions, but I think we can agree that she’s not exactly following a rulebook here.  Yennefer has her goals and she’s going to achieve them, and fuck you for getting in her way.

Including Geralt.

I think that, virtually without question, Yennefer’s self-oriented hedonistic drive and Geralt’s protection-based code will clash, and their relationship will break down in spectacular fireworks.  Having to self-determine, during peace time, is practically guaranteed to bring those two motivating factors into conflict eventually.  Because during peace time, Geralt will be back to being the hated witcher and Yennefer won’t have a better enemy to focus on than the civilians he risks his life for on the regular.  And Geralt demonstrably does not respond well to that.

[foxydivaxx]

Goddess Awakening Chapter 5

"Feyi don't do it!" Sade warns. Feyi finally decided to let her family in on it because they and the Adebites have a dark history with each other. Both families used to be friends until a public spat between Chief Adebite and Chief Badmus drove both families apart. What that spat was about is anyone's guess.

"Feyi, Chris humiliated you at that party years ago!! He could humiliate you again!!" says Ireti. Feyi raises an eyebrow. "I doubt it." Dr Rotimi was watching a video o Youtube and then alerts them. "Ladies you need to see this." The rest of the family exchanged confused looks before gathering round to see the video.

Chris had just posted a video online, talking about the challenge."I have a huge announcement ladies and gents!! Drum roll!!" A dramatic drum roll plays and obce it stops, Chris says excitedly, "EbonyKnight has accepted my open challenge but this time it's different. We shall have the first ever Battle Royale match live on next week Wednesday at 1pm sharp at the Hard Rock Cafe. Be there or get squared!!"

Dr Rotimi sighed. "She has no choice but to do it. Even if she does not accept it, he would still go out there and pressure her into accepting via his Youtube channel. The guy has a lot of viewers."

"Yeah but he is doing this for cheap publicity. I doubt Feyi can even win." says Mrs Badmus.

"I have beaten him several times at that game mother..."

All eyes fall on Feyi who had a determined look on his face. "I can do it again." She then comes closer to her mother and stops in front of her, arms folded. Of all the Badmus sisters, she is the shortest and resembles her father due to her slightly dark complexion and broad shoulders.

Mrs Badmus looks her daughter in the eye. "Why bother yourself with games anyways? It is a waste of time. Why not bother to do something far more tangible with your time eh? Why not start a business or go and actually get a proper job?"

Feyi glares icily at her mother. "Really mother? Is that what you want to say?" Mrs Badmus stares at her daughter. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes I am talking to you mother because I have had it with you!" The woman was taken aback by this. "How dare you speak to your mother that way?!" Ireti shouts. "I have every right to because this woman keeps on treating me like shit!! I have no job, you do not respect me!! You are looking down on me whenever I try to do something!! Why is it that you always criticise whatever I do?! Why mother?! I did not ask to be born with whatever it is that I am born with!! God just created me that way for a reason!! Why can you not accept me for who I am?! That is why I will do that challenge!! As for the results, I will win because I know I can!! I am not useless or worthless and I will prove myself to the world and you my family!!"

With that, she walks off, leaving her stunned mother behind. She then grabs her laptop and gets down to work and begins to work hard on improving her craft by using the Practice Tool and then playing a couple games and maintaining her current track record.

Meanwhile, Chris was in his penthouse suite chilling out with his friends. "So Ebony is Feyi?! No fucking way!!" says Idris Shettima. Chris nods. "It seems that the girl improved over the years." says Richard. "How are you not sure that her account did not get boosted?" asks Chris.

"If it were boosted, then she wouldn't have gotten to Gold IV on the American server." says Alex Oputa. Chris sighs and takes his seat, a glass of red wine in hand. Memories begin to flood in his mind of his days in secondary school.

He and Feyi were classmates and he and his friends at the time used to bully and torment her relentlessly. He even exposed Feyi at a party for cheating at WAEC, a scene that tarnished the Badmus family's image. He just liked hurting Feyi partly because she is a girl and partially because she is a Badmus.  He will never forgive her father for disgracing his own father years ago. Now he will get the ultimate revenge by destroying his archnemesis for good.

"Let's see how you survive this one Feyi."

Time begins to fly by and soon D-Day arrives. Feyi gets herself ready, wearing a simple T-Shirt with a nice ankara design on it and a pair of jeans and sneakers. The girl stares at herself in the mirror. Usually she hates looking at her reflection but today is completely different.  Sade walks into the room. "You ready kiddo?" Feyi nods and grabs her bag and walks out of the room.

The Badmus family soon arrive at Hard Rock Cafe and walk inside to find the location of the match. The last time Feyi came in there was a couple months ago with her cousins. The entire place was filled with a lot of people. "Wow!! So many people!!" says Sade. Mrs Badmus remains unfazed, not completely interested. If anything she wants to get out of there.

"Ah there you are!!"

They turn around to see Chris make his way towards them with a fake friendly smile in place. Feyi folds her arms and takes the opportunity to scrutinize him. "Aren't you a little overdressed for a showcase match?"

Chris simply shrugs. In stark contrast to Feyi's more laidback casual outfit, Chris opted for a black suit. "Hey!! A little glam is needed here!!" She rolled her eyes. "Oh please!!"

Chris does not look at Feyi's family in light of their past terrible encounter. Instead he opts to lead Feyi towards the place where they would do the showcase. In the middle of the room are two computer systems, arranged back to back.

Without hesitation, Feyi takes her seat at one and starts it up whilst Chris follows suit. Dolapo who happened to be around the area shows up alongside some of Feyi's old friends. "Good afternoon ma." Dolapo greets Mrs Badmus as he prostrates for her. "Ah Dolapo nice to see you. Ah you brought the whole gang here." says Ireti. The other kids all greeted the other Badmuses.

"The match is simple; the two players here will play with their best champ stats. The objective is to reduce the enemy's life bar to zero. The player that does that at the end wins the game." the special announcer for the match says.

"Kind of like a mini fighting game." Dolapo mutters. "What did you say?" Sade asked. "Just an observation about what they are about to do." he replies. Kai, one of Feyi's friends from America explains. "The game is divided into various modes; the main mode that many of us know is the Gold mode. That one is where you play as a team of five. This mode is the VS mode. There is the Battle mode also like the Gold mode. That one you play as five and that one is similar to VS mode. Everyone creates a character with a base stat and with a special talent and designation."

"So how come he did not says Battle Mode?" Mrs Badmus asks."Feyi would need a team. Chris has one." says Dolapo. "If she had told us beforehand, we could have changed it to Battle Mode and trained together. " says Kai. "We will have to call Tolani after this so that we can quickly assemble a team just in case." says Henry.

Both players put on their headphones and stare intently at their screens. Both of them had logged into their accounts and had choosen their characters. Chris' character, The Dark King had spikes on his black armour and a long red cape and held a sword.

"Wait....Chris' character is a fighter/assassin whilst Feyi's a mage and a support mage at that?" Dolapo observes. "She may not win this one." says Dr Rotimi. "She can. Since she is a support, she should be able to heal herself at some point." says Kai.

The Badmus family begin to say a silent prayer as they wait for the match to start. A countdown begins and once the clock reaches zero, the game starts. "LET THE BATTLE BEGIN!!"

[shirindanesh]

FAST-TRACK YOUR SALES SYSTEM WITH AGILE IN 90 DAYS - AND KEEP IT GOING

What if I told you there is a really simple way to accelerate your sales.

Sales leaders know what needs to be done in their sales pipeline but their problem is getting the team’s buy-in to fix it. You’ve got lags, blockages, overloaded people… everything that’s getting in the way of hitting your team targets. If everyone was on board with the fixes everything would happen faster, like a beautifully oiled machine operating smoothly.

Let me show you a system that will improve your sales numbers and fast-track your opportunities in your pipeline. 

“It's not a new sales methodology. “

In fact, regardless of what methodology you're using, this will work. 

1 - Visualise the problems in your pipeline: All relevant fixes AKA backlog of improvements

You are  aware of the fixes that need to happen in your system. The things that are currently not working, your pain-points.  You know that a lot of little things need to be improved. 

If you look at this simplified pipeline (for the purpose of this article); you can see it goes from Lead Gen→  Opportunity →  Proposal →  Contract mapped out in Trello. 

Let's get a sense of the type of improvements I'm talking about: 

In the “Lead Gen” stage, we are not using events well to create leads, or we're not using LinkedIn for lead generation. 

In the “Opportunity” phase, we don't have enough videos to show the demo, or we don't have any battle cards, or they are out-dated.

In the “Proposal” stage, we don't have a tracking system. So we don't know if customers are using our system or if they are interacting with the case studies or emails that we've sent. 

In the “Contract” stage, we know our current contract structure is old, and it's not easy to amend. And it takes a very long time, forward and backward, to get a sign off on a deal.

Pro Tip: To compose a backlog of improvements, think of your dream sales team and sales operation, think what needs to be done. Add that in your list. Get access to this Trello Board here. Duplicate it for your business and take it from there.

2 - Sizing and prioritising the sales pipeline fixes

Each of these improvement cards are associated with a metric. The key question is “How do you decide which one to go ahead with first?”

Actually, you don't!!!? Let’s walk through a case...

In this picture (above) you can see we have mapped out an end-to-end of a sales pipeline  at the back of the room. It has all the steps in the sales pipeline, from beginning to the end.

We invited the sales team. Some of the guns, a couple of the architects, SMEs, some of the newcomers, the hunters, the farmers, anyone that is working on the sales pipeline.In this workshop we asked them to map the pain-points across this end to end pipeline (using the red post-it notes you can see in the background). 

Sizing the improvement

Next step is about sizing the issues that the team has highlighted.  We ask them to use cards (pictured) to indicate the size and frequency of these problems. Now, everyone can see which one is the bigger problem. Next step we'll ask them to prioritise.

Prioritisation

All problems require attention but not all at the same time. This is actually a specific method of prioritisation. We ask the team, "Which one of these problems is the most important one from our customers’ point of view?" NOT which one is the one that makes more money for us. And you can tell from this picture which one was getting the highest point and will get nominated.

The dot-voting method

The dot-voting method is another option for decision making. This is a democratic method where you nominate the high priority items. This is useful where there is no data available because it harnesses the collective wisdom and team's understanding of customers. 

Each participant has 10 dots, in 1,2, 3, 4 

They place dots next to issues identified on the sales pipeline.

Issues with the most dots “win” and will be priortised to be resolved.

Other names for dot voting are multi-voting, sticker-voting, sticky-dot voting, dot-mocracy and dot democracy.

Pro-tip: To prevent skewed voting from  strongly opinionated team members, invite junior participants to place their votes first, while saving stakeholders or subject-matter experts for last. This approach protects the votes (and voices) of those who may be less likely to authentically contribute and may automatically defer to others.

3 - Implementing the Improvement

If we go back to the Trello board, the backlog of improvement cards, let's say the team prioritises three improvement cards for us: 

Lead generation Stage: We are light on lead generation, so let's look at LinkedIn. LinkedIn is the future.  

Proposal Stage: Our Battle Cards belong to the industrial era or stone age. 

We need to install a tracking system to make sure we are measuring the things that we want.

At the beginning of a quarter, we will commit to three prioritised cards.  Then we agree for seven sprints we will apply the change and see how we improve on the metric associated with them.

Why 7?

For seven sprints we will do what we need to do, and then we'll stop. Why is it seven? To change a habit or behavior in a person or an organization, which is made of people, you need to hear something seven times and you need to do it 21 times. However, before committing to 21 times, we stop at seven to see if it's working. 7 sprints can also be mapped to a quarter which works well for organisational financial calendars.

4 - Measuring the impact of change

After seven sprints we stop. We will do a measurement. When we are measuring, we want to always compare the results to get insight to see if it's working or not, or if it helped. We compare that quarter's results with the previous quarter, and we compare that with the last year, same time. That's to make sure that the change and the result is not because of the environment, and is a true change.

5- Zoom in at “Linkedin Lead Generation” Card

Let me look at ANOTHER item, so you get a view of what could be inside it. Let's say the team has never used LinkedIn before. We need to get our sales navigator license. We need to create filters so we know which accounts we're targeting. We need to create the right messaging sequence because we want to have different touch points with our clients. And we want to have a couple of case studies. 

At the beginning of a sprint, the team comes together and decides which accounts they want to target. Each day they will update their trackers to what they've done. That's basically a tactical way of looking at the activities. In our sprint review, we say, Okay, how did we go?

TEAM TRACKS THEIR ACTIVITIES RELATED TO THIS

Let me show you a tracker that we put in place a while ago. This was a sequence of messages, the period that we were using it, the delays, between each message and the team’s tracker. So they could show their progress. This is a simple tracker designed to show us the leads, calls and the impact of the change or activity. We go seven sprints with it and at the end we stop and compare the results. It’s as simple as that.

6 - The human element of this system

This system that I showed you allows you to get your team's buy-in.

Remember, you didn't tell them what needs to be done, you ask them and involve them in the prioritisation and decision making process.

What’s important is you’re moving from a "knowing" space to a "doing" space.

Many, in fact all sales leaders, know what needs to be done. But getting their teams to come along with them, that's their challenge. This system is a quite tangible method to get people moving and create momentum and results.

It’s also really helpful in terms of managing noise, if you know what I mean.

7- The metric that rules them all

One other point, probably the most important point of this 45-day plan ; each one of these improvement cards is for improving a specific metric, a number or a percentage. However, the whole system will improve one overarching metric; your "Funnel Velocity".

As you know we have two types of indicators, leading and lagging indicators. 

Leading indicators - you straight away see an impact after you’ve put a change in place. These are normally observable, behavioural changes and metrics.

Lagging indicators - are the result of change that we’ve put in place over a period of time.

Funnel Velocity is a lagging indicator.  

On a separate note, Funnel Velocity has an element of time to it, and it can be translated to an accounting concept of “Early Revenue Turn-On”. 

The two above reasons, being a lagging indicator and having an element of time, funnel velocity is a difficult metric to go after. For you to be able to change that or improve it, you need to do so many things in your system in order to be able to increase the speed of opportunities in your funnel.

If you are anything like me and you’d like a good challenge: improving Funnel Velocity is a good challenge.

8 - The 45-day Acceleration Plan

To bring all the theory and practical sides together, I've designed and tested a 45-day acceleration plan that is action by action to help you implement the process explained above.

The intention of this plan is to show you how to implement Agile ways of working into your sales pipeline. It’s innovation in leadership applied to sales pipelines to increase numbers

I am passionate about Sales Transformation with Agile. If you have any questions, any problems, or you want me to clarify anything for you, contact me,I would love to talk to you about this.

If video is more ‘your thing’ I’ve also created a video walking through this process for you.

Compose a backlog of improvements, think of your dream sales team and sales operation, think what needs to be done. Add that in your list. Get access to this Trello Board here. Duplicate it for your business and take it from there. 

Shirin Danesh is founder of Momentum Pipeline a program designed to make top-tier consulting practices in Agile transformation accessible to a wider range of companies. She invites sales leaders to improve one challenging but rewarding metric - Funnel Velocity. She is an Executive Agile Coach, working with futuristic, caring and ambitious executives to level-up their business. You can read her blog on Agile transformation here.

Article originally published on www.shirindanesh.com

[kaywriteswords]

Love your body, Love yourself, Love your life 5/13/2020

Welcome to the most inconsistent blog you’ll ever read. Meh, As always, I am what I am. It seems like every week or even every day I’m diving deeper into my being, stripping away those things that while they may have seemed important or relevant at one point, aren’t really in the grand scheme of things. So, what am I backtracking on this week? The online class of course! Currently lowest on the priority list, I’ll do it eventually. I absolutely find it mentally stimulating and challenging, but giving it time as part of my daily routine is not something I can do right now. But why? Because I find it to be more of a burden on my time and creative pursuits than I initially thought it would be. I’ve done this before, gotten really excited about doing something new only to get bored with the routine of actually having to do it.  I find myself in the same trap of trying to do too much and doing nothing as a result. This whole online class thing started as a way for me to put tangible skills on my resume. Check that one off the list because I did finish the first class I took. I thought I would roll right into the second, but nah, I don’t really want to, and guess what? That’s okay.

Most of us are in the habit of over scheduling ourselves because of good old FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out, for those of you who may not know) and also because we always want to do and be more. What ends up happening is a constant state of being overwhelmed leading to burnout. I didn’t come to this realization lightly, I spent hours on the couch last week watching TV. While laying there, I knew I should have been writing, taking class, exercising, but I just wouldn’t. So, I laid there some more and didn’t just mindlessly watch TV, I asked myself what it was about the schedule I had planned for myself that made it so easy to blow off, it was because once again, I had scheduled something that served as more of a distraction than a goal. I feel great right now. Because this is the trap I had fallen into at other times in my life and thanks to all work I’ve done on myself in the last couple years, I can now make that connection with my past and refocus my energy before wasting too much time. So, I took the eraser to my calendar and removed the blocks for the online class and smiled.

My initial go to was that I lacked discipline, but I don’t think that was the case. Discipline has been a recurring theme for me in 2020 because I previously didn’t have any. I did whatever I wanted on every whim. No more. Now that I’m fully focused on my health goals and writing every day, life is pretty great. I don’t know what comes next, but I plan to keep on sharing my journey. Especially because tracking my weight and reporting back on healthy habits holds me accountable to actually doing those things. Plus, it’ll be fun to look back one day and see the kind of progress I’ve made.

<Weekly Wednesday Weigh-in: 207.6>     

<Weight Change Since Last Week: -0.8>

Quarantine continues to gift me with the ability to eat as horribly as I want. Today was the first time I stepped foot inside a grocery store in over a month. I’ve been making due with the non-perishables on hand, ordering take-out, and sending my husband to the store with a small list. I watched a sad video of a cow crying while trying to back away from being pushed into the slaughterhouse and now I’m having issues with eating beef. The only upside to that is at least I’ve cut down slightly on my red meat intake. I’m going to continue to monitor my diet. Hubby and I already agreed the amount of take-out has been excessive so maybe I’ll try to get crafty with meal prep for the coming week? We’ll see. At the very least, I bought my salad stuff today so I can get back in the routine of having salad for one meal a day. Ever seen the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine asks for a big salad? That’s what I’m talking about. No dainty meals here. I love to eat!!

Just incase you’re wondering, I am still jogging regularly. And yup, it’s still the worst. We’re a year overdue on buying our new bikes so now we’ll get to contribute to the current bike boom that I’ve heard about. We’ll look like we’re participating in the current fad, but I assure you I am a lifelong biker and the delay in replacing my previous one is just another thing that I love to procrastinate on. Bike riding is the best and as soon as I have my new bike, I will jog no more. I eagerly anticipate that day, which could be as soon as this week. Yay!

Perhaps the most important aspect of an overall healthy lifestyle is loving yourself and spending time doing things that make you happy. So, after stripping down all the layers, I’m getting down to what I really love and what makes me happy. It feels wonderful and light and free. 

Future posts in this series can be found at my new site: https://kaywriteswords.wordpress.com/

[anistarrose]

A Morning at Sea (GF Stanuary Week 2 - Travel)

Summary: Stan has woken up in plenty of unfamiliar places before, but waking up in a boat out in the middle of the ocean is a new one. Especially in a boat that seems so… welcoming.

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: very brief mention of alcohol and drugs

For @stanuary Week 2: Travel! (I technically did already write something for this week already, but that was pretty short and spur-of-the-moment, while I’ve had this fic as a WIP for over six months now, so I feel like it’s about time I posted it.)

When Stan woke up, there was a brief moment for which he didn’t feel like anything was wrong. Hell, he felt happy, which should have made it obvious that something was very wrong, but for about a minute, he just stayed where he was, and listened to the waves strike the side of the boat.

Then he realized: he had no idea why he was on a boat.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, body going stiff beneath the blankets of an unfamiliar bed. He’d known the hotel he’d checked into last night had been shady, but he didn’t think he’d get fucking kidnapped. And that had been in Oklahoma, hours away from any decent-sized body of water — how the hell had they had they even managed to bring him here, wherever here was? Had they drugged him? He was pretty sure he’d drank a little alcohol last night, but nowhere near enough to sleep though getting dragged out of his room and onto a boat, right?

And why would they go this far? Stan had plenty of people who wanted him dead, and maybe even a couple who might have wanted a longer, more drawn out revenge, but there had to be easier ways doing that than throwing him into a cramped — but actually kind of cozy — bunk on a random ship.

He laid still for a few more seconds, and once he was sure no one else was in the room, he finally stood up and took a second to look around. Dirty clothes were in a pile on the floor, about half T-shirts and half sweaters. There was a small nightstand crammed between his bed and the side of the boat, with an empty mug, a pair of glasses, and a picture frame on it. The mug smelled of chocolate, but the stains at the bottom suggested it had been used for coffee too in the past.

He figured that his kidnappers must have stolen the boat and been too lazy to get rid of the stuff they found in it, because he definitely hadn’t drank anything from the mug, he didn’t even own a pair of glasses anymore, and it wasn’t really the style of any of his serious enemies to keep a picture of their family lying around. The clothes didn’t seem like the type that any self-respecting revenge-bent criminal would own, either — too many colorful sweaters, and they looked hand-knitted at that.

For a second, though, he thought the kids in the photo looked vaguely familiar — a boy and a girl that were about the same age and had the same fluffy brown hair, as if they were twins. But the next moment the feeling was gone, and Stan realized he must have imagined it.

This whole cabin was throwing him off. It was just too… welcoming. Too caring. Too full of the mementos of some stranger’s loving family.

Stan didn’t belong here.

He sat back down on the bed and rested his head in his hands. How the hell was he going to get out of this one, even if he could get off the boat without anyone seeing? He was an okay swimmer under normal conditions, but the waves had sounded pretty rough, and if he was too far from the shore —

Stay calm, Stan, he told himself. He’d improvised his way out of worse things before. He just had to figure out what the hell was actually going on, and then he’d be able to bullshit his way through it.

The only door was just past the foot of the bed. He put his ear to it for a moment, and when he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the waves, he reached for the handle.

He’d expected it to be locked, which was why he hadn’t worried about leaning up against the door as he turned the knob. What kind of kidnapper didn’t lock up their hostage? But no, it swung right open under his weight, letting out a creak that had to be loud enough to hear over the waves. Fuck.

The room it opened into must have been a kitchen — it contained a tiny square table and two chairs on one side, and on the other side, a stove and a few other appliances. Facing towards that stove, his back to Stan, was a man who wore a red turtleneck sweater and had… gray hair? There were elderly people after him now?

“Morning, Stanley,” he called without turning around, and a chill went up Stan’s spine. The man knew his real name, even though he hadn’t used in years. The stranger had to have been at least in his fifties, maybe even older, but if he’d managed to track Stan down through all the fake identities… Stan wasn’t sure if he liked his chances up against this guy.

“I assume you’ll want coffee?” he asked, and for a second Stan thought that there was someone else named Stanley on the boat and that was who the man was talking to so casually, but no one else replied, and the stranger turned around to face him. “Stan, is everything alright?”

“What the fuck,” Stan whispered.

The old man’s expression turned into what Stan could have sworn was fear — except that didn’t any make sense. He slammed the mug he was holding onto the table and rushed towards Stan, reaching out with his left arm to grab Stan by the shoulder. “Stanley, are you —”

Stan caught the man’s hand, barely. His reflexes felt slower than they should have been.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled. “Tell me who the hell you are or I swear I’ll take you up on the deck and throw you off the fucking boat.”

For a moment, the old man just stared at him, and Stan wondered if they’d met before, even though he was pretty sure he’d remember if someone this old was after him. There was just something familiar about that confused, shocked expression, the way those eyebrows raised…

Then the man’s face crumpled. If Stan hadn’t been gripping his wrist, he might have collapsed to the floor.

“You don’t remember,” he whispered. “All this progress, and…”

He tried to gently pull his hand away, but Stan held it tight.

“Explain, old man!” Stan shouted. “You heard what I said about throwing you… I — I’ll…”

Looking at the man’s heartbroken expression, Stan found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Why was it that he cared so much about this stranger? Why did seeing him upset made Stan feel like punching something?

“Hey,” Stan said, letting go of the man’s wrist and taking him by the shoulder instead, if only to keep him from collapsing. “I, uh… I’m sorry. I still want you to explain what’s going on, ‘cause I sure don’t know, but I’m — I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Don’t apologize,” the man whispered, his head hanging low in defeat. “It’s not your fault — it’s mine. All mine. I thought… I thought that we’d escaped any lasting consequences, but… oh, if only I had the scrapbook here, maybe I could —”

“Hey, uh, don’t worry.” Stan awkwardly patted the man on the back. “I don’t actually know what’s wrong, but… but I’m sure we can figure out something…”

The man made eye contact with Stan, a short but painful shared glance, but he didn’t reply. He kept talking, but he wasn’t speaking to Stan anymore, not really — just talking to himself, berating himself.

“This is all my fault. I had to do this to you, because I was such an idiot I had to correct your grammar of all things —”

He raised a hand to the side of his face — and Stan finally got a look at his fingers. All six of them

“Ford?!”

Lightning-fast, the man grabbed him by the shoulder, and this time Stan didn’t stop him.

“Stanley? What do you remember?”

Stan didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.

Of course it was Ford. He had the same glaringly large nose and ears, the same Pines cowlick, hell, even the same style of glasses as the ones he’d worn in high school. But his hair was dark gray with a lighter gray stripe running through it, and his face was worn and creased — perhaps by smiles, but more likely by frowns.

“W-what the hell happened to you, Stanford?” Stan stammered. “How did you — how did you get so old?”

Ford seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if some realization had dawned on him. “All right, you’ve only forgotten… this is alright. You’ll be okay, Stan.”

His voice was oddly comforting — or at least, it might have been, had Stan not been bracing himself for it to turn resentful and betrayed.

But Ford guided him towards the table, gently and without incident. Stan almost protested that he didn’t need help, but just at that moment, a sudden, throbbing pain began to emanate from the side of his head, and he bit his lip. It dulled after a moment, but as Ford helped him ease down into the chair, he still felt feverish.

He knew he had some kind of amnesia; even he could put that much together. But everything else made so little sense — how long had it been, why was Ford with him again…

“You said I was… forgetting things,” he began, and Ford nodded, a guilty look on his face. “I don’t remember anything past ‘78, but… you’re older than — it’s later than —”

Ford nodded again, and this time he gently squeezed Stan’s shoulder too.

“Part of me doesn’t even wanna know,” Stan went on, “but… how old am I? How long — how much of my own life did I miss?”

Ford looked away for a moment, like he was pondering how to break the news most gently.

“It’s 2012,” he finally said. “September 27th, 2012. We’re sixty-one.”

There was something about the way he said we’re that felt so different from the last Ford that Stan remembered, the why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?! Ford from that horrible night after the science fair. This Ford did want something to do with Stan, it seemed — but he was different in other ways, too, like the way he gave off such a… such an atmosphere of regret and self-blame, so tangible that you could practically suffocate in it. This was a Ford that had taken something for granted and lost it, with the jury still out on whether he would ever get it back.

For the second time that day, Stan found himself blurting out: “Ford, what happened to you?”

“What happened to me?” Ford repeated incredulously. “You’re the one who’s —”

“Fine. What happened to us?”

Ford sighed. “That’s the million-dollar-question, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making light of any of this. But if… if you think you’ll be alright on your own for a moment, I might be able to grab something that could help bring some of those memories back.”

Stan nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Ford gave him a suspicious look, like he was skeptical of how fine Stan would really be, but he got up and headed towards Stan’s room in the back of the boat —

Stan had completely forgotten they were on a boat. Had… had Ford really forgiven him so much that he…

A bolt of pain ran down the back of his skull, and he shuddered and raised his hands to cover his ears. But it didn’t stop words that were unfamiliar and familiar at once from echoing around him he was plunged into darkness, strange glowing blue symbols providing the only source of light.

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”

He gasped for breath, and suddenly everything was different, everything was lighter and warmer. Birds and insects were chirping all around him, as he stood outside a cabin — no, a shack.

“I don’t just want someone to come with me, Stanley; I want it to be you. Will you give me a second chance?”

Then someone was shaking him by the shoulder, and the same voice was speaking to him, sounding so much less distant all of a sudden —

“Stanley? Stanley, are you alright? Can you…”

The voice trailed off for a moment. “Are you crying?”

“Ford?” Stan asked slowly.

“I’m here,” Ford replied, quietly and slowly. In his hand was the picture from Stan’s room, the one of the two kids. “I’m here, Stanley.”

“Ford, what’s the name of this boat?”

For the first time that morning, Ford smiled. “We called it the Stan O’ War II.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “That’s what I —”

(Guessed? Hoped? Thought, but was afraid to say, because he wouldn’t have known what to do if Ford had told him he was wrong?

...but as afraid as he’d been to put it to words, he’d known it was an irrational fear. He’d known he was right.)

He finally returned Ford’s smile. “That’s what I remembered.”

***

Thanks for reading, feedback is appreciated as always!

[positivlyfocused]

Things happening in my life is how I know my spirituality works.

My my life gets better and better. In every area.

Coming on the heels of the previous story, the following is further proof. Further proof how All That Is makes things happen with virtually no effort on my part.

In that previous post I wrote about what seemed like a chance meeting, but really wasn't. That story showed how when people show up in what seems like magical ways, I know I'm doing this whole "manifesting" business right.

The more that happens, the more I want to keep it up. I'm discovering a brand new kind of life. A life where everything I want happens with no effort.

. . .

This next experience happened last month, one week after the previous post. It shows how the Universe answers my every desire. The path it creates though is never direct. It curves all over the place.

That's because I'm always adding more to my desires. And every thing added is being organized by me to be experienced by me. That's why I know I already have everything I want. Even though it looks like I don't right now.

It looks that way because "right now" is the past. Not the present.

The reason it looks like I don't have these things "right now" is, because the present has manifestED. The NOW is in a manifestING PROCESS.

The now is always a manifestING thing. In the manifestING NOW, I have all I want. It only takes a while for it to become manifestED. But when it becomes manifested, it's the past.

I want to be in the steady, manifestING now. Not the "right now". The fresh, the new is in the manifesting now, what I also call The Moment of Becoming (MOB).

Sometimes I get impatient about not having in the right now what it I want. I know being impatient prolongs the process. So I strive to be happy and positive with the right now, knowing it's old news. Not news.

What's more, it takes longer to manifest things in physical reality. In the nonphysical realm of the MOB, everything happens now. The trick is finding satisfaction with that.  Rather than satisfaction on the right now, which is the manifested past.

After all, what is manifestING MUST become manifestED. That's just how life works. Here's why satisfaction with the MOB reality is key. When I'm satisfied there, I'm not prolonging the process. The process by which things there become real things in the "right now".

See?

So I know it's only a matter of time before everything I want becomes my physical reality, my right now. How do I know it's happening? How can I believe that? Experiences like the one you're about to read happen so much these days, I'm convinced.

Incredible Outcomes Indicate More Are On The Way

Before I share what happened, here's some context. What happened was cool. But if you don't have the context, you won't understand it.

I now have a bridging job. I call it that because it bridges beliefs I've held a while with beliefs I'd rather be dominant.

To explain...

I have believed, like a lot of people - nearly everyone actually - that money shows up in my bank account when I do something to "earn it".

That's not the only way money can show up though. There are infinite ways money can show up in my bank account.

For example:

There are people who inherit money.

There are people who win lotteries.

There are people who steal money and get away with that.

There are people who find money.

There are people other people give money to for no apparent reason.

There are people who's money comes from interest and investing.

There are others who do things today, that later, generate constant streams of money. Like building a company, or creating a film or writing a song today, that perpetually generates income through profits or royalties.

So there are a lot of people experiencing money flowing into their experience. And that flow is not tied to what they're doing.

My beliefs about money match beliefs most of us tell. Like others, I've believed this so long, it has a lot of momentum. The belief that "I must do things to earn money" itself has faded into my consciousness background. Doing so it creates a belief constellation and associated reality. A reality I took for granted as some objective"truth".

That reality can be replaced with any reality I deliberately create. And beliefs creating that reality can become my new beliefs. A new "truth" emerges. As real as my current one.

The shift can't happen quick though.

That's because my old beliefs have a lot of momentum. I know this because I've tried over the last four years to force it through action. That didn't work. My old belief constellation has too much momentum behind it to turn it on a dime. Like the train analogy, old belief momentum must first slow down. Before new belief momentum can dominate.

So I've taken this bridging job as a way of slowing momentum behind my old story.

What I like about living is, I learn how to live better nearly every day. By better, I mean happier. Every day life shows me how to live in accordance with my Personal Trinity in the Moment of Becoming. The better I get at that, the better life gets.

The happier I get.

This bridging job is part of my learning. It came consistent with creating my reality. That's another story too. One I already plan writing about.

Suffice it to say I didn't have to do anything to get the job. It literally came to me. And, my Inner Being has told me over and over that this job is exactly where I'm supposed to be right now.

Meeting that transgender woman I wrote about last time, and the way it happened confirms this. So does what happened in this story. So much good stuff is happening, I know this job is on the path to all I want.

Ok. That's the context.

So here I am, at my bridging job. I'm preparing to go on a route when another guy asks to ride with me. He does the same job I do. Sometimes our dispatcher pairs us.

So this guy, I'll call him "Guy", and I pair up. We prep my van. Then we head out.

Turns out Guy believes in the power of beliefs. He also coaches others on using clinical techniques to change reality. I didn't know this about him. But that was a nice surprise. I have no idea how successful his approach is.

Anyway, we spend the day connecting over this and other things we have in common. We both enjoy the work we're doing. We both enjoy practicing positivity. We both enjoy napping in parks. ☺️ We both have other things going on. Things larger than this job we enjoy. We both know life is an adventure. We both have strong spiritual practices.

Midway through the work day, Guy tells me he's enjoying working with me. The feeling is mutual.

Guy asks me about what I do when I'm not at the job. I tell him about Copiosis and Positively Focused.

Then I tell him about The Transamorous Network. As I'm talking his eyes light up. He's rapt while I'm telling about it.

When I finish, Guy says "Perry, I'm a trans guy."

I knew that about him. But didn't want to say anything. Was I surprised? Yes.

And no.

Think about this. I'm telling more and more stories about affiliating with the trans community, about wanting a person who matches my relationship desires. And here I've spent my entire day with a transgender person! On my job! The job my Inner Being said was perfect for me!

Not only did we spend the day together, we share many things we believe in.

This doesn't mean Guy is one of my matches. He's not someone I'm gonna date. I want a transgender woman after all. But he represents my unfolding path to the person I want.

I know life is not a straight line to my fulfilled desire. It's a roundabout adventure!

I also know I'm not supposed to get everything I want all at once. That would be overwhelming. Imagine if all the transgender women I would meet in this life and the next and the next showed up right now. I'd have so much trouble just remembering all their names!

That wouldn't be fun at all. Well...it might be at first. 😜

It's much more fun watching my Personal Trinity put together events. Like this all-day get-together, put together in ways I couldn't organize myself. Or like thatbus experience from the last post. I know it's all happening -- Sarah from two weeks ago, "Guy" from this week, the other transgender woman I chatted with on the bus the other day, but didn't write about, the media interviews I'm doing more of lately, and whatever else might come next. It's all for the sheer enjoyment of the unfolding. Not for the end result!

So Guy isn't the one. I mean he is a match in the sense he matches many of my beliefs. That's great news. It's great news because if Guy is this close of a match, imagine what my actual transgender woman match will be!

Guy showing up in my life is like the Universe saying "here's evidence you're on the right track. Congrats. Keep up the great work!"

Just as Jeannette was in the last post. Just as the trans woman I chatted with briefly on the bus the other day. It's all evidence my beliefs are changing.

And here's the better news: As one belief's evidence shows up, that means, all my new beliefs are in play too. Everything happens simultaneously.

So I know my belief about money flowing into my bank account, without me having to do anything, is becoming real. I know it's becoming real because this belief about my transgender partner is unfolding in tangible, satisfying ways.

This is how it works!

Let me be more clear: Meeting Guy, spending all day with him, enjoying the connection and having so much in common with him tells me I'm headed in the right direction. A direction where I'll spend all day with, enjoy the connection with, and have so much in common with her. The transgender woman who matches me as much and more as Guy does.

And, all that will coincide with an event, where my bank account fills with money.

On the way to all that, I'm having fun enjoying my now.

· · ·

There's more to the story of course.

Guy then asks if The Transamorous Network would ever expand its work. He wondered if it could help trans people become more comfortable in their skin.

The short answer is: yes.

The longer answer is of course. Until a person is comfortable in their skin, i.e. holding beliefs of self-acceptance, self love and worthiness, they can't meet their ideal partner. Or have much else that they really, really want.

If I want a person who is confident; someone happy in themselves; a strong and capable person, a happy person, that person can only be mine if I feel that way about myself. I have to be a match to that. That's the only way I can have that.

Of course that is what Positively Focused helps people with. We help others learn how to do what I'm doing.

After that, Guy asked me for my contact information. He said he wanted it for when he meets transgender women. He asked whether I prefer non-op, pre-op or post-op women. I think he's thinking about matching me with someone. Why else would he ask such questions?

I know one of the ways the Universe brings my match into my life will be through people I already know. Since Guy shares many of the same things I believe in, and since he sees and knows a lot of transgender people, who knows what may come of this? That said, I know my Inner Being has far broader perspective than I have. So she can come from anywhere.

That's not why I'm happy about having met Guy. Guy is a cool person. It's fun to work with him. It's cool to have him as a co worker.

And, he's an exceptional indicator that my beliefs, my new beliefs, are shaping for me a new reality. One in which everything I want is.

Seems something significant is happening every week now. I like that pace. And I know it's going to get better and better. Real evidence is the best evidence of spiritual validity.

[class-wom]

Legion Chapter 24 “Morning After”-Thoughts – SPOILERS!!!

   *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

 SPOILER TERRITORY

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Okay, as I mentioned in a previous tag from a previous reblog, where Shakespearean tragedy analogies/comparisons are concerned, this is looking less and less like Romeo and Juliet (doomed star-crossed lovers, but hey, at least their folks kissed and made up at their funerals, so to speak!) or Hamlet (huge “pile o’ bods,” including the struggling title character, but hey, at least he finally avenged Daddy’s death and left Horatio behind to tell the tale!) and more like MacBeth.  And frankly, that’s really hard for me to take, because I hate MacBeth!!!  (That being said, yeah, Lenny is now officially a classic Lady MacBeth figure.  Out damned spot indeed!)  And it seems rather ironic to me now that the body count we thought was “a thing” by the end of the Pilot -- dead Lenny, dead Clark -- really is a thing now.  (...or is it?!?  Duh-duh-DUHHHHHHHH!!!)

On the bright side (yes, I’m determined to find one -- LOL!), good and/or bad, there was a lot that happened in this ep that imo needed to happen if we’re going to reach a halfway-decent conclusion for better or worse.  And let’s not make the decision there just yet, though we’re kind of left in a position to anticipate the latter imo.

Clark’s fate? love him or hate him, yeah, he had to go imo, because to me he was a vengeful fly in the ointment who only back-burnered his David-grudge from Chapters 9 to 19 due to lack of sufficient evidence of David being a threat (a terribly useful tool in Farouk’s “bag o’ tricks;” please let us remember how casually Farouk literally flicked him off in the closing scenes of Chapter 18!), and consequently only succeeded in his relentless pursuit and obsession in making a bad situation ten times worse and more complicated in the long run.  I’ve mentioned before that Daniel’s lines in Chapter 20 made the consequences of Clark’s one-track mind perfectly clear, which brings me to Daniel’s fate:  Yeah, this is definitely one to file under “Okay, if you want me to badmouth David, I’ll go with this one; what he did to Daniel was (borrowing from Clueless) way harsh and completely unnecessary and cruel.”  Funny that it happened before he took down Clark, who again did have to be removed if any headway is to be made in any direction imo.  But maybe that’s part of the point being made here:  Okay, fine, go ahead and hate David for savagely taking down Daniel’s mental capacity as collateral damage, if you like.  But in the end, what put him in the line of fire in the first place?  His love for and loyalty to the obsessed (”focused”) Clark.  So could it be possible that, consciously or otherwise, Clark was so focused on taking down David by whatever means necessary that he was willing to put his partner at risk in the process? and doesn’t that make him as bad as David, allowing his obsessions to distract him from and ruin what he holds dear?  Not an excuse, mind, but just a thought.  It’s just that there are so many more of David at this point that it’s easier to spot in his case! LOL!

Which leads me to the next batch of things that happened that needed to imo:  The long-overdue Sydvid talk and Syd’s discovery of David’s alters.  Now regarding the former, this brings me to a tiresome sore point in light of the Chapter 23 gulag scene, namely the “one step forward/two steps back”-type of scenario where David has a much-needed confrontation that reveals his deep-seated pains and struggles beneath his dark persona, but GOTCHA! -- the whole thing turned out to be a trick, and David’s back to his guarded ruthless self as a result.  Still, hopelessly optimistic viewer that I am, I’d like to think some much-needed seeds were planted during the talk:  Even if Syd was deliberately attempting to lull David into letting his guard down (via SK’s Chapter 21 cringe-worthy promise to “teach you to lie so well that he’ll thank you as you stab him in the back”) by saying everything he wanted (and imo needed) to hear.  (Yeah, since David made a point of mentioning how he used to trust her, we’ll see how well he trusts her in future after that stunt!!! 🙄)  I’d like to think that, whatever state she may be in at this point (there’s the possibility that she may not take a literal physical form, but hey, after the whole Lenny S1-S2 Saga, who knows with this show?), she’ll know a lot better than to trust Farouk from now on.  (David was right about that when he said she shouldn’t have trusted him!!!)  I like the fact that she at least admitted that she had been jealous!!!  So at least she came out and stated the obvious; I was pleased about that!

And now that it’s happened, I can go ahead and say it:  Yes, the Sydvid Body Swap, Syd-trick or otherwise, needed to happen, because Syd needed to see what was/is driving David and making him behave the way he has been all this time.  I was shocked as to how quickly it transpired:  I wasn’t expecting it for a few more eps, tbh, and yeah, I was kind of hoping it would end a little more optimistically, with Syd and the Davids eventually talking things over, but depending on wherever Syd is mentally now (in David’s mind? somewhere in the stratosphere? I know that the next ep, which I may miss altogether but follow up on via summaries in the name of continuity, will follow her on the astral plane, so idk, maybe she’s just in a deep coma right now physically), maybe it could still happen with three eps to go? 

Also, on a side note, I liked watching DS’s “Syd-as-David” drag RK’s weakly protesting “David-as-Syd” down the halls muttering, “It’s okay, David! I gotcha!”  Took me awhile to figure out wtf Syd was up to and what she was really trying to pull during the discussion, complete with her tipping her hand about Switch’s whereabouts; I concur with a tweet I read dismissing it as a stupid plan on the part of Syd, quite frankly, thereby minimizing sympathy somewhat imo for her current position.  But I still enjoyed watching that post-swap part for some reason; acting-wise, that had to be a challenge for both DS and RK, so props there!  (And okay, yeah, Syd using David’s powers to blast his knife-wielding followers?  On the one hand, I feel sorry for them, but on the other, I concede with reluctance that it was kind of cool, if for no other reason that I no longer have to listen to them call him “Daddy”!  ROTFL!  Not sure what annoys me more, their calling him “Daddy” or Farouk calling him “My son” or “My baby.”  Let’s put it at a photo finish, shall we?  LOL!)

Okay, on to the Lenny Shocker -- and to me, it was a shocker!  Yet there was a huge dropped ball in this scene that annoyed me:  As Lenny was calling David out on his narcissism, why the heck didn’t he point out that the only reason he was keeping her around and/or she had a body in the first place -- a body destroyed by Syd, accidentally or otherwise, using David’s body and powers, I might add!!! -- was because Farouk destroyed the only tangible family, adopted or otherwise, in order to grant her request for a physical body and freedom?  He would have certainly had grounds to do so, Heaven only knows!  Okay, fine -- not saying that Hawley & Co. had to call up Katie Asleton to get her to film new scenes; a few flashbacks and/or at least the name-drop of Amy would have been good enough for me.  But I’ll give NH credit:  There may have been a case in which he did write such a line in this scene for David, and heck, maybe it was even filmed, only to be cut at the request of the FX execs who argued that it would cause the ep to run too long to ironically run that Twizzlers ad during the commercial breaks.  (Anyone else catch that in the “Lenny Swan Song”-ep with regard to a sponsor choice? that couldn’t have been a coincidence! LOL!)  Perhaps the best part of the scene (at least imo), David shedding visible and genuine tears as Lenny slowly bleeds to death, was supposed to indicate this, that the closest thing he had nearby to remind him of a true family was slipping away from him.  Interesting ref during the Sydvid talk that he later describes this as “abandonment” and equates it with his parents.  I guess that’ll work for now, but I would have liked to at least hear the Amy-ref, since it’s safe to call that moment the turning point in S2, David’s realization of Lenny’s true identity.  JMO.

And while the World Wide Web is crying “There’s no doubt about it, David truly is a villain now!” can we just take a look at Farouk in this ep once and for all and say “Yeah, okay, whatever, but that doesn’t mean that Farouk is good by default!”?  (I know, I know -- two wrongs don’t make a right, as I keep saying, but again, Farouk’s old enough to have a better idea of what he’s doing, and apparently for all his coolness, even he in the end underestimates his competition!) Puppet master, master Chess player (oooh, a Xavier/Magneto ref! LOL!), etc., etc. -- we definitely see Farouk as nothing more than a master manipulator.  Yet he’s not completely successful in his control over D3, and since the D3/Summerland gang has changed so dramatically and frustratingly over the course of this show to the point where I’m not even sure I can root for the Loudermilks anymore (Kerry’s excitement about going to space was kind of fun, though!), I’m not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed in this turn of events and the inevitable parting of the ways.  (Or at least I would hope so; perhaps he’ll use Syd’s apparent condition to his advantage, idk.)  Frankly, I’m coming more and more to the conclusion that there is going to be no true winner at curtain’s end no matter how you slice it; at best, perhaps some parties will come away with a bittersweet sense of closure, and that’ll be about it.

Regarding Farouk’s underestimation of his control over the situation, I liked Switch’s suddenly popping up to help David, but if she’s incarcerated in a hibernation chamber, how the heck did she manage to snap out of it so quickly?  That had a rather deus ex machina-feel to it imo.  I may have missed something, idk; quite possible with this type of a show.  LOL!

And as often happens, I guess I had a little more to say the morning after than I thought I did! 😂

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 14 - You Can’t Go Home Again

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1547

Summary: The past, present, and Castiel all catch up to the reader leaving her more uncertain than ever about the future in a strange world.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Yellow fender of the cab long departed from view down the iron lamp-lit dusk stretch of street, you stand across from home where the driver dropped you. The strap of the bag containing your belongings, all borrowed, none really yours per se, sags loose in your grip; slipping from your fingertips, it drops in a soundless heap on the sidewalk beside you. Eyelids clamped, dampness of disbelief overflowing at the tight pressed edges, you count to ten; when your wet lashes lift it’s all still there – a memory made tangible.

Azaleas flower along the foundation; the deeply green shrubs heave their fragrant burden of pink blooms up toward a wraparound porch unique in the neighborhood for its impractical lack of a railing – a feature you considered a benefit until the afternoon you broke your wrist launching a brand spanking new 10-speed bike on a bet off the side in a daredevil effort to bridge the neighbor’s neatly trimmed boxwood border; the long-knitted break in bone throbs as the recollection races through your mind of the summer spent in a cast frowning longingly at that cherry red beauty of a bicycle gathering dust in the corner of the garage.

There hangs the green shutter, slightly askew, missing several slats, outside your bedroom window. It sways on the hinge just so in a gentle buffet of wind producing a creak so familiar you would know, blindfolded, there’s surely a powerful storm sweeping in from the East. The burgeoning breeze blows loose strands of hair across your cheeks to tickle your nose as if in teasing confirmation of the impending tempest. Texas storms exist both fearsome in destructive potential and astounding in grandeur, and the walls of home always kept you safe from their wrath. A subtle shiver of excitement courses your body at the familiar electricity surging in the air.

Even the cliché fairy-tale white picket fence perimeter surrounding the front yard – whose upkeep you were charged with every summer from when you were old enough to wield a brush and dip it in a paint bucket – sits intact; the pristine white luster of each post gleams, a welcoming toothy smile enticing passersby to step on up to the doorstep and ring the brass bell framed beneath matching brass house numbers to say ‘Hello neighbor!’ and partake of a glass of your mother’s locally legendary lemonade. You can almost taste the sweet sandy grit of sugar on teeth mingling with peels of tart rind swirling over your tongue to quench the thirst of a hot afternoon.

And yet, for all the welcome likeness whose brick walkway looms not ten yards away, you remain a frozen fixture out front. The effect of seeing your lost home – a haven in a world that technically isn’t yours – instead of being comforting, vaguely unsettles; it’s very much like looking into a funhouse mirror, except you’re the one grotesquely distorted in the face of non-apocalyptic normalcy. The slightest tentative movement forward on your part toward the facade seems to skew you to the depths of your soul; it shines a paralyzing beacon into that alcove of your heart that knows coming here, especially like this, at the expense of Castiel’s trust, was a mistake.

Stuck in this dithering delay, you hear Cas’ truck approach before you see it; the squeak of the stiff suspension unmistakably cleaves the otherwise suburban silence. Pulling up to the curb, cutting the cantankerously sputtering engine, squinting at you through the dusty windshield, he climbs out without a word. His stare drifts over his shoulder to the innocuous seeming house so raptly holding your attention as he shuts the door; faint recognition rises in his awareness that this place matches the home he saw sprawling in the smoky vestiges of your memory.

Transfixed by a light switching on and the shadow of a figure moving beyond the illuminated red-checkered curtains of the kitchen – someone clearing dinner dishes you suppose – you inhale a shaky breath and avoid looking at the angel now standing beside you.

The demand for some kind of an explanation resides implicit in his continued silence. He gazes ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, indirectly reproving you with taciturn fortitude.

Tucking your chin to your chest under the weight of your duplicity, deeply regretting disappointing him, you quietly mumble, “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”

He knows you’re not lying; it doesn’t make deceiving him – any of them – okay. Lips a taut line, he still says nothing.

You glance sideways – his stone-faced expression defines indeterminacy. Thunder rolls nearer. Wind violently bangs the green shutter. The hem of his trench coat flutters around the rigid column of his body. Your voice quavers. “Cas, please say something.”

Blues fixed on the lighted window, irises reflecting the shimmers of lighting piercing the churning clouds overhead, he asks in a curtly clipped cadence, “What I don’t understand is how you coerced Rowena into going along with this charade.”

“It wasn’t like that-” you falter when his regard inclines to you. Unlike his stoically set features, his eyes aren’t unreadable; the hurt of your betrayal dims their brightness. Feeling the coolness of their sustained scrutiny prickle your skin, you look at the ground to avoid the pain and reproof. “When I brought her the feather, she asked where I was from. You know, small talk.” A self-recriminating shrug over how quickly the stupid little thing snowballed into this mess. “I-I told her.” A stutter. “When she did the location spell …” An earnest glance upward. “I-I didn’t know she was going to say it, I didn’t-”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” Jaw flexing, his mouth thins further; a subtle flare of the nostrils discloses the unsuppressed anger. He shakes his head slowly as he speaks, “Didn’t stop us from taking an unnecessary detour. Didn’t think about the lives you put at risk by saying nothing – not just Sam and Dean pursuing a potentially dangerous archangel on their own, but the entirety of this world if we failed in the task.”

You step backward, shrinking from his condemning manner.

He seizes you by the upper arm to inhibit your withdrawal and spins you, forcing you to face him.

The firm clasp of his fingers borders on being unkind in roughness; it reminds you of the other him. The gesture compels you to meet the dejected glaze of his eyes where a flicker of fire flares within that dark glower when you choke out a startled whimper.

Fingertips digging into your flesh, he growls, “Y/N, the people in there – they aren’t your family. That’s not your home. You don’t belong here.”

Tears springing at the cruelty of his words – and the harsh reality of them – shuddering bodily with a sob, you yank your arm from his grasp. Stumbling into the street, you catch your balance slumping against the bed of the truck.

Bending to pick up your discarded duffle, he makes no motion to comfort you. “Get in the truck, we’re going-” He stops himself before referring to the bunker as home; it’s not yours – thoughts diverting to Heaven’s current angel-less predicament and its imminent demise, a part of him still resolutely believes it’s also not his, not exactly. He glances once more toward the mirror of your remembered home.

The first fat pellets of rain begin to spatter the surface of ground so desiccated by drought they bounce. Brilliant white energy unleashes in a blinding flash above. A shocking peel of thunder cracks the atmosphere.

Prying open the passenger door, Cas carelessly tosses the bag into the foot well and circles to the other side.

Ducking from the onslaught of rain, shivering in the cold slick of wet saturating your skin, you clamber numbly up into the seat and tug the door closed.

Observing your form huddled in the seat as far from him as physically possible, realizing his callousness was perhaps in part redirection of his own frustration with a sense of belonging, he gazes at the mud-streaked glass for a moment, heart aching for you, but not quite knowing how to apologize. “Y/N, I-”

Before he can utter a missive of remorse, you sniffle, “Are you going to tell Dean?”

Too worried about where you went, whether you were safe, tracking you through the cab dispatcher, and ultimately presented with your subterfuge, he hadn’t planned that far ahead. Anticipation of Dean’s antipathy again agitates his ire over the situation. Any softness of compunction he feels dissipates – he’s done defending you to Dean. “You mean, am I going to tell Dean he was right about you distracting me from the mission?” He cranks the ignition and shoots you a scowl. “No, I’m not going to tell Dean.”

For an instant, the warmth of relief wraps your trembling frame. The feeling is transitory.

“You are,” he grumbles. Revolving the steering wheel, revving the engine, he swerves the truck wide back toward the highway and the direction of your penance.

Twisting to peer out the window through the waves of windblown rain, you watch the house and hope disappear; it occurs to you that the angel is right, you don’t belong here, and what’s more, you can never go home again – it’s lost forever to you; and now, you fear, you’ve lost him, too.

Next: Ch. 15 - Rifts

[spiritualgravity]

One in six.

I went through a depression period during my junior year of college. I can’t intellectually explain why that happened — but what I can do is chalk it up to a chemical imbalance because there was nothing ‘wrong’ with my life per se. 

What I vividly remember is seeing life through a pair of dirty sunglasses. The hue was dark and I was unable to clearly process my emotions. One example was holding a grudge against my older siblings. I concocted a story in my head that they didn’t want to get to know me.

We live several states apart from each other — a 7 hour drive, or a 400+ mile road trip, or one overpriced plane ride with one layover included. By the time my Dad’s job transferred to the Washington D.C. area from New York when I was eight years old, my two oldest siblings stayed behind because they were old enough to take care of themselves. There is a 12-13 year difference between us.

During clinical depression, the lens in which someone looks through is not clear. 

I believe that, since my oldest siblings and I didn’t talk much, if at all except major family functions, graduations, and holidays, that it meant they simply didn’t want to know me. Really know me.

As I made my way out of the year of depression, I spent the better part of the next 20 years working on achieving the closest thing I possibly could to find enlightenment without ever actually visiting a shrine or monastery. I don’t think I’ll be joining Mother Teresa and Buddha poolside when my soul meets them on the other side, but, I have done quite a bit of work to rise my level of consciousness and hope to at least get their autograph. 

I eventually realized that my siblings do love me — despite the fact we wouldn’t talk very often. As we have all gotten older and the significant age gap didn’t feel quite as tangible, we found things to relate to and share common interests together. Families, children, life struggles, life celebrations, and life experiences. Today I am grateful to feel close to my siblings, even if we don’t talk daily or weekly, our bond is unbreakable. 

One week ago, I learned that my oldest brother has cancer. I fondly refer to him as “#1.” He returns the sentiment and calls me “#5” — the number of our birth order. I like to think that... even though he’s literally #1 in our lineup... he truly embodies being #1 in every sense of the word. I feel the love he has for me whenever we talk, it’s nearly palpable. 

He is the unlucky recipient of a genetic DNA component that makes our family more susceptible to melanoma. We have moles in places on our bodies that have never seen the sun. There are too many relatives to list who have also battled this disease, including him — multiple times over.

Despite being checked, like clock work, every 3 months, by the best doctors in the United States of America, he got cancer — and it spread — to his brain.

A family of tumors decided to make themselves at home in my brother’s head. These uninvited house guests have left quite an impression — some are small, some are large, and they’ve established a road map around the entire circumference of the most important and complex organ in his body. 

I am considered an intuitive and an empath — I have an active “third eye” as they say. He doesn’t know this, until he reads it himself, but the day he texted all 5 of his siblings in a group message, that he’d like to have a conference call with our family later that evening, shortly thereafter I had a knowing come over me that he had stage 4 [cancer]. And, I knew it wasn’t melanoma in its original form, either. I knew it was something bigger, and that it was really, really bad. 

I attempted to meditate, spent time clearing my chakras / energy, and scolded myself not to jump to conclusions before our phone call — because that’s the right thing to do. Stay present. But, I knew it, in my gut, in my being, I knew it and my intuition told me so.

Over the next few days, while processing the unfathomable news, I found myself in a hostile warfare with my own brain. One part, the part I know intimately, is being positive, optimistic, hopeful, and believing that our thoughts manifest. Well, that part was sharing equal space with the other part of my brain that is highly analytical, data-driven, and 100% truth-seeking based solely on facts.

All of the self development tools I’ve been collecting during the last two decades, are being put to the test, maybe more than ever before. I can decide to live in fear, I can decide to focus on numbers and ratios and percentages and clinical trials. Or I can decide to live in miracles. 

Tomorrow a neurosurgeon will remove one of the tumors, which will then be tested, and ultimately determine which course of treatment he’ll follow. The phenomenal news is that over the last 10 years or so, incredible strides have been made in metastatic melanoma treatments, so he has a much, much better shot today than if this had happened in the past. 

Blessings — they’re everywhere — and not a single one goes unnoticed in a very blurry moment in time.

“He who has a ‘why’ to live for, can endure any ‘how’.”

Much of my career has been spent in and around the medical field. Susan G. Komen for the Cure was a client of mine at one point, their mission is to educate people on breast cancer as well as raise funds for research and awareness. The advertising agency I worked for at the time, helped them create mantras to be shouted at the breast cancer races — “ONE IN EIGHT. BEAT THAT RATE.” had to do with the number of women who will be diagnosed with the disease in their lifetime. 

So, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that my considerably large family of siblings — six of us in total — might fall victim to a pretty terrible diagnosis at some point or another. Of course I didn’t expect it, but statistically I was aware that one of us may become a figure someday. There’s a joke in my family that none of us landed in jail. Statistically, among six kids, at least one of us could have very easily wound up on the wrong track so to speak — but, every single one of us received a college education, have successful careers, and loving families. It’s truly remarkable, and only into my adult years, could I put two-and-two together that our parents did a hell of a good job raising us.

It is so easy for me to get drunk on probabilities and case studies, because that’s what I’ve been taught, matters. Peer-reviewed journals trump a subjective medical opinion. Clinical outcomes beat out educated projections. I have caught myself being overwhelmed — can’t catch my breath kind of overwhelmed— by these statistics. 

I understand that deep down, it’s a safety mechanism from fear, to prepare myself for the worst. If I live with my head in the clouds, and take naps in Denial-land, then I’ll only be more upset if things don’t go in our favor. If I stare this thing in the face, then I won’t be caught offguard. 

But I know that my mind is just trying protect me. Remember how complex I said it is?

What I have come to remember is that I don’t need protection. I am already protected, so, so protected. By the divine. I would say that, the singlest most important aspect of my life, is my faith. 

So what do I need protection from? From my own bullshit. What has the past 20 years been for, learning to believe in the highest good, if…when it really counts, I play hooky.

I believe that life is one really long lesson. Usually there is one BIG lesson, and it is broken down into many, many, many opportunities to learn the lesson over the course of our lifetime. And, most of us, usually, choose to take the longer route to actually get the lesson.

Perhaps my lesson — on some level — is learning how to walk the walk, and not just talk the talk. My verbal game is pretty good. I can post an inspirational quote all day long, every hour on the hour, over social media…and still have more to spare in my back pocket. I can recite one liners from Oprah and her influencers. I can talk someone off a proverbial cliff with conviction and positivity. I have a piece of artwork on my fireplace mantle that reads, in all caps, NEVER NEVER NEVER GIVE UP. 

But hand someone, who I love, a life-threatening diagnosis, and I nearly lose my grip.

Years ago I heard the expression, “control what you can control.” I’ve always loved that sentiment. It immediately brings me back to the present moment, and, offers logic. 

If 10% of life is what happens to us, and 90% is how we react to it — and it’s really the only thing we can control, our attitudes — then it seems it’s time to go to battle with this metastatic brigade and kill every single cancer cell with an ocean’s worth of love.

Cancer inadvertently picked the wrong family. You see, we are six fiercely loyal humans who love each other to the moon and back, and then some more. I am one in six who will fight and pray and believe the best is in our future. I am one in six who will unshakably stand behind his own family, including his four beautiful children and wife. I am one in six who will give him all of my light. I am one in six who knows that if anyone in our family was to face, fight and win this — it’s Bobby. He is one in six who will overcome cancer...he is #1 afterall.