#i was grieving a couple of people at the time i wrote the entries that i did... which may be obvious here

[foxclcves]

𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 01)

The white night sky blinded her. It seeped through her eyes and shot to the back of her skull, the nape of her neck, and it was cold, so cold, before a crack shuttered through her body. The distressed cries of horses, their stomping hooves and the groans of their restraints faded from her ears, as though her head was being pulled underwater, deeper and deeper still. Oh, how they rung, and how she longed to writhe—to disperse her pain somehow from a body that could no longer move, her neck, the splitting agony in her stomach. It felt so wrong, the absoluteness her newfound misery. Oh, how she feared and oh, how she prayed. How she wanted to cry and sob and scream. Oh, God, please. Oh, God… please.

Her eyes opened. The sky was still white, less blinding. The silence, unnerving as delicate snowflakes fell onto her face, her eyes fluttering when they landed on her eyelashes. As though dipping into a warm bath, or drinking from a fresh cup of tea, warmth spread through her, from her fingertips and through her torso and head, and the rest of her soon followed. She almost sighed, the sudden feeling of ease and comfort seeping over her, the sensation of being comforted, even most dearly. It was only then she realized someone was holding her hand.

For the first time in Lord knows how long, she moved, but only turned her head with caution in mind of the rest of her body, whatever state she was currently in. She felt she could gasp, as she would at any other time, but she did not. An odd almost familiarity flickered in her mind as she stared up at a young man kneeling at her side. He was dressed in all black, his eyes and hair seeming to glow with the snow around him, both dignified silver. His hand—both of them were bare, a peculiar choice for early winter, but they were… not cold, but not warm, either. Despite her acknowledgment of his presence he said nothing, and she said nothing, but the cold was forgotten, unfelt. He had a half smile, a little crooked but genuine, and she got the impression that this expression was natural for him. He did not look concerned for her, did not look smug or unfeeling. She considered him to be patient, having no reservations at observing her own expressions openly.

And then, he gave her hand a small squeeze, so subtle she could have missed it if she were not so focused. Something compelled her to sit up, more fluidly than she expected. She gasped at her impulsive move, bracing herself for pain, but there was none. Stunned, she was, as she gazed upon him again, her eyes widened. But she wasn’t compelled to act or rejoice. There was confusion in her, and a surfacing understanding trying to break, but she could not peg it. It was gradual, but insistent; she felt it was important. She could also tell that it was something that would put a weight in anyone’s stomach or a lump in anyone’s throat, though.

The young man looked away from her, and she soon realized that he was watching something. She turned to follow his gaze, her apprehension about wounds forgotten unwittingly. At first, she regarded the carriage with numbness. A significant part of it was decimated, the quality wood it was crafted from smashed and broken, lying in shards and planks across the icy earth. The two horses had been removed from the carriage, the battered driver a pitiful sight. He held his arm, so cruelly twisted, and his head was bleeding, his face skewed with despair, and almost bleary to her. He was within earshot and clear sight, but she could not make sense of the shape of his nose or the height of his forehead, none of it. The driver looked back and forth between the carriage and the horses that were mute to her. Finally, she noticed the blood, leaking from one of the carriage’s passenger doors. Out of its window hung a limp arm, its hand pale and the long sleeve and coat that followed undeniably familiar.

She knew, then. But then she had known immediately, somehow. That underlying feeling broke the surface, and she remembered. She recalled the sadness of her departure; an older woman’s tired, smiling eyes, and an unloved man’s scorn. She remembered her new velvet gloves forgotten at home, how she sulked at her loss and having nothing new to show off at her boarding school, her exile, her reluctance and remorse to a man and every man like him who weeded their way into her life. The ride had brought solace, the winter landscape taking her breath away, the driver singing to the horses as though they were his children. The same often somber, yet still joyful man who stood before her now, looking torn and in woe of his wounds and everything around him and not seeming to notice her. The hapless arm, wrapped in the sleeve to a dress she had gotten last Christmas from one with eyes which never stopped smiling, one with hands who never stopped creating in earnest. The warmth of her hands still lingered in her mind and in her palms, a feeling so different to the one who cradled her hand now.

Everything was too quiet, a welcomed change sometime prior when she was in pain but bearing down on her now. The crash was sudden, its aftermath immediate. Splintered and jagged wood still intact to the carriage’s skeleton pointed to the bleached sky where snow continued its descent, flurrying downward to earth more soundlessly than an owl’s wings, than its tolling call and its calculated foreboding. There was peace in what was most definitely a tragedy, but she felt a nothing that was not entirely apathy; perhaps it was acceptance.

“Am I dead, sir?” she asked at last, her voice quavered but once.

He did not answer, but continued to gaze upon the carriage. Its cargo was splayed across the ground, gowns dashed with powered snow, jewelry sinking into the whiteness. She touched her throat with her free hand, where her pendant still nestled below her collarbone. The slightest feeling of relief spread through her chest; she felt not so alone. The velvet gloves were novelty compared to what this meant to her; she would take it with her, wherever she might go.

The young man looked at her again, and wordlessly they both stood. She moved to her feet with a grace she had never possessed nor had been able to acquire, and her legs did not wobble from her awkward sitting on the ground for so long. Had it been long? It felt as much. Whenever he looked her in the eyes it was as though he could motivate her to do things through thought alone, which was oddly comforting as she doubted she could move on her own otherwise, at this point. He continued to hold her hand, not firmly but securely. Their fingers were not linked, and she opted against such a move, afraid of shifting whatever they had now.

Her eyes were on the carriage again, and she sighed. Any wariness she may have felt was dulling, as though her ability to express emotions of any dread were slipping from her memory and instinct. “Are… you a ghost, sir?”

Still he was silent, his half smile and patient eyes never wavering or shifting. “I am not,” he answered, and his voice was hard to describe. Not deep or high, not brash or soft spoken. So many things about him became increasingly indescribable. It felt as though if she were to look away from him for too long, she’d forget what he looked like entirely.

She glanced down at their hands, a wave like encouragement blossoming in her temples. “Are you… are you here for me… sir?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, after a well-timed pause. His voice was again hard to pin, but she could identify, again, a kind patience. “Yes, I am.”

She didn’t know what to say. By the minute, she felt she was fading. That whatever she was, it was, perhaps, completing. “I think I am sad.”

“For you?”

“For my mother, sir.”

A thicker silence fell over them, like the sort when you’ve gone and said something bold, or perhaps stupid. The urge to look up at him became too much, and so she did. He was smiling softer now, a smile that did not humor or pity her, but a smile that was anything but hard. His other hand, covering the top of hers, squeezed in a way again almost unnoticeable, and the chill of the night faded away entirely.

“We must go now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

She considered this, the vagueness of his words causing her even more pause. “Did I make it to November, sir? Is that the month?”

The driver kneeled before the passenger window. His arm now secured in a makeshift sling made from his coat, his hand reached for the body’s hand. He cradled it in his palm with care, and wept. Her own eyes swelled with tears, and she wished she could remember him. Had she known him well? She had a growing feeling that she would never know.

“Miss.”

She turned back to the young man, trembling and unable to tell if her tears chilled her cheeks. She did not check, as she feared how it would impact her resolve, earnest but still unsure. She longed to be comforted, and felt a sensation almost like warmth spreading through her again and relaxed, albeit a little.

“It is November, miss,” he continued. He leaned his head toward her in an almost confidential way, and she found the nearness soothed her further. “You have made it. You have nothing to fear, nothing to worry about any longer.” He weighed her hand in his, all three limbs swaying slowly up and down in the slightest. “I will go with you, when you are ready. And I must caution you, miss; no matter how tempting it is, the deceased who linger are rarely ever happy, and I would hate to see you as anything but strong, as you are now.”

“I am strong?”

“You are.”

She smiled, eyes lowering to their hands again. She nodded to herself. “You are an angel. You’re… you’re going to take me to heaven.”

“I am an angel?”

“I want to believe that you are.” He had no wings, but her determination became a vice.

“Then I am.”

She dared another glimpse of the carriage, and averted her eyes quickly. When the young man removed his hand from the top of hers, she whispered, “Don’t leave me. Even if I am strong, I don’t think I can do this alone.”

He pulled her hand towards him, looping her arm through his and flattening her palm against it. He covered her hand with his again, giving her a nod and a widened smile. “That’s why I am here. So you won’t get lost. It’s my job; I don’t leave anyone lost, when I can help it.”

Absently her arm adjusted in his, and they stood side by side, their conversation coming to a halt. The driver had collected himself enough to return to his horses, mounting one and attaching the other. He turned them back down the road, from which they had both came together on that carriage, and rode off as fast as he was able, mindful of the ice, even more mindful now. And now, there was nothing left for her here, nothing but a body drained of life in a way she could not see and did not want to see. And yet she lingered, longing to return to it, wanting to feel the cold and see her breath turn to vapor. She could feel herself leaning toward that arm, as though she could will it and all connected back to life. How strange it was to gaze upon your own physical form and not be able to touch it, to move and flex your limbs and crane your neck. How disconnected she felt knowing she felt nothing perhaps as the body felt nothing, though she was still there, witnessing it, thinking about it and every detail in her flesh. Did she still have scars, freckles, and moles? She did not feel compelled to check on anything but that body. Were bodies really shells, then, after all? And upon leaving it, was she pure? She felt the same, she could not tell. Was she free? Was this true freedom, despite that lingering here was ill advised by this mysterious man, this angel if he was one?

And was this angel waiting for her to make a decision? If she wanted to stay, could she stay? And what life would that lead to, if it was even one at all? She felt nothing and yet everything.

No, she thought to herself. I can’t stay here, I can’t go back. There’s no going back. I will not be a ghost. This exhaustion, this dissociation and sadness, it would be all that I have. And perhaps, everyone else would die and leave me alone. Truly alone.

She looked up to the snow covered pines of the woods, which seemed to be curving downward in a gradual, dizzying way. Trying to block out the sky, trying to keep her where she stood. There were whispers, a white noise like the cacophony of insects, and her body seemed to drift closer and closer to her without moving. It felt as though her flesh hand could lash out to her at any moment. She was terrified.

A tight squeeze of her hand sent a jolt through her. The trees straightened, and the carriage was where it had always been, the arm as it had lied since the driver left. She looked to the young man, who loosened his grip and stared up at the trees, his gaze a warning one. She knew then that whatever evil was closing in was thwarted by him, and squared her shoulders.

Was this what it was like when the dead lingered, her longing and sorrow transforming into terror and entrapment? Was this her true test of character and strength, not lying in her physical form but her spiritual one? And was this what it came down to: to stay behind in a life gone, or to move on into the unknown?

“I am ready to leave,” she said, her voice ringing out firm and with no trace left of hesitation. “I will not be a ghost.” I will not embody my loss and suffering any longer. One way or another, I will be free. This terror and confusion will pass. I will be free.

The young man cut his gaze to her once more, and a soft smile returned to his face. They trekked through the snow, their pace not obstructed by its bulk. They paused in unison once they stood in center of the road, their backs to the direction from whence she came. The storm progressed, the wind picking up but as silent as the rest of her surroundings, and the end of the road becoming more obscured. Trees were fading from her line of sight, and she could no longer make out the carriage. Her grip tightened on the young man’s arm, and he looked to her. He waited for her first step. She took it, and he followed.

[whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst]

To Steal From A Thief:

A Lost Tomb fic

Prologue

“I’m so glad I don’t live in the real world.” —Leverage

“Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.” —Virginia Woolf

Although he could sleep through the noise of storms, dogs barking, and passing cars honking at each other, the boy was always easily awoken on the nights when the soft but insistent buzz-buzz-buzzzz of the intercom outside the front door whispered secrets into the cool, misty air. Only three kinds of people would request entry to the Wu family estate in the middle of the night: Wu San Xing on several occasions when Wu Erbai had gotten mad enough at his brother’s activities to lock him out, business clients seeking a discreet meeting for their problems, and thieves. It was this third category of visitor that the boy was most excited by, and he was more likely to slip out of his bed and sneak down to the door that connected the living space with the insurance business when he knew that thieves were within.

Certainly, the first two possibilities were entertaining on their own. The most recent passive-aggressive standoff between the Wu brothers had involved Uncle San-ye sprawled out in the street at 3am, drunkenly yodeling a 1990s pop song about betrayal in love while pelting gravel at Uncle Erbai’s bedroom window with surprising accuracy (Erbai pretended to be asleep inside, but Pan Zi finally took pity and secretly let San Xing in).

The midnight clients for the uncles’ business were also interesting to peek at from around the hall corner: they ranged from statuesque women whose faces were shadowed by large hats, to elderly couples clutching each other close, to nondescript suited men who came “on behalf of my employer”. These clients invariably had one common denominator that the boy noticed: they were all desperate.

Why else would you come to people like Wu Erbai and Wu San Xing for help? Why else would you throw your lot in with a den of thieves?

If you asked one of their neighbors about the gossip on the Wu brothers’ house, the reluctant answer would likely be, “not much.” The Wu brothers were the ones that ran that little insurance business attached to the house. Established in the neighborhood for decades. Took out the trash on time, no loud parties. That young nephew was living with them right now and going to school at the local university, such a sweet boy. Now, once in a while you might glimpse someone entering or exiting the house who didn’t look normal at all, but as Wu Erbai would explain with an unblinking and discomfiting stare, these were simply some paying customers from out of town. The insurance business takes all types, after all. Everyone has something they consider valuable.

Within a very different community, however, the Wu reputation was only normal in the sense that they were an established family of thieves (freelance goods retrievers, Wu Erbai hissed) going back to Wu Xie’s grandfather.

It had all started, as Uncle San Xing would tell an awed young Wu Xie during warm evenings in his childhood, when Grandfather Wu had come across an old friend stumbling his way through the street with tears streaming down his face. The friend’s story was sad but not unheard of; he had gambled too much during a game one evening at a private party and drunkenly bet away his prized family heirloom, a carefully maintained watch that had been passed down to him upon the death of his father. Once sober, the horrified man had rushed to the game winner’s house and explained his mistake. He offered the watch’s estimated value in cash, as he had scraped together the money for it, but to no avail. The winner of the watch liked it too much and wouldn’t exchange it for any money. To make matters worse, as the man grew increasingly desperate and upset, the winner (a powerful man in town) had him removed from the house and publicly thrown out onto the street. Humiliated and grieving, he stumbled home to tell his family about the loss. Wu Xie’s grandfather had caught him only a few houses away from his own. Grandfather Wu found himself angry on his friend’s behalf. Certainly, his behavior had been foolish and irresponsible—but for the other man to refuse a reasonable deal to restore someone’s family heirloom, particularly when he didn’t need the money himself, and to publicly embarrass this friend to boot?

Grandfather Wu never explained to his sons just how or when the thought came to him, but it was an idea that would change the family line forever: taking the watch back is the right thing to do.

His journals didn’t provide much information about how he accomplished it; a reference to a sympathetic servant in the house, tips jotted down for making an innocent diversion at the right moment. However he accomplished the watch retrieval (leaving the money in its place), Grandfather Wu got a taste for it after that—and other friends and acquaintances who had heard about the watch incident came by or wrote to him with their own problems and a tidy sum to ease the way. The rest, as Uncle San Xing would say while tucking young Wu Xie into bed, was history.

In the next generation, however, Wu Xie’s father pointedly set up a legitimate business in antiques insurance. Nothing against his family, he let them know, but he wasn’t going to get mixed up in that business. The Wu family was going straight from here on out. The uncles shrewdly went along with it, setting up their own business—as a cover for their real work. The job was still simple: clients came and told the uncles their stories about what they needed to get and why. After deliberating, and with Grandfather Wu’s input while he was still alive, they would decide on whether to take a case. As for their collaborators, the imagination required for planning a robbery invites all sorts of colorful characters to the table, and Wu Xie’s summers at his uncles’ house growing up were full of grifters teaching him pool, cardsharps giving him tips on how to make an ace vanish in his hand, and hackers showing him how to get the media he wanted for free. All of this, mind, under his elders’ noses. He was meant to be learning the insurance business, and summers were for learning to mind the store and keep the accounts, not for getting involved in that immoral thieving business.

Wu Xie unwittingly grew up as a sort of living olive branch between the brothers; the one thing that Wu Xie’s father and uncles seemed to really agree on was that their beloved Wu Xie, sheltered as he was, would not become involved in the shadowy world of “freelance goods retrieval.”

Or rather, Uncle San Xing claimed to agree. This would change.

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

As you can see, it’s very much an AU (a leverage themed AU, to be specific) and I’m sure I’m getting stuff wrong about the family structure from the books. Apologies, please just think of it all under the banner of it being an AU!

Please let me know your thoughts, it’s just starting out!!

[abigailzimmer]

Favorite Reads of 2020

In this year of slowness, thank god for books to make the world a little larger again. I read several classics for the first time—Shelley’s Frankenstein and Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day—all of which felt important to return to the source material, to see how these books shaped those that came after them. And I delved into new books from favorite authors whose words I will always seek out—like Kelly Schirmann’s The New World and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book—and I branched out into mystery and romance books because they kept pages turning and tidied everything up so neatly at the end, which if not my usual fare, was sorely needed in this strange year. But since I do love a list, here are the books that sung to me / inspired me / shaped me:

1. Exquisitely told and inventive in form, Women Talking by Miriam Toews centers on a group of Mennonite women in South America who discover they're being drugged and raped during the night by the men in their community. While the men are away, the women meet to decide whether they will stay and forgive their attackers, as their community’s religious leaders ask them to, or leave the colony and start anew. Their conversation over the course of two days questions the role of women, what freedom and forgiveness really mean, how to fulfill one’s calling as a woman, mother, and believer, whether one must choose one thing over another, and whether staying or leaving carries the greater risk. It’s a thoughtful and creative approach to hard questions and the complicated reasons why there’s never a right answer.

2. Ilya Kaminsky's collection, Dancing in Odessa, was one of the first books of contemporary poetry I ever read, lent to me by a friend in college, and I remember being stunned at what poetry could be and do. Deaf Republic stuns in the same way. The poems are incredibly cinematic, telling the story of an occupied town and its people and a couple who fall in love. When a young, deaf boy is shot by the soldiers, the entire town pretends deafness in rebellion, finding excuses to not understand the soldiers. They bear witness to the boy’s death and honor his life. Though a fictional town, the call to political action, to really see those who are being oppressed and stand for justice with them, is resonant for any time and place. Plus, Ilya writes the most beautiful love poems.

3. Another cinematically-inclined poetry book is GennaRose Nethercott’s The Lumberjack’s Dove. In this long poem/myth/fable, a lumberjack accidentally cuts off his hand, which turns into a dove, and then a story parts ways. The lumberjack is not just a lumberjack and the hand-turned-dove is not just a hand-turned-dove, and the story visits both an operating room and a witch, and the story, of course, is one you've heard before and one that brings surprise and wonder to the telling. I simply adored it.

"Living creatures believe they own something as soon as they love it. They refuse to believe otherwise, no matter how many times a beloved vanishes."

4. I fell in love—hard—with The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller and her exquisite, queer love story between Achilles and Patroclus. Miller’s writing is wonderful and after reading her novel Circe as well—another fantastic retelling of Greek myths—I spent the remainder of the year searching for a novel that compared.

5. Some books meet you in the right moment. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey is a slow and attentive book on small things, which in 2020’s period of waiting and uprootedness was a gift. Due to chronic illness, Bailey finds herself confined to a bed with little to do. Her friend brings her a potted plant and a snail whose pace of life, matching her own, becomes a comfort and lessons her loneliness. As she watches, she learns intimately the snail's eating and sleeping habits, its daily adventures, and the conditions it best thrives in. Later she delves into the literature and science of gastropods and weaves her notes in with her own observations and stories of the snail. Her writing is light and funny and holds such tenderness for this very small creature.

"In the History of Animals, Aristotle noted that snail teeth are 'sharp, and small, and delicate.' My snail possessed around 2,640 teeth, so I'd add the word plentiful to Aristotle's description....With only thirty-two adult teeth, which had to last the rest of my life, I found myself experiencing tooth envy toward my gastropod companion. It seemed far more sensible to belong to a species that had evolved natural tooth replacement than to belong to one that had developed the dental profession. Nonetheless, dental appointments were one of my favorite adventures, as I could count on being recumbent. I could see myself settling into the dental chair, opening my mouth for my dentist, and surprising him with a human-sized radula."

6. Insecurity System by Sara Wainscott was one of my favorite books published in 2020. The poems in it make up four crowns—a series of sonnets in which the last line of each poem becomes the first line (or an echo of it) of the next. The playfulness of the form as well as the topics give the book an energy: Sara muses on time travel, levitation, memory, flowers ("people who read poems know a rose / is how the poet drags in genitalia"), motherhood, Mars, and mythical transformations (children tell their mothers they have turned to seals “and it is true”). Sara is funny and wry, and yet she also captures some difficult emotions of grief and depression, a struggle with complacency amid daily obligations “Sentences become drawn out affairs / but I am doing what I can / to answer one word each day.” The poems move from the mundane to a hard feeling and then onward to wonder and a bit of the fantastical, which I guess is just how life goes—I love how these emotions are all rolled together and always shifting.

7. Asiya Wadud’s powerful long poem Syncope is one I’ve returned to often throughout the year. She tells the story of 72 refugees who fled Tripoli in an inflatable boat in 2011 and were stranded for 14 days, despite the presence of 38 maritime vessels who could have rescued them, but didn’t. Instead, only 11 passengers survived. Syncope is both an indictment against those who did not act and a eulogy for the dead, returning humanity to people who were deemed not worth saving but who were “luminous in that / we were each born under the / fabled light of some star.”

“We began as 72 ascendants by that I mean we were a collective many each bound for greatness merely in the fact that we were each still living”

8. Eula Biss’s Having and Being Had is a thoughtful and exploratory conversation about capitalism and its effects on what we do and how we think. In a series of short vignettes, Eula picks apart what consumption, work, accounting, and investment mean on a personal and everyday level (albeit a white, middle class level). Who defines value among boys trading Pokemon cards and how did Monopoly's origins in economic injustice shift to pride in bankrupting players and if one of Eula's favorite things about being a new house owner is easy access to a laundry machine, is her house merely a $400,000 container for one washer and dryer? Her essays bounce from work that is valued, unseen or shamed; the perceptions and realities of being poor or rich; our approach to gift-giving and art-making and pleasure—weaving together research, observations, and conversations with friends.

9. In Grief Sequence, poet Prageeta Sharma’s grieves the loss of her husband in a kind of journal, tracing the memories of his diagnosis, the hard and normal days, the days before diagnosis, and the days after he is gone during which she tries to make sense of her new reality: “How gauche it is to be in this body being unseen by you now,” she writes. “You are not you anymore and I am trying to understand how a human with feelings has disappeared.” Her writing is excellent but it is hard to sit with and next to her pain, and it makes me wonder: when does one read such a book? When you’ve also lost a beloved to cancer? To be in conversation with someone who has, with Prageeta? Do you read for the sake of the living or to honor a body who was once here? Prageeta writes, “Poetry and grief are the same: you are taught to care about it when it happens to you.” I don’t know who to recommend this book to, but it spoke to me, and I’m glad she wrote it, as a monument, of sorts, to a specific togetherness and to a person.

10. The Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis is a strange and sweet book about a race of genetically-engineered dogs, created initially to be soldiers, who move to New York in the ‘90s while still holding onto the customs and dress of nineteenth-century Prussia, which is to say: I don't know if I ever would have picked this book up had a friend not recommended it. Told through news clippings, letters, journal entries, an opera(!), and the first-person account of a human who befriends them, their story has echoes of Frankenstein as the monster dogs reflect on their creator and what it is to be human, to have purpose and hope, to wrestle with a clouded past and an uncertain future. "It's a terrible thing to be a dog and know it," writes one monster dog scholar after some of the dogs begin to revert back to their primal state. I loved the varied forms, the piecing together of the dog’s history, and the surreal mark they left in the book’s world and my world.

For more books throughout the year, follow along on Instagram at book.wreck.

[obsessedbutonline]

obsessedbutonline Masterlist

Started: 24/12/2020

Last updated: 24/12/2020

Total works: 9

Teen Wolf

Title: Amateurs

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/?

Word count: 4369

Tags: Spark Stiles Stilinski, Magic, Stiles Stilinski Returns, Emissary Stiles Stilinski,Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Bromance, Alpha Derek Hale, Good Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale,Good Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Teacher Stiles Stilinski, Roadtrip, Training

Summary:  When Stiles is offered a position at a far-away pack to train a young spark, he didn't expect to bring along a certain Peter Hale. Becoming a powerful, nation-wide known emissary comes with certain perks, and also responsibilities- how does Stiles cope?- Written for the Steter Secret Santa

Other comments: This one is a favourite of mine and one I’m super inspired for! It was for the steter secret santa 2020, and I was late for that sadly, but my giftee, archercrow, was AMAZING about it and I got it to them on the 29th (: 

~

Title: Temporary Love

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 3/?

Word count: 3087

Tags: College Student Stiles Stilinski, College, Human, Alternate Universe - Human, Family, Family Fluff, Derek Hale is a Softie, Deputy Derek Hale, Misunderstandings, Stiles Stilinski's Jeep's Name is Roscoe, Stiles Stilinski Returns

Summary:  From the prompt: Stiles’ Babcia (grandmother) is fiercely independent and lives in an apartment in Beacon Hills and Stiles used to go over on the weekends and run errands for her. But then Stiles goes to college and can’t make it home as much as he likes, and when he does go home he goes straight to Babcia’s apartment ready to do her bidding and she’s like, “Oh, no, Słoneczko, that nice boy Derek down the hall already got my groceries and fixed my sink…” And Stiles gets really jealous of this Derek guy, but Derek works weekends (Deputy!Derek FTW) so they never actually meet. Stiles nurses this simmering rage that some interloper is bogarting his grandmother. In the meantime Derek is just soaking up the family feels and becoming more and more enamoured of the elusive Mieczysław that babcia keeps showing him pictures of and telling him stories about, “the most handsome, brilliant, caring young boy you could ever meet…” -dr.girlfriend on tumblr

Other comments: Named after the amazing song of the same name by Ben Platt, this fic is inspired by a prompt! It has yet to be finished, but I’m working on it, promise! It’s just slow going.

~

Title: A Change Of Pace

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1070

Tags: Empath Stiles Stilinski, stetersecretsanta2019, Fluff

Summary: Stiles has always struggled to contain the effects of being an empath- Peter, like he always seems to do, worms his way through the cracks. My entry for the Steter Secret Santa 2k19, enjoy!

Other comments: Once again, another secret santa entry! For this one, I dabbled into making Stiles an empath, I’m pretty sure that was one of the requests of my secret santa-ee, so that’s what I did! If inspiration strikes, I feel like I could definitely expand on this story, but it works as a short story just as well.

~

Title: On Christmas Eve

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 5285

Tags: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Pain, Dreams and Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Depression, Isolation, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles, Stilinski Christmas, Christmas Eve, Illnesses, Mental Health Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Possession, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Bromance, Emotionally Constipated Derek Hale, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Pack Feels

Summary:  Looking up at the ceiling in exasperation, Stiles shook his head in disbelief. "Great, so now we're taking in strays. Awesome, just how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve." ... "Yeah," Stiles agreed, breathlessly, "-friends." ... How Stiles' copes with the possession of the Nogitsune over the next five Christmas Eve's. This is my entry for the 2019 Sterek Secret Santa (:

Other comments: This is one of my absolute FAVOURITE fics I’ve written, and it kind of follows the 5+1 trope, but I don’t think there are six different parts. Anyway, this was obviously written for the 2k19 Sterek Secret Santa, and I just want to once again mention how worth it is to join a writing secret santa!! The Sterek one in particular is VERY well set up, so it’s an amazing one to start with!

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Title: Missing Parts (In My Brain)

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1410

Tags: Fluff, Pining, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, 12 Days of Sterek, Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas Fluff

Summary:  Pining has always been something Stiles has been spectacularly good at. But really? This is going too far. Christmas parties aren't Christmas parties unless at least one couple lays the PDA on heavy, and it all gets Stiles thinking. Written for 12 Days Of Sterek 2019 (:

Other comments: As I wrote in the summary, this was written for the 12 days of Sterek! I don’t think there was a prompt or anything, but this fic has a heavy theme of asexuality, which I wrote for the purpose of putting more diversity into my fics.

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Title: The Peculiarities of Demetrius Blotting and Papers

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1414

Tags: Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magic, Faery Court, Fae & Fairies, Nymphs & Dryads, Mythology - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Library, Library, Witches, Nature, Magic, Bookshop

Summary: Working in the most magically profound bookshop is a walk in the park. Until it isn't. When a stranger comes looking for a registry of one of the most well-known wolf packs in America, Stiles finds himself intrigued. And unfairly invested in making the guy smile. And if it takes a bit of sneaking to do that, then that's nobodies business but his own, right?

Other comments: I actually do not remember where this fic was going! But it never got further than the first chapter unfortunately (I hope I can update this, someday). It’s about the fae!

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Title: Visiting the Hales

Rating: General audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1513

Tags: Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Death, Grief/Mourning, Stiles Stilinski Helps Derek Hale, Love, Birthday, The Hale Family, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, One Shot

Summary: It's taken years for them to reach this stage.Stiles hurts when Derek hurts, but he will gladly shoulder the pain if it lessens Derek's even in the slightest.It's time to visit the Hales.

Other comments: This is literally just a super short angst-fest, I think I was listening to a sad song when I got struck with inspiration, and this is the result! Enjoy if you want some sad! Sterek.

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Title: Us Struggling Youth

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Chapters: 23/?

Word count: 27555

Tags: Mental Health Issues, Fluff, Angst, Fluff and Angst, sterek, Self-Harm, Depression, OCD, Anxiety, Therapy, Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Human, Slow Burn, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Sad, Light Angst, Triggers, Emotional, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional, teenwolf, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Hurt Stiles, Bromance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, Mental Breakdown, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Teen Derek Hale, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Teenage Rebellion, Camping, Nostalgia, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Bipolar Disorder, Worry, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings

Summary: Stiles never wanted to go to a school for crazy people, but with his history with self-harm and worsening anxiety, his dad thought it was the place he needed to be. But when the management is at threat, the pupils decide that they deserve some time away, and the camp of the ages was born. What happens when a group of not so well teens decide they want to rebel for one final hurrah?Because when sparks fly in a pit of flames, it can be hard to see past the manic of The Rosedale Academy For Struggling Youth.

Other comments: This is my second longest fic after Only He Saw, and is currently unfinished. Will I finish it? Unknown, but likely not. I got really into the AU Boarding School trope, and this was the result, but then I ran out of inspiration, which is sad because I had a whole storyline planned out. If it ever comes back, I’ll be sure to continue writing it!

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Title: The Cookie Incident

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 2225

Tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Children, Alternate Universe, Steter Secret Santa

Summary:  Stiles goes on a baking spree, with the help of a certain six-year-old, much to the dismay of Peter.

Other comments: This was written for the 2018 Steter Secret Santa, and was written based on the likes of my secret santa-ee. I’d 10000% recommend doing a writing Secret Santa if you want to get into writing fics! You’re surrounded by other people doing the same thing as you, you have a deadline, and you get a present in return! I love doing them, and I’ve been doing both the Sterek and Steter secret santas for three years now. It’s a fluff-fest, that’s all!

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Title: Only He Saw

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Chapters: 31/31

Word count: 45,781

Tags: Angst, Eventual fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Heartbreak, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self Harm, Razor - Freeform, Razors, Anxiety, Darkness, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Panic Attacks, Erica, Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Scars, Sad, Crying, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Hurt Stiles, Cars, Rich Peter, Caring Peter, Peter hale - Freeform, Feels, mansion, Rebuilt Hale House, mean derek hale, steter feels, elastic band technique, self harm alternatives, Self Confidence Issues, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Peter, Blood, trigger warning, Heavy Angst, Neglected Stiles Stilinski, Busy Sherriff, Nurturing Peter Hale, Good Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski is a Bad Parent, Torture, Tortured Stiles Stilinski, Peter forgives Stiles, Depressed Stiles, Angst with a Happy Ending, Small pack, Car rides, Revenge, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Non-Evil Peter Hale, halepackareevil, evilhalepack, badderek, goodpeter, Emotions, POV Stiles, Asexual Character, Asexual Stiles Stilinski, Werau.

Summary:  When the pack stopped telling him about meetings, Stiles laughed. It wasn't surprising that they forgot to update his number when their phones kept getting destroyed by the monster of the week...right? They just forgot. That happened. All the time! Too often. When the pack stopped giving excuses for forgetting, a deserving prickle of fear and trepidation etched its way into his heart, making his usually cocky and brave smile falter and leave. Only when they weren't watching. When they went out of their way to stop him going to meetings, he stopped smiling altogether. Only where they couldn't see. But it's fine, right? He was part of a family that loved him and just wanted to keep him safe...right? But when Derek used the door instead of the window to get into Stile's house, as small and insignificant a fact that may be, he accepted that something was wrong.

Other comments: This was the first fic I ever wrote, and you can tell! I wrote this story over a long time, but for the majority of it, I’d upload 1000 word chapters every day, which really helped my writing develop. I was in a super dark place when I wrote this, and I think you can tell, but I keep it up because it shows how far my writing’s come. I’m proud of how far I’ve come since OHS!

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Title: ____

Rating: ___

Chapters: ___

Word count: ____

Tags: ____

Summary:  ____

Other comments: ___

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[elisaenglish]

How We Grieve: Meghan O’Rourke on the Messiness of Mourning and Learning to Live with Loss

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

John Updike wrote in his memoir, “Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?” And yet even if we were to somehow make peace with our own mortality, a primal and soul-shattering fear rips through whenever we think about losing those we love most dearly — a fear that metastasises into all-consuming grief when loss does come. In The Long Goodbye (public library), her magnificent memoir of grieving her mother’s death, Meghan O’Rourke crafts a masterwork of remembrance and reflection woven of extraordinary emotional intelligence. A poet, essayist, literary critic, and one of the youngest editors the New Yorker has ever had, she tells a story that is deeply personal in its details yet richly resonant in its larger humanity, making tangible the messy and often ineffable complexities that anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows all too intimately, all too anguishingly. What makes her writing — her mind, really — particularly enchanting is that she brings to this paralysingly difficult subject a poet’s emotional precision, an essayist’s intellectual expansiveness, and a voracious reader’s gift for apt, exquisitely placed allusions to such luminaries of language and life as Whitman, Longfellow, Tennyson, Swift, and Dickinson (“the supreme poet of grief”).

O’Rourke writes:

“When we are learning the world, we know things we cannot say how we know. When we are relearning the world in the aftermath of a loss, we feel things we had almost forgotten, old things, beneath the seat of reason.

[…]

Nothing prepared me for the loss of my mother. Even knowing that she would die did not prepare me. A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide and become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable.

[…]

When we talk about love, we go back to the start, to pinpoint the moment of free fall. But this story is the story of an ending, of death, and it has no beginning. A mother is beyond any notion of a beginning. That’s what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.”

In the days following her mother’s death, as O’Rourke faces the loneliness she anticipated and the sense of being lost that engulfed her unawares, she contemplates the paradoxes of loss: Ours is a culture that treats grief — a process of profound emotional upheaval — with a grotesquely mismatched rational prescription. On the one hand, society seems to operate by a set of unspoken shoulds for how we ought to feel and behave in the face of sorrow; on the other, she observes, “we have so few rituals for observing and externalising loss.” Without a coping strategy, she finds herself shutting down emotionally and going “dead inside” — a feeling psychologists call “numbing out” — and describes the disconnect between her intellectual awareness of sadness and its inaccessible emotional manifestation:

“It was like when you stay in cold water too long. You know something is off but don’t start shivering for ten minutes.”

But at least as harrowing as the aftermath of loss is the anticipatory bereavement in the months and weeks and days leading up to the inevitable — a particularly cruel reality of terminal cancer. O’Rourke writes:

“So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Waiting for appointments, for tests, for “procedures.” And waiting, more broadly, for it—for the thing itself, for the other shoe to drop.”

The hallmark of this anticipatory loss seems to be a tapestry of inner contradictions. O’Rourke notes with exquisite self-awareness her resentment for the mundanity of it all — there is her mother, sipping soda in front of the TV on one of those final days — coupled with weighty, crushing compassion for the sacred humanity of death:

“Time doesn’t obey our commands. You cannot make it holy just because it is disappearing.”

Then there was the question of the body — the object of so much social and personal anxiety in real life, suddenly stripped of control in the surreal experience of impending death. Reflecting on the initially disorienting experience of helping her mother on and off the toilet and how quickly it became normalised, O’Rourke writes:

“It was what she had done for us, back before we became private and civilised about our bodies. In some ways I liked it. A level of anxiety about the body had been stripped away, and we were left with the simple reality: Here it was.

I heard a lot about the idea of dying “with dignity” while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn’t actually feel it was undignified for my mother’s body to fail — that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on and off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family did, dying where it was hard for your whole family to be with you and where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn’t want that for my mother. I wanted her to be able to go home. I didn’t want to pretend she wasn’t going to die.”

Among the most painful realities of witnessing death — one particularly exasperating for type-A personalities — is how swiftly it severs the direct correlation between effort and outcome around which we build our lives. Though the notion might seem rational on the surface — especially in a culture that fetishises work ethic and “grit” as the key to success — an underbelly of magical thinking lurks beneath, which comes to light as we behold the helplessness and injustice of premature death. Noting that “the mourner’s mind is superstitious, looking for signs and wonders,” O’Rourke captures this paradox:

“One of the ideas I’ve clung to most of my life is that if I just try hard enough it will work out. If I work hard, I will be spared, and I will get what I desire, finding the cave opening over and over again, thieving life from the abyss. This sturdy belief system has a sidecar in which superstition rides. Until recently, I half believed that if a certain song came on the radio just as I thought of it, it meant that all would be well. What did I mean? I preferred not to answer that question. To look too closely was to prick the balloon of possibility.”

But our very capacity for the irrational — for the magic of magical thinking — also turns out to be essential for our spiritual survival. Without the capacity to discern from life’s senseless sound a meaningful melody, we would be consumed by the noise. In fact, one of O’Rourke’s most poetic passages recounts her struggle to find a transcendent meaning on an average day, amid the average hospital noises:

“I could hear the coughing man whose family talked about sports and sitcoms every time they visited, sitting politely around his bed as if you couldn’t see the death knobs that were his knees poking through the blanket, but as they left they would hug him and say, We love you, and We’ll be back soon, and in their voices and in mine and in the nurse who was so gentle with my mother, tucking cool white sheets over her with a twist of her wrist, I could hear love, love that sounded like a rope, and I began to see a flickering electric current everywhere I looked as I went up and down the halls, flagging nurses, little flecks of light dotting the air in sinewy lines, and I leaned on these lines like guy ropes when I was so tired I couldn’t walk anymore and a voice in my head said: Do you see this love? And do you still not believe?

I couldn’t deny the voice.

Now I think: That was exhaustion.

But at the time the love, the love, it was like ropes around me, cables that could carry us up into the higher floors away from our predicament and out onto the roof and across the empty spaces above the hospital to the sky where we could gaze down upon all the people driving, eating, having sex, watching TV, angry people, tired people, happy people, all doing, all being—”

In the weeks following her mother’s death, melancholy — “the black sorrow, bilious, angry, a slick in my chest” — comes coupled with another intense emotion, a parallel longing for a different branch of that-which-no-longer-is:

“I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two, like a tree hit by lightning. I was — as the expression goes — flooded by memories. It was a submersion in the past that threatened to overwhelm any “rational” experience of the present, water coming up around my branches, rising higher. I did not care much about work I had to do. I was consumed by memories of seemingly trivial things.”

But the embodied presence of the loss is far from trivial. O’Rourke, citing a psychiatrist whose words had stayed with her, captures it with harrowing precision:

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

In another breathtaking passage, O’Rourke conveys the largeness of grief as it emanates out of our pores and into the world that surrounds us:

“In February, there was a two-day snowstorm in New York. For hours I lay on my couch, reading, watching the snow drift down through the large elm outside… the sky going gray, then eerie violet, the night breaking around us, snow like flakes of ash. A white mantle covered trees, cars, lintels, and windows. It was like one of grief’s moods: melancholic; estranged from the normal; in touch with the longing that reminds us that we are being-toward-death, as Heidegger puts it. Loss is our atmosphere; we, like the snow, are always falling toward the ground, and most of the time we forget it.”

Because grief seeps into the external world as the inner experience bleeds into the outer, it’s understandable — it’s hopelessly human — that we’d also project the very object of our grief onto the external world. One of the most common experiences, O’Rourke notes, is for the grieving to try to bring back the dead — not literally, but by seeing, seeking, signs of them in the landscape of life, symbolism in the everyday. The mind, after all, is a pattern-recognition machine and when the mind’s eye is as heavily clouded with a particular object as it is when we grieve a loved one, we begin to manufacture patterns. Recounting a day when she found inside a library book handwriting that seemed to be her mother’s, O’Rourke writes:

“The idea that the dead might not be utterly gone has an irresistible magnetism. I’d read something that described what I had been experiencing. Many people go through what psychologists call a period of “animism,” in which you see the dead person in objects and animals around you, and you construct your false reality, the reality where she is just hiding, or absent. This was the mourner’s secret position, it seemed to me: I have to say this person is dead, but I don’t have to believe it.

[…]

Acceptance isn’t necessarily something you can choose off a menu, like eggs instead of French toast. Instead, researchers now think that some people are inherently primed to accept their own death with “integrity” (their word, not mine), while others are primed for “despair.” Most of us, though, are somewhere in the middle, and one question researchers are now focusing on is: How might more of those in the middle learn to accept their deaths? The answer has real consequences for both the dying and the bereaved.”

O’Rourke considers the psychology and physiology of grief:

“When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity is wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the mental work.

The first systematic survey of grief, I read, was conducted by Erich Lindemann. Having studied 101 people, many of them related to the victims of the Cocoanut Grove fire of 1942, he defined grief as “sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intensive subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.”

Tracing the history of studying grief, including Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s famous and often criticised 1969 “stage theory” outlining a simple sequence of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, O’Rourke notes that most people experience grief not as sequential stages but as ebbing and flowing states that recur at various points throughout the process. She writes:

“Researchers now believe there are two kinds of grief: “normal grief” and “complicated grief” (also called “prolonged grief”). “Normal grief” is a term for what most bereaved people experience. It peaks within the first six months and then begins to dissipate. “Complicated grief” does not, and often requires medication or therapy. But even “normal grief”… is hardly gentle. Its symptoms include insomnia or other sleep disorders, difficulty breathing, auditory or visual hallucinations, appetite problems, and dryness of mouth.”

One of the most persistent psychiatric ideas about grief, O’Rourke notes, is the notion that one ought to “let go” in order to “move on” — a proposition plentiful even in the casual advice of her friends in the weeks following her mother’s death. And yet it isn’t necessarily the right coping strategy for everyone, let alone the only one, as our culture seems to suggest. Unwilling to “let go,” O’Rourke finds solace in anthropological alternatives:

“Studies have shown that some mourners hold on to a relationship with the deceased with no notable ill effects. In China, for instance, mourners regularly speak to dead ancestors, and one study demonstrated that the bereaved there “recovered more quickly from loss” than bereaved Americans do.

I wasn’t living in China, though, and in those weeks after my mother’s death, I felt that the world expected me to absorb the loss and move forward, like some kind of emotional warrior. One night I heard a character on 24—the president of the United States—announce that grief was a “luxury” she couldn’t “afford right now.” This model represents an old American ethic of muscling through pain by throwing yourself into work; embedded in it is a desire to avoid looking at death. We’ve adopted a sort of “Ask, don’t tell” policy. The question “How are you?” is an expression of concern, but as my dad had said, the mourner quickly figures out that it shouldn’t always be taken for an actual inquiry… A mourner’s experience of time isn’t like everyone else’s. Grief that lasts longer than a few weeks may look like self-indulgence to those around you. But if you’re in mourning, three months seems like nothing — [according to some] research, three months might well find you approaching the height of sorrow.”

Another Western hegemony in the culture of grief, O’Rourke notes, is its privatisation — the unspoken rule that mourning is something we do in the privacy of our inner lives, alone, away from the public eye. Though for centuries private grief was externalised as public mourning, modernity has left us bereft of rituals to help us deal with our grief:

“The disappearance of mourning rituals affects everyone, not just the mourner. One of the reasons many people are unsure about how to act around a loss is that they lack rules or meaningful conventions, and they fear making a mistake. Rituals used to help the community by giving everyone a sense of what to do or say. Now, we’re at sea.

[…]

Such rituals… aren’t just about the individual; they are about the community.”

Craving “a formalisation of grief, one that might externalise it,” O’Rourke plunges into the existing literature:

“The British anthropologist Geoffrey Gorer, the author of Death, Grief, and Mourning, argues that, at least in Britain, the First World War played a huge role in changing the way people mourned. Communities were so overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead that the practice of ritualised mourning for the individual eroded. Other changes were less obvious but no less important. More people, including women, began working outside the home; in the absence of caretakers, death increasingly took place in the quarantining swaddle of the hospital. The rise of psychoanalysis shifted attention from the communal to the individual experience. In 1917, only two years after Émile Durkheim wrote about mourning as an essential social process, Freud’s “Mourning and Melancholia” defined it as something essentially private and individual, internalising the work of mourning. Within a few generations, I read, the experience of grief had fundamentally changed. Death and mourning had been largely removed from the public realm. By the 1960s, Gorer could write that many people believed that “sensible, rational men and women can keep their mourning under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression, and indulged, if at all, in private, as furtively as... masturbation.” Today, our only public mourning takes the form of watching the funerals of celebrities and statesmen. It’s common to mock such grief as false or voyeuristic (“crocodile tears,” one commentator called mourners’ distress at Princess Diana’s funeral), and yet it serves an important social function. It’s a more mediated version, Leader suggests, of a practice that goes all the way back to soldiers in The Iliad mourning with Achilles for the fallen Patroclus.

I found myself nodding in recognition at Gorer’s conclusions. “If mourning is denied outlet, the result will be suffering,” Gorer wrote. “At the moment our society is signally failing to give this support and assistance... The cost of this failure in misery, loneliness, despair and maladaptive behaviour is very high.” Maybe it’s not a coincidence that in Western countries with fewer mourning rituals, the bereaved report more physical ailments in the year following a death.”

Finding solace in Marilynne Robinson’s beautiful meditation on our humanity, O’Rourke returns to her own journey:

“The otherworldliness of loss was so intense that at times I had to believe it was a singular passage, a privilege of some kind, even if all it left me with was a clearer grasp of our human predicament. It was why I kept finding myself drawn to the remote desert: I wanted to be reminded of how the numinous impinges on ordinary life.”

Reflecting on her struggle to accept her mother’s loss — her absence, “an absence that becomes a presence” — O’Rourke writes:

“If children learn through exposure to new experiences, mourners unlearn through exposure to absence in new contexts. Grief requires acquainting yourself with the world again and again; each “first” causes a break that must be reset… And so you always feel suspense, a queer dread—you never know what occasion will break the loss freshly open.”

She later adds:

“After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn’t come naturally.”

Among the most chilling effects of grief is how it reorients us toward ourselves as it surfaces our mortality paradox and the dawning awareness of our own impermanence. O’Rourke’s words ring with the profound discomfort of our shared existential bind:

“The dread of death is so primal, it overtakes me on a molecular level. In the lowest moments, it produces nihilism. If I am going to die, why not get it over with? Why live in this agony of anticipation?

[…]

I was unable to push these questions aside: What are we to do with the knowledge that we die? What bargain do you make in your mind so as not to go crazy with fear of the predicament, a predicament none of us knowingly chose to enter? You can believe in God and heaven, if you have the capacity for faith. Or, if you don’t, you can do what a stoic like Seneca did, and push away the awfulness by noting that if death is indeed extinction, it won’t hurt, for we won’t experience it. “It would be dreadful could it remain with you; but of necessity either it does not arrive or else it departs,” he wrote.

If this logic fails to comfort, you can decide, as Plato and Jonathan Swift did, that since death is natural, and the gods must exist, it cannot be a bad thing. As Swift said, “It is impossible that anything so natural, so necessary, and so universal as death, should ever have been designed by Providence as an evil to mankind.” And Socrates: “I am quite ready to admit… that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good.” But this is poor comfort to those of us who have no gods to turn to. If you love this world, how can you look forward to departing it? Rousseau wrote, “He who pretends to look on death without fear lies. All men are afraid of dying, this is the great law of sentient beings, without which the entire human species would soon be destroyed.”

And yet, O’Rourke arrives at the same conclusion that Alan Lightman did in his sublime meditation on our longing for permanence as she writes:

“Without death our lives would lose their shape: “Death is the mother of beauty,” Wallace Stevens wrote. Or as a character in Don DeLillo’s White Noise says, “I think it’s a mistake to lose one’s sense of death, even one’s fear of death. Isn’t death the boundary we need?” It’s not clear that DeLillo means us to agree, but I think I do. I love the world more because it is transient.

[…]

One would think that living so proximately to the provisional would ruin life, and at times it did make it hard. But at other times I experienced the world with less fear and more clarity. It didn’t matter if I was in line for an extra two minutes. I could take in the sensations of colour, sound, life. How strange that we should live on this planet and make cereal boxes, and shopping carts, and gum! That we should renovate stately old banks and replace them with Trader Joe’s! We were ants in a sugar bowl, and one day the bowl would empty.”

This awareness of our transience, our minuteness, and the paradoxical enlargement of our aliveness that it produces seems to be the sole solace from grief’s grip, though we all arrive at it differently. O’Rourke’s father approached it from another angle. Recounting a conversation with him one autumn night — one can’t help but notice the beautiful, if inadvertent, echo of Carl Sagan’s memorable words — O’Rourke writes:

“The Perseid meteor showers are here,” he told me. “And I’ve been eating dinner outside and then lying in the lounge chairs watching the stars like your mother and I used to” — at some point he stopped calling her Mom — “and that helps. It might sound strange, but I was sitting there, looking up at the sky, and I thought, ‘You are but a mote of dust. And your troubles and travails are just a mote of a mote of dust.’ And it helped me. I have allowed myself to think about things I had been scared to think about and feel. And it allowed me to be there — to be present. Whatever my life is, whatever my loss is, it’s small in the face of all that existence… The meteor shower changed something. I was looking the other way through a telescope before: I was just looking at what was not there. Now I look at what is there.”

O’Rourke goes on to reflect on this ground-shifting quality of loss:

“It’s not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it’s a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It’s not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction.”

In one of the most beautiful passages in the book, O’Rourke captures the spiritual sensemaking of death in an anecdote that calls to mind Alan Lightman’s account of a “transcendent experience” and Alan Watt’s consolation in the oneness of the universe. She writes:

“Before we scattered the ashes, I had an eerie experience. I went for a short run. I hate running in the cold, but after so much time indoors in the dead of winter I was filled with exuberance. I ran lightly through the stripped, bare woods, past my favourite house, poised on a high hill, and turned back, flying up the road, turning left. In the last stretch I picked up the pace, the air crisp, and I felt myself float up off the ground. The world became greenish. The brightness of the snow and the trees intensified. I was almost giddy. Behind the bright flat horizon of the treescape, I understood, were worlds beyond our everyday perceptions. My mother was out there, inaccessible to me, but indelible. The blood moved along my veins and the snow and trees shimmered in greenish light. Suffused with joy, I stopped stock-still in the road, feeling like a player in a drama I didn’t understand and didn’t need to. Then I sprinted up the driveway and opened the door and as the heat rushed out the clarity dropped away.

I’d had an intuition like this once before, as a child in Vermont. I was walking from the house to open the gate to the driveway. It was fall. As I put my hand on the gate, the world went ablaze, as bright as the autumn leaves, and I lifted out of myself and understood that I was part of a magnificent book. What I knew as “life” was a thin version of something larger, the pages of which had all been written. What I would do, how I would live — it was already known. I stood there with a kind of peace humming in my blood.”

A non-believer who had prayed for the first time in her life when her mother died, O’Rourke quotes Virginia Woolf’s luminous meditation on the spirit and writes:

“This is the closest description I have ever come across to what I feel to be my experience. I suspect a pattern behind the wool, even the wool of grief; the pattern may not lead to heaven or the survival of my consciousness — frankly I don’t think it does — but that it is there somehow in our neurons and synapses is evident to me. We are not transparent to ourselves. Our longings are like thick curtains stirring in the wind. We give them names. What I do not know is this: Does that otherness — that sense of an impossibly real universe larger than our ability to understand it — mean that there is meaning around us?

[…]

I have learned a lot about how humans think about death. But it hasn’t necessarily taught me more about my dead, where she is, what she is. When I held her body in my hands and it was just black ash, I felt no connection to it, but I tell myself perhaps it is enough to still be matter, to go into the ground and be “remixed” into some new part of the living culture, a new organic matter. Perhaps there is some solace in this continued existence.

[…]

I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely, gone.”

The Long Goodbye is a remarkable read in its entirety — the kind that speaks with gentle crispness to the parts of us we protect most fiercely yet long to awaken most desperately. Complement it with Alan Lightman in finding solace in our impermanence and Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (9th June 2014)

[jincherie]

Inheritance | Pt. 1

Pairing: Yoongi x reader Genre: hybrid!au, fluff (later), smut (later later) Words: 2.6k+ Warnings: The MC gets a lil sad, mentioned death of a family member, swears Notes: This was going to be a oneshot, then a two-shot, and now it’s a mess. I split it so the transitions would be smoother and it wouldn’t feel as rushed as it would were it all in the one scenario. More parts to come! (forgive the terrible summary)

After your grandmother passed she left everything to you. Her house, her fortune, and apparently… her cat? The grumpy male hybrid you encounter at her house is anything but the tame housecat you’d expected to find. Fulfilling your grandmother’s last request to look after him becomes a lot harder when he seems to be avoiding you, and your dissatisfied relatives start stirring up trouble.

Masterlist | Next.

You still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock as your relatives all stood, grumbling and complaining, before pushing past you and storming out. Your mind was stuck replaying the events of the past couple of minutes, wondering if that all had really just happened.

Your relatives and yourself had gathered for the reading of your late grandmother’s Last Will and Testament, and her wishes had been… surprising, at least. You were pleasantly surprised, but the same could not be said for your money-hungry relatives.

Your grandmother had been incredibly wealthy, but unlike the rest of your family, she didn’t flaunt it. She had been a humble, lovely woman. After your parents died she had cared for you by sending you money and heartfelt letters to comfort you, paying your rent, and making sure you were okay. She lived too far away to visit you herself, and you hadn’t been to her mansion-esque home since you were a child. However, after the events of today, it seemed like you’d be making a visit, and probably moving in.

While your grandmother could have been a saint, the same could not be said for the rest of your relatives. You had no idea how they could have come from such a lovely woman and yet still be so warped and twisted. The only good people in the family besides your grandmother had been your parents, and now both were gone and you felt like a mouse in a snake nest. Every single one of your relatives only cared about money, prestige, and themselves. It was why so many of them had rocked up and demanded your grandmother’s will be read to everyone at the same time. They all knew what snakes the others were, and knew that if the will had been sent out to particular people then there would have been a lot of foul play.

They had never expected the reading to go as it had. Your aunt Priscilla had been vying for the pearls your grandmother kept hidden in the house, and your aunt Penny had been seeking the box of jewels she’d once glimpsed in your grandmother’s closet. You knew for a fact your uncle Jay had had his eyes on the property, most likely so he could sell or demolish it to make more profit.

To eveyone’s surprise, your grandmother had left almost everything not to one of your aunts, or uncles, but to you.

And now you had the distinct feeling you were going to die in your sleep.

In a way, you were beyond amused. It was incredibly satisfying to see your grandmother stick it to her horrendous children and grandchildren one last time from beyond the grave. She’d given everyone but you a mere three hundred dollars. In another way, you were also shocked, and a little worried. You had no idea what to do with yourself and all of this stuff you had been given. Her entire fortune, her house, her possessions— they’d all been left to you. You planned on making a visit later just to make sure everything was as it should be, but you’d also travelled a fair while to get here for the reading and would be needing a place to stay. You may as well go visit and take care of the place somewhat while you were at it.

All of your relatives had already left the room, each one giving you a personalised dirty look as they passed you, some even going so far as to hit their shoulder into yours. Soon, it was only you and the estate attorney in the room. He gave you a warm smile.

“Personally, I’m glad she left everything to you,” he spoke kindly, a stark change to the cold tone he’d had earlier when speaking to your relatives. “I don’t want to know what they would have done with everything if it had been given to one of them.”

You smiled, laughing a little. “I don’t either, but I have a good idea. Thank you for doing this.”

He shook his head with a small smile. “It’s my job,” he said, before his eyes widened suddenly. “Ah, right. Your grandmother left this note for you. She was clear about you receiving it when the others weren’t around.”

Your eyebrows rose as he procured an envelope from his jacket pocket. Your grandmother had left one last letter for you? With careful hands you took it from his grasp, glimpsing over the front. Your name was scrawled in elegant cursive over the paper, a sight that nearly made your eyes water. Your grandmother always had beautiful handwriting.

Swallowing in an attempt to keep the tears back, you looked to the man and smiled. “Thank you,” you said once more as you rose from your own seat to leave. “Have a nice day.”

He nodded and returned the sentiment, and you left the room, looking around as soon as you were outside the building for the nearest café. Seeing one just down the street, you made your way there. You needed some comfort food and a hot chocolate to calm you down before you visited your grandmother’s house.

You spent the next hour or so at the café, waiting until you were truly ready to go visit the house you hadn’t been to in years that was filled with memories of the grandmother you missed with all your heart.

.  . .  .  . .  .

You sniffed, wiping the last of your tears as you reread the letter. You’d taken a taxi to your grandmother’s address but hadn’t managed to muster the will to go in. Instead, remembering the letter you’d been given earlier, you took a seat on the bench outside the wall surrounding your grandmother’s property, and opened it.

It was a heartfelt letter, as were all letters your grandmother wrote, but this one was different. Maybe it was the fact that you knew, and that she knew, these would be her last words to you. Whatever it was, as soon as you’d finished reading the first line you’d felt warm tears slipping down your face.

She wrote about how she was, and how she hoped you had been. She wrote about how much she loved you, adored you, and how glad she was that you were a part of her life. It was everything you would expect of a goodbye letter, except for a single paragraph at the end.

‘I’m giving you everything, y/n, because I know you will care for it more than anyone else would. That is also why I leave you with this request. Please, take care of Suga. I’ve never told you about him before, or introduced you, but that is only because I was doing my best to keep him safe. With me gone, he has no one. You, my sweet girl, are the only one I can trust to take care of him. He acts like he doesn’t like anyone, but I know he’ll love you. Just give it a while. He’s a tricky cat, my Suga, but I know you’ll be able to warm that cold heart he has locked up. I just know it. So please, y/n, take care of Suga.’

Sniffling once more, you squinted at the letters in front of you. Suga? She had never mentioned she had any pets. She’d called him a ‘tricky cat’. Perhaps, to fill the emptiness of her large home, she had adopted a kitten? That would make sense. Your grandmother adored cats and kittens, you were sure this cat had led the best life possible ever since coming under her care. She would have spoiled him rotten.

Shivering a little in the cold air, you decided you had been moping around enough. You missed your grandmother, and grieving the loss of a family member was healthy, but you didn’t enjoy the amount of crying you were doing today.

Standing with a sigh, you tucked the letter away and turned to the house behind you, drying the last of your tears. The neighbourhood you were currently in was, in short, one for the wealthy. There were many mansions and estates, all of which had ample property and space surrounding them. The fences and gates were fancy and ornate, some leaning more towards simplistic and others to decorative in the extreme. Your grandmother’s property had a more modern, simplistic feel. She wasn’t one to flaunt her money with things such as golden gates and household items that looked like they belonged in a palace.

Along with the letter from your grandmother, the envelope had contained a key and keycard for the front gate and front door. You weren’t sure what the key was for yet, considering the keycard was what allowed you entry into the house. Shaking your head, you swiped it at the gate and slipped in once you heard it unlock. The walk to the front door was beautiful, the massive house being covered beautifully by trees and plants. You grandmother had prided herself on her gardens, and you could see why. In the time since you’d been here last it had grown much more, beautiful flowers and exotic looking plants lining the path towards the front door.

You were almost sad when you reached the end, wanting to see more of the beautiful flora. You took the few steps up, coming to a stop before the front door. On instinct your hand rose to knock, or ring the doorbell, before you realised what you were doing and with a painful jolt to your heart lowered your hand. No one would be home to answer it. You bit your lip, inhaling deeply to school yourself before raising the keycard and unlocking the front door.

The house was warmer than you expected it to be inside, considering no one had been here to turn on heating or anything. You peered around with a small smile as you wiped your feet on the doormat. Not much had changed. It still felt like home away from home.

You tried to channel that warm feeling you got from this place. Your grandmother wasn’t here, but you were sure she was happy where she was. So, even though you were hurting right now, you should try and be happy too. You nodded to yourself, moving further into the house and closing the door firmly behind you. It clicked shut and locked automatically.

You let your feet guide you through muscle memory to the living room, gazing upon the white couches fondly. The house was still decorated in the same simple, minimalistic style that was only broken by vibrant and colourful pictures of you and your parents that lined the shelves and top of the fireplace. You gripped you bag as you turned and took in the room, closing your eyes for a moment. You really had missed this place. You wished you had been here sooner, when she was still…

Frowning a little at your mind’s persistence in travelling down that lane with your thoughts, you turned and began walking towards the kitchen. From the corner of your eye you thought you saw a movement from the staircase, but merely dismissed it as shadows. No one else could have possibly been here.

Idly you wondered, as you reached the kitchen and retrieved a glass of water, where the cat your grandmother had mentioned was. Suga, wasn’t it? Should you look for him? You’d feel stupid if you just started calling for him in this big, empty house, with your own echo there to mock you. You decided you’d rather look quietly. You would probably be more likely to find him that way.

Placing the glass down after drinking all the water, you turned and made your way towards the stairs. To your surprise, the light at the top of the stairs was on. You didn’t want to know what that meant for the electricity bill if it had been on this whole time. Adjusting the strap of your bag you began up the stairs, when a slight movement from the corner of your left eye caused you to turn your head and subsequently miss a step. You gripped the railing in time to stop yourself from tripping completely, but still ended up banging your shin painfully. You let out a startled, pained yelp before cursing lowly, standing still in your spot on the stairs before inhaling deeply to mask the pain and continuing up. You made it to the top of the stairs without incidence this time, forgetting about the movement from before, your eyes shifting and falling instinctively upon the doorway to the room you used to stay in when you came and visited your grandmother. A small smile spread your lips as you limped lightly inside, attempting to walk the residual pain off.

The room was just as you remembered it, much like the rest of the house. You placed your bag on the bed, surprised there wasn’t any dust in this room, let alone any of the other rooms you’d been in. Perhaps someone had come by to clean? Hopefully they’d fed the cat too. That reminded you, you needed to find this ‘Suga’ your grandmother told you to look after. It was a big house, but it hopefully wouldn’t take too long.

“If I were a cat, where would I be…” you mumbled thoughtlessly to yourself as you left the room, deciding to look down the end of the hall before searching the rest of the house. Maybe the cat would be in your grandmother’s room? Here’s hoping.

With light footsteps you made your way down the hall, entering and quietly looking through each room on the way to the end. So far, after four rooms, you’d had no luck. Your room, the one you used to stay in, that is, was down the opposite end of the hall to your grandmother’s. There were only a couple more rooms before you would reach it. Almost every bedroom in this house had an attached bathroom. Your grandmother had wanted to ensure the absolute comfort of all her guests in any way she could.

Finally you reached the end of the hall, where there were two final doors facing each other. The one on the left was your grandmother’s, and the one on the right was another guest bedroom. Funnily enough, unlike the other guest bedrooms, there was a light coming from behind the door. Curious as to what light could possibly be on, you gently pushed the door open and peered inside. You quickly saw that the light was spilling from the door that lead to the attached bathroom. Peering around to see if you could see the cat anywhere, you shrugged lightly before stepping forward and pushing against the bathroom door.

It all happened very quickly. The door opened, light falling upon your face from the bulb above, and your gaze was drawn like a magnet to the sight before you. A boy with black feline ears and a tail was crouched near the tub, glaring at you with such hostility you stuttered to a stop in your steps.  His ears pressed back and he hissed, snarling loudly at you before his arm shot out in a threatening swipe. Shock ran through you as you gasped, quickly moving back, but in the process slipping on the bathmat. You felt yourself falling backwards. There was an abrupt, sharp pain in the back of your head and suddenly everything went black.

Masterlist | Next

[fartypooper]

Today I had a doctor’s appointment. Upon opening the door of the clinic, I was welcomed by the sight of my ex co-worker sitting for his appointment as well. I got very excited and begun talking about how things have been. 

Suddenly he relayed a very sad news. I remembered when I was still working at my previous job, he always have to go to the ER because of severe abdominal pain. He shared with us that his pancreatic enzymes were elevated but doctors haven’t found any abnormalities with his CT scans nor MRIs. I have only one diagnosis that is possible in my mind at that time. But of course I haven’t said it to him unless otherwise confirmed by the experts. 

He said after couple of months, it was confirmed then. He has been diagnosed with the most dreaded disease in the world, cancer. It is indeed a sad story. He was a very nice co-worker, a very good father and a very God-fearing person. I almost want to cry when he shared it with me. But in the good note, it was detected early. So he will be undergoing a surgery to remove the cancerous cells and praying it would help. Which I will be praying that it would be a success too.

We had a very long conversation while waiting for our turn to see the doctor. Until we reached the topic of how blessed he is to have such condition. We talked about how his faith has been tested during this battle. We have to be strong for our families, he said. We have to prepare ourselves for whatever happens. We were both talking sadly about everything that is happening and I can clearly see in his eyes the tears forming and how genuine he is with how grateful and faithful he is to Our Lord. 

For me, it was a very meaningful encounter. These kind of conversations make me realize that I who is in the path to healing is very thankful for the disease that changed my life. My illness has opened up a door of reality that a healthy person can’t understand. I know that I can’t live my life in fear because I have Him. 

It’s the matter of acceptance and strong faith, indeed. 

P.S. This entry was a draft I saved approximately 2 years ago. I thought I will be able to share this experience with a great ending but I guess, there is a better story in it. 

Unfortunately, after a year I wrote this encounter, my co-worker had found his peace with Our Lord. He passed away of pancreatic cancer. I’ve known him to be a warrior. He speaks for himself. He is kind to everyone. He is generous and soft-spoken. 

He fought for his condition for a long time for his family but God may have bigger plans for him. He left 2 small kids and a grieving wife. But I strongly believe he also left very strong lessons for them to remember their whole lives. Which is to be faithful, courageous and kind. I know it in my heart because I learned it from him first-hand. 

Today, I decided to post this draft as I want people to realize that “Every story has an ending, But in life, every ending is a new beginning.” 

[ulyssessklein]

How an indie hip-hop artist charted on Billboard and iTunes

The direct marketing strategy that helped me chart at #3 on iTunes and #50 on Billboard.

It was all a dream: “I believe I can chart on Billboard with this album!”

I convinced my producer, engineer, mentor, and—most importantly—my wife to buy into the dream.

The odds of charting Billboard were clearly stacked against me. No major label budget. No national, regional, or even local publicity campaign. I also work more than the typical “40-hour workweek” at a big tech company in Silicon Valley. The list goes on.

Nonetheless, my belief was strong. It was late October 2018, and I had just spent the past couple weeks writing, what would soon become my latest album, Airplane Mode. I had the music. Now I just needed to crystallize the narrative, develop a marketing strategy, and reach out to my fans.

Five months later, Airplane Mode debuted at #3 on the iTunes Top 40 US Hip-Hop Album Chart as well as at #50 on the Billboard R&B/Hip-Hop Album Sales Chart. Mission accomplished. Simple, right?

In the midst of people congratulating me on this huge accomplishment, many have also asked, “So, how did you actually make it happen…?”

Establishing the Airplane Mode album narrative

Airplane Mode developed in a very unplanned and visceral way. In mid-October 2018, my aunt— the one who nurtured my love for hip-hop at an early age—passed away unexpectedly in my hometown, Bridgeport, Connecticut (about 3,000 miles from where I currently live).

Days before, my friend and producer, J-Dot Music, had coincidentally sent me a collection of beats. We weren’t thinking about an album then. I just wanted to hear the new sounds he had been working on. After hearing about my aunt though, I needed to artistically grieve. I remembered the beat pack, sifted through until I found the beat that most plucked my heart, and wrote the song, “Hope You Hear Me.” All within the same hour I received the news.

I spent the next two weeks devouring each beat J-Dot sent me. Within each song, I explored concepts and tackled issues I wasn’t even ready to express out loud yet. The writing was nonstop. On the bus. At the gym. During my walks in between work meetings. On my flight from San Francisco to see my family. By the time we buried my aunt, I had the foundation for a new project, which I decided to call Airplane Mode.

The term “Airplane Mode” symbolized three main things for me:

My mindstate: I was in a daze. At the same time, by feeling so disconnected, I was able to tap into my creativity without restraint, allowing me to be and remain “in the zone.”

My lifestyle: combined, my wife and I have visited over 100 international cities across 50 countries. We’re both multilingual and children of immigrants coming from an impoverished background. As such, I have developed a global, cross-cultural outlook on life, which is a core part of my brand.

My music career: two months before I wrote Airplane Mode, I had just booked and headlined my third Bay Area show in 2018. My career growth was feeling even more tangible, so in a self-fulfilling prophecy type of way, I claimed that this new album would elevate my platform even further, as each project had done before.

Why do I share all of this with you? Because for me, the album narrative—replete with passion and vulnerability—was imperative for my entire marketing campaign. I interweaved this narrative throughout my entire go-to-market strategy, from the album cover to the song content to audience communications pre, during, and post-release.

Setting the foundation for the Airplane Mode marketing campaign

Around the same time I completed my album, I also learned about the Nielsen and Billboard charting successes of fellow independent artists, Shannon Curtis and Tyke T via the DIY Musician Blog. With more research on the process plus assumptions of my current fanbase, I resolved to set an ambitious goal of selling 1,000 albums within the first week of release.

Pre-sales seemed to be the predominant way that I would hit this goal. Learning that the pre-sales period may be a minimum of one-week and a maximum of six months gave me the time I needed to mobilize my fanbase.

Because my album had 12 tracks, I was also eligible to set up an instant gratification (grat) track via CD Baby. I chose “Hope You Hear Me” as my track because, not only did an instant grat track give extra incentive for core fans when purchasing, this particular track also gave listeners a deeper, weightier connection to the album narrative, which furthered the word-of-mouth evangelism.

The majority of my fans do not purchase physical albums anymore. Combined with my limited budget, I decided upfront that Airplane Mode would be 100% digital. This decision helped me streamline my preorder process in the long-run. For instance, I only had one UPC to register in Nielsen’s database.

Lastly, I knew that over 60% of my fanbase had iOS devices, so iTunes was very essential to my campaign. That said, I did not want to exclude the other 40% of my fanbase from helping me achieve this monumental goal (that’s a lot of fans!). So, I focused on three sales channels: iTunes, Bandcamp, and my online store (which also had Airplane Mode merch for sale).

5 key tactics to enable the Airplane Mode marketing campaign

With a two-month preorder window, I executed several marketing activations. However, there were five that I felt truly moved the needle:

Empowering my brand ambassadors: my “High Grade Society” – my exclusive group of core fans – were critical because not only did they immediately preorder Airplane Mode with enthusiasm but they also encouraged their circles of influence to do the same.

Asking fans to purchase directly: just about every day, I shared the album narrative and sought out support from my fans directly via in-person or direct messaging. With every proof of purchase, I would repost and thank them publicly.

Paying for digital advertising: social media ads are a cheap way to build brand awareness amongst your target audience and fight through organic noise. While I was not depending on ads to generate the bulk of the sales, I did end my campaign with a 3% conversion rate (better than 0%!).

Promoting organically via weekly content production: In December 2018, I started a weekly freestyle series called “Casual Fridays” – a tongue-in-cheek for my fans who know that I juggle both a music career and a white-collar corporate day job. What started as a simple addition to my “Call Me Ace portfolio” soon became another avenue for organic album promotion once I gained traction.

Coordinating a pre-album release party: the Airplane Mode party occurred one week before the album dropped, with an optional “free entry” ticket for those that already preordered. With a full crowd gathered for an exclusive listen to my album, I also garnished the night with additional special touch points to ensure that everyone felt even more connected to the album narrative once they left. Here’s the Airplane Mode release party recap video if you’re curious!

Airplane Mode immediately jumped up to #3 on the iTunes Top 40 US Hip-Hop Album Chart after releasing on Friday, March 22, 2019. This news served as another big social proof point that galvanized more people to organically share and encourage others to listen. Even with the option to stream available, some people still purchased Airplane Mode as a sign of true support.

To top it all off, fans were directly sharing immensely positive feedback with me on the album content. With their permission I would repost, recognize publicly, and use to encourage even more feedback from other listeners.

These additional touchpoints helped push Airplane Mode to the final goal of the campaign: charting on Billboard.

5 challenges during the Airplane Mode marketing campaign

While I’m ecstatic that Airplane Mode hit the Billboard chart, the effort did come with its challenges:

Apple does not provide real-time presales data. Not being able to track my preorder sales on iTunes, where most of my fans purchased my album, forced my total sales count to be more of a calculated guess than a sure fact. I had to assume, for example, that trending at #3 in iTunes Hip-Hop albums to pre-order list was a good sign…right?

Apple is (not-so) secretly phasing out iTunes. Strike two, Apple. Apple automatically reroutes all iTunes links to the “Apple Music” iPhone app. This created unnecessary confusion and frustration, especially for potential supporters that didn’t even remember that the “iTunes Store” was a separate app, probably somewhere in the back of their phones. This definitely impacted final sales.

There were too many clicks at point-of-sale. Although I created a superlink to streamline the preordering process, it still took at best 7 clicks before actually preordering the album. Still, this was a better trade-off than having three separate preorder links to promote…

Not everyone has money to preorder. I naively assumed that all my fans had at least $9.99 of disposable income. However, while there were many cases where supporters spent way beyond $9.99 on Bandcamp to purchase the album, for some would-be supporters, $9.99 was too costly.

Some people just don’t believe in purchasing music. This last challenge wasn’t an issue for my true fans and supporters that understood the larger goal I was hoping to achieve. This was more so a challenge with casual or potential fans that interpreted the ask within the context of their preferred music listening preferences. The reality is that streaming currently dominates music consumption in the US, where over 90% of my fanbase exists. I knew my request wouldn’t be an easy one from the beginning; this challenge only confirmed that I had to rely on my core base in order to reach my Billboard goal under my aforementioned constraints.

And there you have it! If any of what I shared resonates with you, please let me know in the comments below. And of course, if you have any thoughts on the Airplane Mode album itself, I would love to hear your feedback on that too

The post How an indie hip-hop artist charted on Billboard and iTunes appeared first on DIY Musician Blog.

[a-mutual-killing]

i keep a journal - of sorts, mostly miscellaneous things that i like or irregular diary entries, that sort of odd medley of life, but lately i’ve noticed that i’ve been writing everything like i’m already dead; everything’s been moved to past-tense and it’s all addressed to someone, as if i’m drafting a suicide note spanning months or maybe a silly post mortem memoir. 

i’m ... apathetic? angry? disgusted? grieving?  ashamed? i don’t know. i’m something. 

like, why am i such a silly bitch? i thought that i had moved past my regression - no longer sleeping around with anyone willing to fall into my bed had given me that impression - yet this feels so ... gross. i’m all squicky inside. that creeping feeling you get under your ribs, like your organs have grown arms and one of them’s decided your diaphragm needed to be hugged, but your breathing gets a little too sharp when it tries to cradle you in its embrace, so its other arm claws its way up your throat to nest at the base, embedding itself just below your larynx, and offers the bile its taken up with it as a source of warmth, having mistaken the burning of acid for the heat of a comforting fire - that’s the feeling. 

it’s laughable that i thought i was doing well. sure, i only had one night where i drank a quart of captain by myself and then went out and let whatever happened have its course, but overall, i’d take a single night of blind drunk stupidity over what it was three years ago. sure, when my uncle died, i threw away all those “standards” people said where important for me to have, but at least, this time, i wasn’t letting strangers beat me while they fucked me in some misplaced need of wanting a reminder that i was still alive, still bruisable, still able to be affected. but i still feel so gross.  

this past christmas, i blew half of my savings on gifts for people because i wasn’t sure i was ever going to have the chance to spoil anyone again. i left enough to cover funeral charges, but that was it. i bought everything a few days before my nineteenth birthday in november. my brother’s birthday is in january. can you imagine that? being just barely nineteen and having this understanding that you weren’t going to live a couple months longer to buy your brother a fucking birthday gift. what kind of person thinks shit like that? during the holidays? around the time my family has most of its birthdays, too? my uncle died as christmas eve was turning into christmas day. my mother choked as she tried to tell me the news, as if i didn’t already know someone else around me had died, as if i couldn’t taste it in the air. my eyes stayed dry. my voice stayed even. my skin didn’t itch for comfort. 

i held it together pretty well, too, until a ‘friend’ started to push for me to go out with him for a party around new years. i had a breakdown in the bathroom yet i still couldn’t cry, so i slept with him. and then i slept with his friend. and then i gave his brother a blow job. i sure cried then. the week after, one of my friends was in town, someone i had learned a lot about my sexuality from, who i trusted, and who managed to ease me out of a bad situation with a bad person who had some bad habits and some bad illusions on what was okay to do to a person when they’re vulnerable, and i begged him to take a belt to me - which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, if i wasn’t absolutely drowning in trauma and triggered by them, and if i could handle healthy aftercare.

i don’t now how long it was after that, but at some point i started to write out things that i wanted people to know about me, as if i was writing a letter and it was my last chance to get everything out in the open. things like how i’d always wanted a family, i couldn’t wait to get old, my ideal wedding proposal would be something stupidly casual, an almost absent-minded “shall we get married?” i wrote about how many times i imagined my life ending. i wrote about how grey life seemed, what i thought i was passionate about, how i felt at being accepted every school i applied to and going to none with the thought that i could organize my life in a single year and how stupid that was. how my cat followed me around and did she do it because she knew i was depressed? what would happen to my little sister especially, if i did decide to do myself in? 

sometimes i think i’m only alive at this point because of the guilt i have over what my hypothetical death would do to the people who care about me. i used to have this anger and spite, even when i was at my all time low. but this feels worse, somehow. like there’s nothing left inside. it all just is. 

wild.

[ubergravity]

To Whom it May Concern

March 18th, 2020

4.38 am

(Sort of) Dark (at Night) Room

This is probably a multiple entry.

I hope nobody read this. While at the same time hoping certain people would, in the distant future. At very least this should serves as some sort of time capsule for myself.

Alright, enough dipshit.

For me, myself in the future. You knew why we are writing this right now, and I knew you would look at this a little bit more often within a couple of months after we wrote this thing. And then probably a lot less as the time rolls on.

Get a good grip in life.

If we can go through the PAU hell, this should be relatively easy. It’s gonna sting a bit, that is totally understandable. Or maybe not, and you’re probably in some deep shit territory when you’re reading this. I don’t know. We’ve been through some worse times, for a lot less.

.

Last couple of months has been... Life-changing. To say the least. Malang has been really great for us, and this past two weeks of Jakarta did us well (there is a kinda important issue going on but that’s not the purpose of this post).

Until last night happens.

**Inaudible curse words being written**

I guess we always wanted to do things with our own way. More often than not, to a fault. Last night was a total complete failure on our part. Or maybe not, I don’t know. Time will tell.

We don’t know what future will bring. Will I still be doing this same administration work like.... 5 years into the future? Will we just gonna gave up and said f it, let’s go to Japan, for all the trouble we went through for NOT going there much earlier?

Future looks bleak. Buuuuuuuutttttttt. It hasn’t look this bright in a long while.

The me right now don’t want whatever transpired last night to reduce whatever we have tried to build for the good part of the last three years. It has been painful, to say the least. It has been excruciatingly exhausting too.

Get a grip, Fadhil. That’s all I can say.

.

.

.

We’re not, or at the very least we can say with our whole heart, a good person. Far from it. We grieved in anger. We cursed. We even wrote that damn blue book ffs. We don’t care what people say about us. We are not a good person.

Does that stops me for being an a-hole? Probably. But probably we did what we did, held back and just kinda took it in, just because we are dealing with this subject. That stuff sucks. Big time.

Will we ever recover? I dunno. YOU probably don’t know too.

The most likely answer, based on what has transpired so far, is that we will not. Ever. We cared about those things. Ain’t no way we can just let those go.

.

.

.

.

“Running out of time”

You know what? The only reason I never asked about the other party involved, is that I’m afraid of what’s coming next. Afraid it would broke me. Again. I just got out of this hell hole for a couple of months. If somebody asked me in depth about how I’m doing, I’d gladly answer. More often than not, not the whole truth were given. But that’s neither here or there.

I just don’t feel asking would do me more good than not.

Do I still? Yes. At this point I don’t think it will ever change (lol).

Looking back at my depression diary in here made me realize that I blanked out even longer than I thought I did. Probably more than half a year until we got sent to Saudi on early 2018. We still do (and I’m planning on continuing this year, which would make it the third year) go on a sabbath on May 22nd. That thing hurts us more than we appreciate, and more than we would like to acknowledge.

I cared. But I’d rather not touch on the subject. To hell with sayings that says I am not considered an adult if I dealt with it that way. I don’t consider myself a fully grown-up human in most of things that I do in life, so why would I push myself to be one on this specific topic?

Is that egoistic? Yeah. It is. It is very much egoistic for me to do stuffs this way. But I don’t care. I’d take a mentally (more) stable version of myself rather than the other way around.

.

F

[bountyofbeads]

You CAN'T EXPECT CBP and ICE officials who have to carry out Trump's and Miller's INHUMANE POLICIES and NOT be AFFECTED PERSONALLY (Many are parents who are just trying to put food on their tables like the rest of us😭🙏). Trump is FORCING His UGLY, RACIST, XENOPHOBIC INHUMANE views on an entire agency and its TRAGIC with real life CONSEQUENCES. 🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬

“Bodies and minds are breaking down”: Inside US border agency’s suicide crisis

By Justin Rohrlich & Zoë Schlanger | Published July 2, 2019 | Quartz | Posted July 12, 2019 |

Mental health issues are plaguing the ranks of US Customs and Border Protection (CBP), as officers deal with increasing job stress related to the crisis at the southern border and lingering financial problems caused by the partial government shutdown.

In May, CBP asked for an additional $2.1 million for the agency’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP), which provides counseling and other help to workers facing personal or job-related issues. The additional money was needed, CBP wrote in a funding request obtained by Quartz, to respond to the “health and safety of its workforce.”

“EAP use…increased in response to unanticipated critical incidents and other emerging crises, such as the unexpected response required for migrant caravans, employee suicides, and the need for a financial wellness program after the extended partial federal government shutdown,” CBP wrote in the filing. “The unanticipated and unprecedented situation at the southern border over the past 12 months resulted in a significant increase in EAP activity and it is expected to continue while the migrant crisis is ongoing.”

Current and former CBP officers, union leaders, and internal CBP documents all describe an agency that is overburdened and understaffed, struggling to keep up with the growing crisis sparked by the Trump administration’s crackdown on immigration. To handle the rush of detentions, the agency now requires mandatory overtime and forced job relocation to bolster its ranks. This added pressure, coupled with the usual strain of working border security and dealing with often desperate families seeking asylum—many of whom face indefinite detention as they await overloaded court systems—is wearing down the force.

According to its own records, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), CBP’s parent agency, has known about this issue for years. But its efforts to address the problem have been intermittent and neglected. And according to at least one expert, agency supervisors have in fact actively discouraged officers from seeking the help they need.

While the emotional stress affecting CBP officers can’t compare to the suffering of the tens of thousands of migrants they detain, the same government policies are at the heart of both problems.

“My continuing thought has been that this level of activity combined with the disastrous policy of wholesale separating children from parents has a very negative impact on CBP personnel. They did not join to take a 2-year-old from his mother,” former CBP commissioner Gil Kerlikowske told Quartz.

For three straight years, law enforcement suicides in the United States have surpassed line of duty deaths. At CBP, one of the largest law enforcement agencies in the country, more than 100 employees died by suicide between 2007 and 2018, according to the agency itself. Morale among CBP officers ranks among the lowest of all federal agencies.

Tony Reardon, the president of the National Treasury Employees Union, which represents CBP officers, confirmed that stress at the agency is higher than it has been in the past. The force is overworked, he said, and the migrant crisis has changed the nature of the job.

“You have human beings, their bodies and their minds, breaking down,” Reardon said.

Vincent Salgado, a CBP officer at the Calexico border crossing in California, said the excessive overtime is exhausting. “The morale is down,” he told Quartz. While he doesn’t personally know anyone at CBP who has died by suicide, Salgado said he’s aware that it’s a problem. “Suicides have been ongoing.”

When a CBP officer takes their own life, word typically reaches Reardon through the union’s local chapter staff, who sometimes helps grieving families navigate the life insurance process. “I’ve gotten the phone calls. It’s heartbreaking when you hear about someone who is not able to cope, and who ends up leaving their family,” Reardon said.

He doesn’t have access to data about how many officers have died by suicide recently, but he said he noticed an unsettling uptick in those phone calls, beginning about two years ago. “It started to look like, whoa, there’s a problem here.”

He’s spoken with CBP officials about the need to more urgently address the issue. “I know they’re trying to deal with it. I’m continuing to talk to them about trying to get even more done.”

The union also represents employees of 32 other US federal agencies. “I’m sure that there are people who commit suicide in other agencies,” Reardon said, but “the only suicides I’ve been made aware of are those at CBP.”

Overworked

A nationwide and ongoing CBP officer shortage means that virtually everyone at the agency is working mandatory double shifts that add up to 16-hour days. Salgado said he works double shifts two to three times a week.

“It means less time at home. You don’t have the opportunity to see family members, or attend special outings,” he said.

What’s worse, managers often tell officers they have to work a double shift with very little notice, often on the same day. And refusing is not an option. “It’s a requirement of the job,” Salgado said.

Understaffed ports also means more work per person every shift.

“If it’s not the overtime, it’s the workload,” Salgado said. “Everything works hand in hand. The overtime pushes them to exhaustion, especially if they’re having to do it two or three days in a row. And it’s not just exhaustion, it’s their family life.”

At the same time, some officers are still struggling to regain their footing after the 35-day partial government shutdown that straddled 2018 and 2019. Many officers were required to work without pay for two pay periods in a row. This is no small thing when roughly 78% of US workers live paycheck to paycheck.

“They had to deal with all the stressors that come from those situations. Can’t pay your mortgage, can’t pay your rent, cause you don’t have any money,” Reardon said. “Many of them are still trying to catch up.”

Understaffed

CBP has long struggled to both find and retain officers. The time-to-hire for a CBP officer, from the recruitment to job offer, takes an average of 300 days. Its staffing shortfall now, according to the union that represents its employees, is 3,700 officers.

And due to the crisis at the southern border, the workload is rising, requiring the agency to accomplish more with fewer people. At locations along the southern border, the conditions are a particularly hard sell. Many officers live in remote, lonely towns, and work in 120-degree heat.

As CBP official Benjamine “Carry” Huffman and Border Patrol sector chief Rodolfo Karisch put it in testimony to Congress in March:

“One example of a hard-to-fill location is Lukeville, Arizona. Although many of our Arizona border locations are remote and hard-to-fill, Lukeville is particularly challenging. It is an isolated outpost along the Mexican border, in a community of fewer than 50 people. It has one small grocery store and gas station. The closest school and medical clinic is 39 miles away in Ajo, Arizona. The nearest metropolitan area—Phoenix—is 150 miles away. The climate is especially harsh; in the summer, many of the local roads are impassable because of monsoons. Furthermore, the groundwater in Lukeville requires significant treatment to make it potable, due to traces of arsenic.”

At the same hearing, the two said the harsh conditions make officers “reluctant to encourage their family members or friends to seek employment with CBP.”

But the agency desperately needs bodies. Between 2015 and 2016, CBP “nearly tripled” its recruiting events across the country, according to a USA Today investigation, showing up at  “country music concerts, NASCAR races and Professional Bull Riders events to find applicants.”

In 2017, US president Donald Trump signed an executive order demanding CBP hire 15,000 more personnel, 10,000 more CBP officers and 5,000 more Border Patrol agents. In 2018, CBP only managed to hire 368 CBP officers and 118 Border Patrol agents. An extensive application, involving a polygraph test that more than 40% of applicants fail, makes the hiring process extremely slow.

To hire those 5,000 Border Patrol agents alone, the Department of Homeland Security Inspector General estimated that the agency would have to screen 750,000 applicants.

To help relieve these staff shortages on the southern border, CBP has begun reassigning officers from other ports of entry. There are 328 locations in the United States where migrants can legally cross and that are staffed by CBP officers, and most of them are nothing like the southern border. Many are relatively sleepy, like some of the smaller ports on the Great Lakes along the border with Canada.

These temporary new assignments used to be voluntary, but because there are so few willing to go, the agency has begun “drafting” people, requiring them to make the move.

These drafted officers are given three or four days notice to get on a plane and head south, Reardon said. “Most people have families. You can’t give them a month’s notice?” Reardon asked when he testified to Congress in March. The involuntary overtime and involuntary reassignments, he said, “disrupts” families and “destroys morale.”

The draft policy, which began in 2015but has intensified under Trump, means that an officer from, say, a quiet port on the border with Canada could suddenly find themselves in the crushing heat of southern Texas, working double shifts in packed migrant detention centers. Known as “Operation Southern Support,” the policy also leaves ports of entry in other parts of the county understaffed, increasing the workload on the coworkers left behind.

“You can’t just say, ‘My child is in a school play today,’” Reardon said. “It doesn’t matter. You’re working.”

Strains of the job

Reardon recently visited the Fort Brown CBP facility in Brownsville, Texas, where he said he found officers preparing ham sandwiches for migrant detainees.

“These are highly trained people slapping sandwiches together,” he said.

While Reardon said it’s not unusual for CBP officers to deal with detained migrants, the current circumstances are extreme.

Reardon also recently went to the Ursula Central Processing Center in McAllen, Texas, where he said 2,700 migrants were being held. “In these detention centers you’ve got a lot of influenza, chicken pox, mumps, scabies,” he said. The officers tried to keep the facility clean, he said, but detaining large numbers of ill people in one space made that difficult. The conditions were bleak. “Candidly I would give you my perspective: It was heartbreaking to see sick children in there.”

CBP officers who work all day in these enclosed environments, or transport sick people in vans, are always on edge about getting sick themselves. “They’re very concerned about contracting these illnesses. That’s a big deal. That’s stressful in and of itself,” Reardon said.

Even without the added pressures created by Trump’s crackdown, the job has long been emotionally draining. CBP agriculture specialists, for example, are responsible for making sure any package entering the United States is contaminant-free—an error in judgement could result in a public health crisis or a new invasive species taking hold in the country. Officers who patrol vehicle crossings, in another example, never know who is behind the wheel. Last month an American citizen sped his truck through a border crossing at San Ysidro, San Diego—the busiest official land border crossing in the world. Another vehicle blocked the truck, and when CBP officers approached, the driver opened fire. The officers shot back, killing him. Two Chinese nationals were found in the back of the truck. The incident rattled officers staffing vehicle crossings across the region.

“The officers are out there with this at the back of their mind,” Salgado said.

Help is hard to come by

The US government is aware of the increased pressure on CBP officers, and the resulting rise in demand for mental health support. But by its own admission, it has failed to do much about it.

In 2009, long before the current crisis at the border, DHS created a program called “DHSTogether.” Its mission was to build “resiliency and wellness capacity” at the department. But the committee responsible for the effort only held its first meeting years later. “Although the program had been in existence for almost 4 years…it did not yet have a formal vision or set of goals,” according to an internal reportpublished in 2013.

While DHSTogether “initially focused on suicide prevention,” the report continues, the agency “quickly recognized” that suicidal behavior is the “end result” of a “complex trajectory of events and circumstances.” The authors of the report determined that there was a need to “intervene” long before employees reach the point that they are considering suicide.

In 2012, the agency hired the government-run Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences to create a peer support program for DHSTogether, and train leaders on the relationship between stress and work performance. The 2013 internal report noted, however, that a year after the contract had been signed, “little has been accomplished.”

DHS earmarked about $1.5 million for DHSTogether, before reducing that funding to about $1 million for the 2014 fiscal year. “Because of the modest funding, few or no resources are tied to the policies that are promulgated by the program,” the internal report said.

The most recent mention of DHSTogether on the DHS website is a list of agency-specific resources, last updated in 2015. The CBP resource listlinks to a website that does not load, and lists a phone number for a peer support program that is no longer in operation, and an email Quartz sent to the email address listed for the program was never returned.

In response to Quartz’s inquires, a CBP spokesperson wrote in an email that the agency had “expanded” its resources to prevent suicide, and has held events both during Suicide Awareness Month and at other times that can be live streamed and viewed throughout the year. The spokesperson also said the agency has a peer support program, a “robust” Employee Assistance Program, and “an agency-wide” internal website dedicated to suicide prevention, which includes suicide prevention videos.

The first stop for a distressed CBP officer might be to log into the EAP website. But given the high rate of suicide and mental health problems at the agency, and its apparent years-long effort to address those problems, the website’s options for help are surprisingly thin.

On the login page, the portal first directs employees to call a 24-hour hotline, which is industry standard. Using the login password on the Department of Homeland Security’s own website, Quartz logged into the portal in June, and found a website administered by Espry, a private contractor.

The portal homepage includes several links to issue-specific pages. The “suicide prevention” page link features a stock image of several people in silhouette helping a person up from a cliff. The “videos” tab on the suicide prevention page links to a single video. It is titled, “Teen suicide: Too young to die.” The video is under copyright from NBC Universal and features a psychologist discussing suicide among teenagers. The psychologist in the video, Dr. Peter Jensen, told Quartz it was taped in early 2001.

Other features of the suicide prevention portal include a link to a questionnaire to screen for depression, and various links to articles about suicide prevention from other groups, including the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline website.

In another failed effort, last fiscal year CBP hired Federal Occupational Health(FOH), a private company that operates Employee Assistance Programs. As part of a pilot program, the company worked with a special CBP task force, which decided to try staffing ports of entry with liaisons who could point employees to the various mental health benefits available.

The pilot was intended to take place in San Diego, home to one of the busiest ports of entry along the southern border, according to an FOH employee who hung up the phone before giving their name. But the one-year pilot ended before the company managed to recruit someone to fill that position, and funding for it wasn’t renewed.

James Phelps, a professor of criminal justice who studies border enforcement and is in regular contact with CBP officers, told Quartz that officers have confided in him that they’ve been victims of outright intimidation—used to prevent employees from seeking help.

On June 13, CBP announced it had hired a certified trauma specialist to work with air and marine officers following several upsetting incidents. However, Phelps said the vast majority of them won’t ask for help.

“And the reason is because they’ve been directed by their bosses not to,” Phelps said. “The human resources guy or gal will walk in and say, ‘We want to remind you, we’ve expanded this, we’ve expanded that. These things are available to you.’ And then after they leave, the supervisor of the shift walks in and says, ‘Anybody who takes advantage of that is a wimp, a pussy, and I don’t want you working in my station.’ It’s not a joke, they really are doing that.”

[yourlittlestarlight-blog]

Marketing with Online Social Networks ... Creating the "Thneed"

Marketing with Online Social Networks ... Creating the "Thneed"

I think I figured it out. In learning about online social networks, blogs, the 1% rule and all of the rest, I think I have developed a pretty good way to generate A LOT of online traffic, and because I am a big fan of Who Moved My Cheese and Your Iceberg Is Melting, I will explain the process with a story. So here is my Once Upon a Time to help you explode your presence online:

Before we begin our story we must realize that for every online social network, 1% of the visitors will stop to create a profile and only 10% of those people will actively participate in the network. This is the 1% rule.

With this in mind, let's turn our attention to Realtor Barrett (no relation.) Realtor Barrett has been a real estate agent for a while and has had limited success with real estate flyers, door hangers and farming an area. He has spent his share of Saturdays sitting in empty open houses, and until recently was doing okay attracting clients.

Now Barrett's real estate business had slowed a bit this year and he had had a bit more time to learn about online marketing. At the advice of his broker he started a blog and approached Advance Access to create a web page. However, he was just not getting the traffic and clients that he needed. So he started learning about Web 2.0.

Barrett spent hours every day learning about online social networks and the MySpaces of the world. He started a flickr account, but did not have many pictures to share. He read voraciously about the web and the word of mouth and even accepted the mantra of the 1% rule.

Barrett read and read and read until one day it hit him. An EPIPHANY! An easy way to attract thousands of visitors to his website and blog. A simple system to be all over the internet, and everywhere his target customer may be. A simple approach that uses the 1% rule and all of the other lessons of viral marketing to explode his business.

With this great new insight Realtor Barrett set to work. The first thing he did was look for a cool tool on the internet that every client would like, (I'm a big Dr. Seuss fan so we will call it a Thneed) This Thneed would be a reliably unique tool that Barrett's target customers would find useful, intriguing, and worthy of discussion (perhaps a branded Zillow API, something to do with Google Maps, perhaps a widget developed from Trulia or some other innovative tool.) Barrett posted some time on the mashable.com blog and found some unique API's which he used to create a unique, and quite discussion worthy Thneed. It may be important to note that Realtor Barrett is not a programmer, but a REALTOR® and as such had to outsource the programming of his Thneed.

Barrett posted his Thneed on a single webpage under a graphic with the WordPress and Blogger logo that said "Spread the word. If you like this tool Blog about it." Next to his Thneed Barrett laid links to his blog and his home page. Barrett added forms that allow visitors to ask for more information, and he even added a feature to the page that would allow visitors to comment. Under his Thneed Realtor Barrett placed the social networking widgets so that visitors could Digg, Reddit, Del.ic.ious and otherwise bookmark and share this wonderful new Thneed with the world. Barrett hoped that his Thneed would compel people to share and that his request to blog about the Thneed would be heeded.

Now that Barrett had his Thneed (which by the way cost him about $ 800 but was hopefully worth it) he wrote two specific articles about his new tool for his customers. The first article that he wrote was actually a press release that described the excellent new features of his great new tool. He submitted his press release to Expertclick.com, PRWEB.com, and Erelease.com. He also sent a copy to the editor of the local community magazine. The second article that Barrett wrote was posted directly into his blog where he included the widgets to allow his readers to syndicate, bookmark, digg and share his article with their peers.

Barrett had been new Thneed and had announced it to the world, but Realtor Barrett knew that this would only give him a small amount of traffic and only for a short time. He also knew that online social networks that served the specific needs and interests of his neighbors and target clients were being launched every day. Finally, Barrett knew that even though these sites may have many visitors, only around 1% will take the time to contribute.

With that knowledge, Realtor Barrett set out to create a viral wave around his Thneed. His approach was simple, but proved to be immensely effective. First he stopped at MySpace and created a profile. Barrett knew that 45% of MySpace users are over the age of 35 and many of his neighbors were members.

Next Barrett went to Google and searched for online social networks (he also went to Lycos, but he started with Google) that may serve his target clients. Knowing that for every 100 visitors to these sites only one creates a profile, Barrett understands that he could increase his visibility online, just by taking the time to become a member. Barrett spent the next three days finding online social networks that may interest his clients and becoming a member. (This was a dauting task because a new network is created every couple of hours and that pace is accelerating.)

Now Realtor Barrett understands that membership just implied that some people may stumble across his profile on these different networks. Therefore, when he created his profiles he took action to ensure that he would receive the maximum amount of traffic. For each profile that Barrett created, he uploaded his picture, wrote (not copied from the previous profile, but actually drafted anew) a real and genuine description of who he was and what he is about, and included all of his contact information used a junk email account to avoid spam.) In his profile he also included direct links to his Thneed with a very compelling description about its benefits, as well as an invitation to blog about it if they like it. Finally, in each network Barrett posted a copy of his press release and a few quick blog comments about the tool.

Barrett visited network after network taking this approach and his backlinks to the Thneed griev. However, Barrett new that he had not yet started to move the viral iceberg. He was a member of all of these networks and maintained his own blog, but it was time for Barrett to move his promotions into high gear.

With this in mind, Barrett logged one of his online social networks. He sent about an hour reading and going over different blog posts until he finally started writing his own blog which was a commentary on one of the blogs from one of the network's opinion leaders. Barrett knew the individual was an opinion leader because he had the most posts and the most views of anyone else in the site. Barrett created his blog post and submitted it to Pingoat for syndication. He also thought it was good enough to submit to Digg and Reddit and made sure that in the text he included all of the bookmarking widgets.

Now keep in mind that for every social network, only ten percent of the members generally contribute and that the contributing group generally has only a handful of opinion leaders that create the most dialog. Also keep in mind that this group of content creators is less than 0.01% of those that end up reading the commentary. Barrett understood this and understood that he only needed to make friends with a competent people in every network. He simply needed to connect with the opinion leaders in each network and share his Thneed with them. Barrett knew that if he could befriend these few people who generate a lot of content and help them to share their views about the value of his Thneed with the rest of the online social network, the Thneed would become something that everyone needs.

So with every network, Barrett posted his blogs. He took part in discussions and commented on the opinions of the opinion leaders and participants in the network. He invited comment about his Thneed and how it could have improved. He even asked his peers in each network to write a formal review that he could link to from his Thneed.

It took time …. most big projects do. However, in just a few months, Barrett saw his web traffic explode. Online communities kept sending new members his way. In addition, those millions of people that visit the networks but never participate (only 1% ever bothed signing up) end up learning about the Thneed. They visit in droves and Barrett's online presence soars.

Strangely enough, this exercise pays off. Realtor Barrett can be found everywhere on the net, and clients for Barrett start coming out of the woodwork ….. and Barrett Sold Real Estate Until He Retired …. Happily ever after.

Some closing thoughts on this very length post: Whenever you create a post in your blog, syndicate it across the web with Pingoat. If your entry is interesting, be sure to Digg it and Reddit. Finally, when participating in all of these networks, and there are a lot of them, be genuine, be consistent and be a productive and contributing member. In every community, you are a member of a family that shares common interests. Respect this relationship and care for your online friends.

Ata Rehman

[yourabsentgod-blog]

Marketing with Online Social Networks ... Creating the "Thneed"

Marketing with Online Social Networks ... Creating the "Thneed"

I think I figured it out. In learning about online social networks, blogs, the 1% rule and all of the rest, I think I have developed a pretty good way to generate A LOT of online traffic, and because I am a big fan of Who Moved My Cheese and Your Iceberg Is Melting, I will explain the process with a story. So here is my Once Upon a Time to help you explode your presence online:

Before we begin our story we must realize that for every online social network, 1% of the visitors will stop to create a profile and only 10% of those people will actively participate in the network. This is the 1% rule.

With this in mind, let's turn our attention to Realtor Barrett (no relation.) Realtor Barrett has been a real estate agent for a while and has had limited success with real estate flyers, door hangers and farming an area. He has spent his share of Saturdays sitting in empty open houses, and until recently was doing okay attracting clients.

Now Barrett's real estate business had slowed a bit this year and he had had a bit more time to learn about online marketing. At the advice of his broker he started a blog and approached Advance Access to create a web page. However, he was just not getting the traffic and clients that he needed. So he started learning about Web 2.0.

Barrett spent hours every day learning about online social networks and the MySpaces of the world. He started a flickr account, but did not have many pictures to share. He read voraciously about the web and the word of mouth and even accepted the mantra of the 1% rule.

Barrett read and read and read until one day it hit him. An EPIPHANY! An easy way to attract thousands of visitors to his website and blog. A simple system to be all over the internet, and everywhere his target customer may be. A simple approach that uses the 1% rule and all of the other lessons of viral marketing to explode his business.

With this great new insight Realtor Barrett set to work. The first thing he did was look for a cool tool on the internet that every client would like, (I'm a big Dr. Seuss fan so we will call it a Thneed) This Thneed would be a reliably unique tool that Barrett's target customers would find useful, intriguing, and worthy of discussion (perhaps a branded Zillow API, something to do with Google Maps, perhaps a widget developed from Trulia or some other innovative tool.) Barrett posted some time on the mashable.com blog and found some unique API's which he used to create a unique, and quite discussion worthy Thneed. It may be important to note that Realtor Barrett is not a programmer, but a REALTOR® and as such had to outsource the programming of his Thneed.

Barrett posted his Thneed on a single webpage under a graphic with the WordPress and Blogger logo that said "Spread the word. If you like this tool Blog about it." Next to his Thneed Barrett laid links to his blog and his home page. Barrett added forms that allow visitors to ask for more information, and he even added a feature to the page that would allow visitors to comment. Under his Thneed Realtor Barrett placed the social networking widgets so that visitors could Digg, Reddit, Del.ic.ious and otherwise bookmark and share this wonderful new Thneed with the world. Barrett hoped that his Thneed would compel people to share and that his request to blog about the Thneed would be heeded.

Now that Barrett had his Thneed (which by the way cost him about $ 800 but was hopefully worth it) he wrote two specific articles about his new tool for his customers. The first article that he wrote was actually a press release that described the excellent new features of his great new tool. He submitted his press release to Expertclick.com, PRWEB.com, and Erelease.com. He also sent a copy to the editor of the local community magazine. The second article that Barrett wrote was posted directly into his blog where he included the widgets to allow his readers to syndicate, bookmark, digg and share his article with their peers.

Barrett had been new Thneed and had announced it to the world, but Realtor Barrett knew that this would only give him a small amount of traffic and only for a short time. He also knew that online social networks that served the specific needs and interests of his neighbors and target clients were being launched every day. Finally, Barrett knew that even though these sites may have many visitors, only around 1% will take the time to contribute.

With that knowledge, Realtor Barrett set out to create a viral wave around his Thneed. His approach was simple, but proved to be immensely effective. First he stopped at MySpace and created a profile. Barrett knew that 45% of MySpace users are over the age of 35 and many of his neighbors were members.

Next Barrett went to Google and searched for online social networks (he also went to Lycos, but he started with Google) that may serve his target clients. Knowing that for every 100 visitors to these sites only one creates a profile, Barrett understands that he could increase his visibility online, just by taking the time to become a member. Barrett spent the next three days finding online social networks that may interest his clients and becoming a member. (This was a dauting task because a new network is created every couple of hours and that pace is accelerating.)

Now Realtor Barrett understands that membership just implied that some people may stumble across his profile on these different networks. Therefore, when he created his profiles he took action to ensure that he would receive the maximum amount of traffic. For each profile that Barrett created, he uploaded his picture, wrote (not copied from the previous profile, but actually drafted anew) a real and genuine description of who he was and what he is about, and included all of his contact information used a junk email account to avoid spam.) In his profile he also included direct links to his Thneed with a very compelling description about its benefits, as well as an invitation to blog about it if they like it. Finally, in each network Barrett posted a copy of his press release and a few quick blog comments about the tool.

Barrett visited network after network taking this approach and his backlinks to the Thneed griev. However, Barrett new that he had not yet started to move the viral iceberg. He was a member of all of these networks and maintained his own blog, but it was time for Barrett to move his promotions into high gear.

With this in mind, Barrett logged one of his online social networks. He sent about an hour reading and going over different blog posts until he finally started writing his own blog which was a commentary on one of the blogs from one of the network's opinion leaders. Barrett knew the individual was an opinion leader because he had the most posts and the most views of anyone else in the site. Barrett created his blog post and submitted it to Pingoat for syndication. He also thought it was good enough to submit to Digg and Reddit and made sure that in the text he included all of the bookmarking widgets.

Now keep in mind that for every social network, only ten percent of the members generally contribute and that the contributing group generally has only a handful of opinion leaders that create the most dialog. Also keep in mind that this group of content creators is less than 0.01% of those that end up reading the commentary. Barrett understood this and understood that he only needed to make friends with a competent people in every network. He simply needed to connect with the opinion leaders in each network and share his Thneed with them. Barrett knew that if he could befriend these few people who generate a lot of content and help them to share their views about the value of his Thneed with the rest of the online social network, the Thneed would become something that everyone needs.

So with every network, Barrett posted his blogs. He took part in discussions and commented on the opinions of the opinion leaders and participants in the network. He invited comment about his Thneed and how it could have improved. He even asked his peers in each network to write a formal review that he could link to from his Thneed.

It took time …. most big projects do. However, in just a few months, Barrett saw his web traffic explode. Online communities kept sending new members his way. In addition, those millions of people that visit the networks but never participate (only 1% ever bothed signing up) end up learning about the Thneed. They visit in droves and Barrett's online presence soars.

Strangely enough, this exercise pays off. Realtor Barrett can be found everywhere on the net, and clients for Barrett start coming out of the woodwork ….. and Barrett Sold Real Estate Until He Retired …. Happily ever after.

Some closing thoughts on this very length post: Whenever you create a post in your blog, syndicate it across the web with Pingoat. If your entry is interesting, be sure to Digg it and Reddit. Finally, when participating in all of these networks, and there are a lot of them, be genuine, be consistent and be a productive and contributing member. In every community, you are a member of a family that shares common interests. Respect this relationship and care for your online friends.

Ata Rehman

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Real-Life Love Stories That Will Remind You True Love Does Exist

A long time ago, someone told me one of the truest love stories. It was this: the real value of your life is how well you loved and were loved back.

In an age where people, places and moments are too easily replaced, societal norm has acclimatized to a kind of social media dating that is anything but normal.

I have often pondered what impact this modern re-invention of romance would have on me if I were 10-years-old today. I grew up where liking a boy meant a stomach of fluttering butterflies if he looked at me. At 10-years-old, my idea of romance or love stories was the way your reflection danced into someone’s eyes and how that made you feel.

I have never stopped believing that or living by that.

Here are some inspiring love stories to restore that faith in love that the 10-year-old you had:

1. True love knows no obstacles or distance.

Despite abject poverty and social stigmas of his “untouchable” caste, Pradyumna Kumar Mahanandia[1] earned a place as a student at the College of Art in New Delhi.

Following his painting of Indira Gandhi, many people wanted him to draw them. One of those was Charlotte Von Schedvin, who was traveling in India.

They soon fell in love and got married. Charlotte, however, had to return home to Sweden. She offered to pay for Pradyumna’s plane ticket, but he had too much pride to accept and promised he would make the money on his own.

After a year, he had still not saved enough.

Selling all of his possessions, he made enough to buy a bicycle. He then cycled for four months and three weeks, covering 4,000 miles across Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Germany, Austria, and Denmark to get to Sweden.

They are still happily married 40 years later, and live in Sweden with their two children. Pradyumna became a well-known artist and is a cultural ambassador.

When asked about his arduous journey, his reply was, “I did what I had to, I had no money but I had to meet her. I was cycling for love, but never loved cycling. It’s simple.”

2. You are never too old to find love.

In 1946, Anna and Boris had only been married for 3 days in Serbia when he left for the army.[2] Afterwards, Anna and her family were exiled and despite both their frantic searching, the two were unable to find each other.

Years passed and they both married other people, yet neither forgot their first love.

When their spouses had died and after 60 years, they coincidentally visited their hometown at the same time. When Boris saw her, he ran up to her and said: ‘My darling, I’ve been waiting for you for so long. My wife, my life…’”

They remarried not long after.

3. Love as first sight does exist.

Nacho Figueras is universally recognizable as the polo player with the striking model looks, featured in many of the “Polo by Ralph Lauren” adverts.[3]

He first saw Delfina Blaquier in their native Argentina when they were just teenagers. He knew immediately that he would marry her and decided to pursue her properly.

Every night, he would travel for almost 2 hours to see her, after working all day at a ranch. He would sit with her on her porch and play his guitar to her for a short while, before going home to sleep for another long day at work.

The couple married in 2004 and have since had four children

4. True love means loving each other until the very end.

Princess Charlotte was the daughter of George, Prince of Wales (later George IV) and Caroline of Brunswick.[4] She was the future heir to the throne and was adored by the people, which was a stark contrast to the rest of the Royal family who were loathed.

Her upbringing was turbulent amidst her warring parents. At 17-years-old, Charlotte was pressured into agreeing to marry a Prince she didn’t like, until she met the handsome and dashing Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. Her father finally relented and permitted her to marry the impoverished Leopold.

Following their wedding and two miscarriages, Charlotte again became pregnant with the entire country elated.

In 1817, at 21-years-old and after two days of a difficult labor, Charlotte delivered a stillborn 9-pound son by breech birth. Prince Leopold was so worried that he refused to leave his wife’s side and insisted on helping her–something that was unheard of at the time.

After the third day, Charlotte’s condition seemingly improved. Leopold was urged to take an opiate to rest, as he had not slept for 3 days. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s condition worsened and it was not possibly to rouse the sleeping Leopold as she died.

Her death elicited international grieving on an even bigger scale than Princess Diana’s. Britain ran out of black cloth because everyone wore black–even the homeless found black scraps to tie around his or her arms.

Prince Leopold plunged into depression and eventually took a mistress who resembled Charlotte. Years later, he remarried and named his daughter Charlotte.

The Princess’ final wish before dying was for Leopold to be buried beside her when his time came. Shortly before he died, he asked Queen Victoria for this wish to be fulfilled but it was denied. His last words were: “Charlotte Charlotte”.

5. Remembering your love stories will keep love alive.

Jack and Phyllis Potter met in 1941.[5] Jack frequently wrote in his diary about their story and continued to do so for his whole life.

After seventy years together, Phyllis had to be moved to a nursing home as her dementia became too much for Jack to deal with alone. Unperturbed, Jack visited her daily and read to her each day from his diaries to help her to remember their love and life.

6. Young romance can stand the test of time.

Kate Middleton was just 19-years-old in 2001 when she first met Prince William, where they both studied at St. Andrews University.[6]

Unfortunately, the pressures of the media and a long distance relationship caused them to split up in 2007. They, however, decided to get back together later in the same year.

Prince William eventually proposed in 2010 with the late Princess Diana’s famous sapphire engagement ring. And in 2011, millions all across the world watched their wedding ceremony that culminated with “that kiss” on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.

7. Love stories that are worth it, are worth the wait.

In the 1974, Irina and Woodford McClellan got married in Moscow.[7] Woodford, an American, had to return to the USA when his visa expired. He was repeatedly denied returning to Russia, and she was likewise refused entry to the USA.

It took 11 years of phone calls and letters to each other and unwavering endeavors before they were in 1986 in the United States.

Final Words: Live, Laugh, and Love

For those who have found love, remember the beauty of being in love is finding new ways to keep falling in love with that person.

For those who are still looking for love, don’t let the cynicism of the social media generation to cloud your hopes. It’s true that love happens when you are not looking and when you least expect it. Have faith in yourself and in the love that you deserve. After all, you owe it to your 10-year-old self.

Featured photo credit: Stocksnap via stocksnap.io

Reference

[1]^BBC NEWS: The man who cycled from India to Europe for love[2]^Telegraph: Russian couple reunited after 60 years apart[3]^This Glamorous: great love stories № 02 | nacho figueras & delfina blaquier[4]^QAB: The Tragic Life Story of Princess Charlotte[5]^ABC News: Jack Potter Reads 75 Years of Diaries to Wife With Dementia[6]^Express: William and Kate: The story so far[7]^People: Kept Apart by An Iron Curtain for a Dozen Years, the Mcclellans Overcome the Trauma of Reunion

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Interview w/ Poet Bethany Moore

Recently, I got a chance to interview Bethany Moore about her works of poetry. Bethany is a Denver based poet who recently published two books of poetry. Hope you enjoy this format, and be sure to let us know what you think of it, on Twitter and Facebook @wordswithwayman

1. When did you get your start in poetry and how did you find it? I’ve been writing poetry since I was a really young child, and thankfully I feel I’ve improved in my style and technique over the years! It was one of the ways I entertained myself as an only child, in addition to writing and singing songs and dancing and other theatrics. I’ve always been one of those expressive types. I remember writing little stories in Kindergarten, and later being strongly encouraged by my 5th grade teacher in Southern Maryland of Hollywood Elementary School, Ms. Betty Brady, to pursue seriously writing poetry. As a teacher and member of the community, she was a great leader for literary programs like poetry festivals in our school. I was so impacted by her encouragement in elementary school that I remember her influence all these years later, and I included her in my dedications in my second poetry book, “Weather Magick”. Thanks to the magic of Facebook, we’ve been able to stay in contact after all these years (I was her student in 1992-1993) and she was so pleased to hear I’m still writing and that I’ve published some of my work. I sent her a copy in the mail recently, too, and it was a nice feeling to see that kind of positive influence come full circle in a way after, oh, twenty-five years. Throughout high school, I was all about the after-school poetry club, which we all referred to as “The Writer’s Society” - and yes, we were certainly a crew of eccentrics and misfits. Then, in my early twenties, I participated in open-mic poetry events in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of Washington, D.C., for many years. I lived in Portland, Oregon, for a stint in 2009-2011 and enjoyed checking out open-mic readings and even hosted a couple of “Retro Speakeasy”-style poetry and jazz events during my time there. For the last three years here in Denver, Colorado, I sometimes hit the mic on Sunday evenings at the Mercury Cafe and other venues like Mutiny Information Cafe. Poetry has always manifested as a quintessential part of who I am in my identity all along, to be honest.

2. You’ve released two books of poetry lately “The Cicada and the Firefly” and “Weather Magick", how did these books come about and why now? It was always my intention to publish my collection of poetry from throughout the years I’ve been writing, at least since I was an adult. Last year, in January, I finally set a goal to publish my first collection on or before my birthday in late September. So I researched online self-publishing tools and settled on Amazon’s CreateSpace platform and began going through my collections and formatting the pages. It was the end of March last year in 2016 when I got very sad news about a close friend of mine that I’d known since I was fourteen years old. His name was Benjamin Johnson, Benny, and he was very influential on my life as a kind of soulmate. Unfortunately, he struggled with demons such as drug addiction, and met his untimely death last spring when he was struck by a car. Honestly, this was the first time someone close to me had passed away, and I grieved deeply for quite awhile. During the grieving process, I dug up every poem and journal entry I could find that referenced my feelings for Benny, or our experiences together, over many years, dating back to when I was a teenager. I compiled them and formatted them into their own collection as a way to honor him and our relationship together. It was important to me to prioritize this collection first. I published by mid September. My soul had to release it out to the universe. Because of the nature of how he came in and out of my life, which you can read about intimately, you’ll understand the reference to insects in “The Cicada and the Firefly: a study of love and insects” when you read through the storyline in real-time poetry and prose. As for second book published on October 31, 2016, titled, “Weather Magick: a collection of poetry and witchcraft”, it is a selection of 31 poems from my general collection, which you’ll find references to nature, both serene and disastrous, and the emotional turmoil involved in growing up and maturing in a world of life, love, and spiritual journey. I reference ritual and alchemy, and other Pagan concepts are easy to find in my writing if you’re an adept. As this writing is an outlet that helps with my spiritual and mental balance, it’s just as important to share this writing with others as it is to produce it for my own catharsis to begin with. I hope and wish that this display of my journey, the joy and pain and everything between, provides a realm of understanding and language for others seeking to know that they’re not alone in this world.

3. Who are your poetic influences? My quick three responses are Emily Dickensen, Sylvia Plath, and Dorothy Parker. I also find myself inspired by Margaret Atwood, and then a dive back into the works of the Sufi poet Rumi. When I was younger, back in Ms. Brady’s fifth grade class, I remember being greatly inspired by the work of Langston Hughes.

4. How do you write? Do you have a time of the day that you are most productive or do you wait till it comes to you? It’s difficult for me to write at home, actually, so I find myself at coffee shops and local brew pubs to get that time out of my daily routine and usual pattern of function in order to get the headspace to reflect and write in my handwritten journals. So, weekday evenings at pubs, for sure, and weekends give me more flexibility for the coffee shop writing sessions. Bonus if the weather is nice and I can sit outside for the writing process.

5. How does being a witch influence your poetry? Being a witch influences my writing more and more as I accept it as not only a part of who I am, fully embracing this part of me while being brave against a world that may not understand me, and also allowing my poetry to channel the voice of the witch without fear or perhaps concern that the symbolism or concepts won’t translate to the general public. I’d like to think that those who gather Pagan spiritual concepts will recognize those patterns and references in my writing, but also that those who aren’t adept in such practices will still be moved and perhaps intrigued by the archetypes and metaphors presented enough to find inspiration.

6. How do poets look at the world differently from other people? I can’t speak for other poets, but for me, I know I feel this world, every experience, every insecurity, every possibility, every dynamic, more intensely than most in this world. For those of us who need to express ourselves and be heard, to bear witness to the complicated suffering of this world; words, prose, and poetry is our gospel to the universe.

7. How did you find and begin to practice paganism as a child? The short answer is that I was an odd child who found the cool part of the bookstore in Barnes and Noble at an early age. I was easily interested in subjects like astrology and faery lore and animal magic by the age of ten or so. By age twelve, I was reading books on more intermediate subjects like Celtic magic and crystal healing and the Tarot, mostly a self-taught solitary student, though by age fourteen, I started working and studying at the local Wiccan shop in my small rural town that opened up called ‘Keepers of the Moon Garden’, and there I was mentored under the wing of the shop owner, Theresa, and thus began my more formal and serious study of Paganism by a state-recognized circle. My parents were, thankfully, very supportive. My father does woodworking as a skilled hobby and even built my spiritual altar which has a dark-wood inlay of a pentacle on the surface. I am blessed to have had such support when so many of my peers were being rejected by their families and loved ones for their ideas and beliefs along the Pagan path.

8. What do you want your books to do for people? This is a great question to consider. Somewhere between the exhibitionist expressive artist, and the confessional, sometimes commanding mystic, I suppose I simply wish to share my experience as fully and wholly as I can with anyone who seeks to commiserate or feel they are not alone in this complex human existence. Perhaps to learn from my pain and my experience, so that others can maybe suffer a little less.

9. Have you ever performed your poetry in front of people? And if so, how did it feel to perform words you wrote to an audience? Yes, many times, in many capacities, and I still feel that nervous reaction each time I begin, blushing cheeks and quivered-voice, worry of sounding ridiculous or worse, but I’ve continued to be brave and follow my truly fiery inner need to share my words with the world, so I power through, sweaty forehead and all. The reward begins with the release, and then anyone who relates to you therein gives you reassurance on occasion. The most important part, however, is that you are brave and give your voice the volume of sound it deserves.d

10. Denver is getting more and more expensive, is it hard to be a creative person there these days? Are you full-time poetry or do you work a day job? Yeah, definitely, I think about it often and it’s difficult to know where the benefits of the rental versus ownership market lands for most of us here. I proudly and very gratefully have been a full-time employee of the National Cannabis Industry Association since January of 2014 where I do communications, media, and public relations projects. It’s a non-profit trade association, so I don’t make big corporate bucks, but I do make a decent living and love working hard in an industry where I have roots in the activist movement before it even really became an industry. There are good people shaping the roots of the cannabis industry, and as a healer and activist, doing this work is greatly rewarding in my path. I enjoy multimedia production, managing website content, managing and hosting our weekly podcast, and working with video content, so that allows me a path of creative expressiveness in my routine work, which is pretty exciting. My career in non-profit political and social justice issues as well as my personal activism and artistic endeavors have kept me busy through the years, and I certainly prefer it that way. “Idle hands…” and so on, perhaps. So I do my best to make time to show up at open-mic nights when I can, and I am planning more opportunities to reach out to various venues and book stores to share my work. It’s so cool to see the culture of Denver in particular with the cornerstone neighborhood bookstores that create welcoming environments for local authors to participate in the literary economy. So I’m selling poetry books independently as an artistic revenue income stream in my spare time. I self-publish through Amazon’s CreateSpace. Through that platform, the revenue percentages that I see are about half the retail price the author or creator assigns. Author’s copies can be ordered for a reasonable charge which allows for direct personal sales, though shipping charges apply. There’s math involved, and it basically comes down to an occasional flux in a boost of sales which gives me a nice few dollars of sales here and there. But I’m also issued tax-related forms from these sales which are accounted for when I file my yearly taxes. But there you are, marketing yourself, responsible for all your sales and taxes when ordered online. It’s just one avenue to get one’s art out there, knowing the risks and losses and work involved. But I just couldn’t wait anymore. It was time for me to publish. It was overdue, so I made a resolution to do it, and I did. I set out to publish one book of poems, and as it turned out, I published two. And it feels right.

11. Five years from now, best case scenario, what does your life look like? I appreciate the gravity and hopefulness of this question so much. I’ve been blessed to have on my resume several roles throughout the years as I grew at companies and organizations that have facilitated great change and impact on our society in America, and perhaps beyond. And in my growth as a person and spiritual being, advocate, activist, artist, and whatever else I think I am, I just hope to continue to find roles and opportunities where I can have an impact for the greater good. I know I’m an odd duck, a strange bird, but I think most people by this time in my life understand what I stand for and what kind of help and strength and offerings I have to give. I just want a role in five years where I can give all my best talents and skills and strengths into some greater good. I’d also like to see more progress toward my goals of “house, hound, husband, and happiness.”

12. Where can people find your stuff on the internet? Well, I’m active on most social media including Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and I’ve also created a Facebook author page specific to my poetry publications. I’m very active, I always have been, on social media and I do post about my professional role in the cannabis industry as well as my Pagan-centric spirituality. It’s in my nature as a communications and media person, as well as an artist and activist through the years. So, to find me on most social media platforms, I go by ‘Beatnik Betty’. And I love to connect with friendly like-minded artists and activists.

Twitter: @BeatnikBetty Facebook:  /BeatnikBetty Facebook:  /BethanyMoorePoet Instagram:  bqatnikbetty

I’d also love if folks interested in supporting my poetry by purchasing my publications would please find them on Amazon.com.

Weather Magick: a collection of poetry and witchcraft  

The Cicada and the Firefly: a study of love and insects Thanks so much for allowing me to share my work with your audience. My message is that there are many of us out here that want to create a better world, who wish for healing and transformation, and you are not alone. Just as I seek my particular flavor of love and purpose, I hold sacred space, and know of many who hold sacred space at this time as well, with all pointing toward a greater reality. Now is the time when we must find each other and connect and share now more than ever before.

Be well, and Blessed

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Real-Life Love Stories That Will Remind You True Love Does Exist

A long time ago, someone told me one of the truest love stories. It was this: the real value of your life is how well you loved and were loved back.

In an age where people, places and moments are too easily replaced, societal norm has acclimatized to a kind of social media dating that is anything but normal.

I have often pondered what impact this modern re-invention of romance would have on me if I were 10-years-old today. I grew up where liking a boy meant a stomach of fluttering butterflies if he looked at me. At 10-years-old, my idea of romance or love stories was the way your reflection danced into someone’s eyes and how that made you feel.

I have never stopped believing that or living by that.

Here are some inspiring love stories to restore that faith in love that the 10-year-old you had:

1. True love knows no obstacles or distance.

Despite abject poverty and social stigmas of his “untouchable” caste, Pradyumna Kumar Mahanandia[1] earned a place as a student at the College of Art in New Delhi.

Following his painting of Indira Gandhi, many people wanted him to draw them. One of those was Charlotte Von Schedvin, who was traveling in India.

They soon fell in love and got married. Charlotte, however, had to return home to Sweden. She offered to pay for Pradyumna’s plane ticket, but he had too much pride to accept and promised he would make the money on his own.

After a year, he had still not saved enough.

Selling all of his possessions, he made enough to buy a bicycle. He then cycled for four months and three weeks, covering 4,000 miles across Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Germany, Austria, and Denmark to get to Sweden.

They are still happily married 40 years later, and live in Sweden with their two children. Pradyumna became a well-known artist and is a cultural ambassador.

When asked about his arduous journey, his reply was, “I did what I had to, I had no money but I had to meet her. I was cycling for love, but never loved cycling. It’s simple.”

2. You are never too old to find love.

In 1946, Anna and Boris had only been married for 3 days in Serbia when he left for the army.[2] Afterwards, Anna and her family were exiled and despite both their frantic searching, the two were unable to find each other.

Years passed and they both married other people, yet neither forgot their first love.

When their spouses had died and after 60 years, they coincidentally visited their hometown at the same time. When Boris saw her, he ran up to her and said: ‘My darling, I’ve been waiting for you for so long. My wife, my life…’”

They remarried not long after.

3. Love as first sight does exist.

Nacho Figueras is universally recognizable as the polo player with the striking model looks, featured in many of the “Polo by Ralph Lauren” adverts.[3]

He first saw Delfina Blaquier in their native Argentina when they were just teenagers. He knew immediately that he would marry her and decided to pursue her properly.

Every night, he would travel for almost 2 hours to see her, after working all day at a ranch. He would sit with her on her porch and play his guitar to her for a short while, before going home to sleep for another long day at work.

The couple married in 2004 and have since had four children

4. True love means loving each other until the very end.

Princess Charlotte was the daughter of George, Prince of Wales (later George IV) and Caroline of Brunswick.[4] She was the future heir to the throne and was adored by the people, which was a stark contrast to the rest of the Royal family who were loathed.

Her upbringing was turbulent amidst her warring parents. At 17-years-old, Charlotte was pressured into agreeing to marry a Prince she didn’t like, until she met the handsome and dashing Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. Her father finally relented and permitted her to marry the impoverished Leopold.

Following their wedding and two miscarriages, Charlotte again became pregnant with the entire country elated.

In 1817, at 21-years-old and after two days of a difficult labor, Charlotte delivered a stillborn 9-pound son by breech birth. Prince Leopold was so worried that he refused to leave his wife’s side and insisted on helping her–something that was unheard of at the time.

After the third day, Charlotte’s condition seemingly improved. Leopold was urged to take an opiate to rest, as he had not slept for 3 days. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s condition worsened and it was not possibly to rouse the sleeping Leopold as she died.

Her death elicited international grieving on an even bigger scale than Princess Diana’s. Britain ran out of black cloth because everyone wore black–even the homeless found black scraps to tie around his or her arms.

Prince Leopold plunged into depression and eventually took a mistress who resembled Charlotte. Years later, he remarried and named his daughter Charlotte.

The Princess’ final wish before dying was for Leopold to be buried beside her when his time came. Shortly before he died, he asked Queen Victoria for this wish to be fulfilled but it was denied. His last words were: “Charlotte Charlotte”.

5. Remembering your love stories will keep love alive.

Jack and Phyllis Potter met in 1941.[5] Jack frequently wrote in his diary about their story and continued to do so for his whole life.

After seventy years together, Phyllis had to be moved to a nursing home as her dementia became too much for Jack to deal with alone. Unperturbed, Jack visited her daily and read to her each day from his diaries to help her to remember their love and life.

6. Young romance can stand the test of time.

Kate Middleton was just 19-years-old in 2001 when she first met Prince William, where they both studied at St. Andrews University.[6]

Unfortunately, the pressures of the media and a long distance relationship caused them to split up in 2007. They, however, decided to get back together later in the same year.

Prince William eventually proposed in 2010 with the late Princess Diana’s famous sapphire engagement ring. And in 2011, millions all across the world watched their wedding ceremony that culminated with “that kiss” on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.

7. Love stories that are worth it, are worth the wait.

In the 1974, Irina and Woodford McClellan got married in Moscow.[7] Woodford, an American, had to return to the USA when his visa expired. He was repeatedly denied returning to Russia, and she was likewise refused entry to the USA.

It took 11 years of phone calls and letters to each other and unwavering endeavors before they were in 1986 in the United States.

Final Words: Live, Laugh, and Love

For those who have found love, remember the beauty of being in love is finding new ways to keep falling in love with that person.

For those who are still looking for love, don’t let the cynicism of the social media generation to cloud your hopes. It’s true that love happens when you are not looking and when you least expect it. Have faith in yourself and in the love that you deserve. After all, you owe it to your 10-year-old self.

Featured photo credit: Stocksnap via stocksnap.io

Reference

[1]^BBC NEWS: The man who cycled from India to Europe for love[2]^Telegraph: Russian couple reunited after 60 years apart[3]^This Glamorous: great love stories № 02 | nacho figueras & delfina blaquier[4]^QAB: The Tragic Life Story of Princess Charlotte[5]^ABC News: Jack Potter Reads 75 Years of Diaries to Wife With Dementia[6]^Express: William and Kate: The story so far[7]^People: Kept Apart by An Iron Curtain for a Dozen Years, the Mcclellans Overcome the Trauma of Reunion

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