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jonnyparable · 4 years ago

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Cottage Hills : The Red Chamber Part V

The Manuscript of Nehemiah

With all his magical ingredients and apparatus back in his possession, and the manuscript in his hands, Won can finally accomplish the work that he came here to do, since he arrived last year. But what is this manuscript? What's written in it and why did Won come all this way to get it ?

Won:

"At long last! The manuscript of Nehemiah, grand patriarch of the Moshus! I've come all this way, and now, thanks to you, Moguai, I finally have it! Now we can make these thieves pay for what they've done to my family!"

Moguai:

"Now that the manuscript of your great ancestor, Nehemiah is back where it belongs, in the hands of a Moshu, you can finally right the wrong that was done to your ancestors all those centuries ago. The manuscript was written by Nehemiah himself. And contains his very own recipe for making the most lethal potion in the world, the Black Cup. Better known as Death in a Bottle..."

Won:

"These fools may have the Golden Cup, which will protect them from lesser poisons, but even the Golden Flower's powers are useless against the finality of cold, brutal, instant death! "

The Next Day...

Old Acquaintances

As mid autumn rolls around, the town is busy preparing for the annual Mid Autumn Hotpot at the square, when who should come by the Cooper Farm but old friends, Eva and Oak, the scientists who saved Rod's life in the Simalayas last winter. He introduces them to his family, and catches them up on the miraculous happenings after his return to town.

Rod:

"Eva! Oak! You've come! Meet my wife and son. This is Lillia, and Rick."

Eva:

"Hello Tiger Spirit! It is wonderful to see you again. Your hometown is beautiful, like you said. Nice to finally meet you Lillia. We have heard much about you from Rod. We've come bearing gifts today. As promised, we come with medicine, made from the Golden Flower, which your husband found, but in an act of true nobility, gave to us. We are here to repay that debt"

Rod:

"Thank you, friends, but there is no need. As you can see, Lillia is well now. By some miracle, I believe the Goddess came to me in a dream, and planted the flower in my garden! Our local healer was able to use it to make a cure after all!"

Oak:

"My! That is tremendous news indeed! You are indeed very blessed! We must meet this healer!"

Rod:

"Of course! I shall bring you to see her later. For now, let me show you around the town! The Mayor would probably like to meet you too."

The Return of You-Know-Who

At Rose Square the mayor is currently overseeing preparations for the annual Mid Autumn Hotpot tomorrow as villagers help to set up the large iron pot and put up the lights and decorations. Every year, the townsfolk gather in the square and everyone brings an ingredient to add to the hot pot, followed by a hike up the mountain to see the full moon. The preparations are interrupted by Harris, who's come to tell everyone to stop.

Harris:

"Alright, listen up everyone. After the strange fire last night at the constabulary, Ellen was found unconscious in the church, and is currently recovering in the clinic. We have reason to believe that these are not isolated incidents and that You-know-who has returned. It is therefore unwise to go ahead with such gatherings. As such, everyone is advised to return to your homes for your safety immediately. Thank you everyone."

Mayor Thomas :

"Now, hold on a minute, son. I understand you're just being cautious but there's no need to make everyone panic. After all, there's no proof that any of this has to do with you-know-who, and-"

Harris :

"Father, with all due respect, the villager's safety is of the utmost importance. Until You-know-who is found, he will pose a constant threat to the town and I- We, must always be vigilant."

Just then, in the midst of their heated discussion, Rod arrives and introduces Eva and Oak. The Mayor, glad for the interruption, asks them to stay for tomorrow night's festivities, as the rest of the villagers continue with their preparations.

Mayor Thomas:

"Ah! So you are Rod's friends from the mountain! Rod has told us so much about you! Well, you two are heroes! And dear friends of the town! If you have no pressing matters to attend to, you simply must stay as our honoured guests and attend the festival tomorrow! The moon this autumn is particularly round, a very good omen!"

Harris:

"Father, please, I must insist that -"

Mayor Thomas:

"Alright, that's quite enough son. Your pursuit of Won has become a bit of an obsession of late, I must say. I think the villagers have had enough of all this you-know-who business and fear-mongering, when its clear that he's gone, and he's not coming back. The Goddess clearly watches over us! We must believe and never give in to fear! After all, He hasn't been seen for a year now, and the Goddess has blessed us with the Golden Cup, what's the worse you-know-who can do now even if he does return? "

Harris:

"Father! This isn't about fear! Have you forgotten what he did to us, and how much suffering he caused last year? Yes we are lucky to have the Golden Cup, but I'm duty bound to protect our town. Just because we've been unable to find him, doesn't mean he's gone. What if he's the one who hurt Ellen? "

Rod:

"Hurt her? What happened to Ellen?"

Harris:

"Last night she was found unconscious in the church. We don't know the exact reason why, but she's being examined by Dr. Tim as we speak...poor Ellen...how could all this happen in one night? "

Mayor Thomas:

"... Nobody blames you for what happened , you know... I know you mean well but.. "

Harris:

"At any rate, this festival cannot go on, its too risky, and..."

Mayor Thomas and Harris continue to disagree, and as Eva and Oak look into the serene face of the Goddess Statue behind them, they exchange concerned expressions. They have no idea who Harris and Mayor Thomas are talking about, but whoever he is, he seems to have the townspeople all worked up. They've come just in the nick of time it seems...

That Night...

The Autumn Moon

Back in You-Know-Who's hideout, Won is putting together the deadly ingredients for the Black Cup, and as he waits for the most important ingredient, he and Moguai discuss their diabolical plans.

Moguai:

"In the hot pot? Surely you jest."

Won:

"Not at all! It's perfect! Every autumn, these fools gather at the square and they all share from a pot of broth, laughing and cajoling and merry-making. It's the most vile thing I've ever seen, honestly. Pass me that bottle of newt's eyes, will you? They're probably making preparations for it as we speak. Now that we've gotten rid of that meddling Elmsley hag, this will be a breeze! I'll just freeze time long enough to add just a few drops of the Black Cup into their pot and...well, dinner is served!"

Moguai:

"Yes that's all well and good, but are you sure you have everything you need to make the Black Cup? The festival is tomorrow is it not?"

Won:

"Oh, yes, Moguai, yes we do. Not to worry. We have just enough to make one, which is all we need for now. As we speak, the last ingredient is on its way. Look up there, we have by act of providence, the biggest full moon we've seen in years this autumn equinox! When it reaches its highest point in the sky, I will call on its power to complete the potion! Sweet revenge is mine at long last!"

A Lamb to Slaughter

Meanwhile, Zack begins to worry about Olkan again. With a moon this big out, it seems Olkan's transformations are becoming longer and more violent. Zack goes out looking for him, just to make sure he's alright and not causing trouble. This time, however, he seems to have strayed a little far from their home in the wrong direction, and has stumbled into a strange part of the woods that he does not recognise. He sees some strange totems hanging in between two rocks. Unfamiliar with their significance, and drawn by curiosity, he walks through them...

As a Servo, Won's wards of concealment have no effect on him and he's able to just slip through, and Won's hideout is laid bare before him. Poor Zack soon stumbles upon Won and Moguai, and can't believe what he's hearing. He overhears Won talking about what they did to Ellen, and about his plans to somehow kill everyone in town by putting a lethal poison in the town's hot pot tomorrow! As Zack tries to override his panic function and execute his focusing program, so he can think about what to do next, he realises that they've stopped talking, and an eerie, suffocating silence hangs in the air...

Moguai:

"Hush! Someone has slipped through your wards. I smell a rat.... There! Below! He's heard us! Seize him!"

Zack turns to run, back to town to try and warn someone, anyone, and to tell them what Won is up to. But he doesn't get very far...

Moguai:

"And just where do you think you're going?"

#the sims 2 #ts2 pictures #ts2 screenshots #ts2 neighborhood #ts2 scenery #harvest moon back to nature #cottage hills #sims 2 #harvest moon tree of life #sims 2 simblr #The Red Chamber

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goulets · 4 years ago

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Heartland

Chapter: 1/8 Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson Additional Characters: Colin Wilkes, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth Rating: T (for now) Case Fic/Kid Fic a03 link

Jason looks down at the baby, at watery brown eyes and tiny hands, fingers stretching out without knowing what they're reaching for. She yawns and makes a sucking noise, turning her head into his chest.

Damn it.

“We'll do shifts,” he says to Dick, making his tone as businesslike as possible. “I still have shit to do; I can't sit around playing house with you all day.”

Dick doesn't smile, but Jason can see that he wants to. “That sounds reasonable.”

“This is temporary. Just until we find the fuckers that want to take her out.”

“Sure it is.” Dick's all doe-eyed now, watching the baby settle down to sleep. “Welcome home, Jaybird.”

(colin)

It's a quarter past five and the first streams of daylight are curling over the horizon when Colin finally makes it back to the orphanage. He's down to his normal size, brass knuckles heavy in his pockets and slowing his already exhausted steps. It'll be at least three hours before the younger kids wake up; time enough to get one REM cycle in before he's got all those mouths to feed. Damian taught him about monitoring his REM cycles, how it's sometimes better to get three hours than four, how to stay sharp even when he's running on no sleep at all.

Even better, Dick once told him he's welcome at the manor anytime he needs to rest undisturbed, or a hot meal, or a 'flying lesson', whatever that means. Damian had thrown a batarang at his head when he'd suggested it, so Colin assumes it's some kind of inside joke. Regardless, he hasn't been back at the manor to take Dick up on his offer. Batman's back – the real Batman – and Colin would be the worst kind of liar if he said he wasn't a little bit terrified to face him, considering the circumstances of their first meeting.

A motion in the alley next to the orphanage catches his eye, and he stills. Vagrants don't usually start coming around until the soup kitchen opens, and all the thugs he's used to dealing with tend to wait until the kids are up to start messing with them. That's why Colin likes the walk back from patrol, despite his tiredness, despite the chill that rolls off the ever-present fog. The city's glow is muted at this hour, its inhabitants either just starting to stir or just turning in. He's alone with the smog and the molten aura of the streetlights, and there's a quiet about it all that makes even the bloodstains on his knuckles feel pure, purposeful.

That said, he really does need to invest in some gloves.

The figure in the alley is still moving, clumsy and hurried, and all at once Colin realizes what it is they're fumbling with. There's a sort of house-shaped capsule outside St. Aden's, a narrow chute with a small door that doesn't have a lock, and a weathered sign on the front that depicts the outline of an infant. It's a Safe Surrender site, a place where people can legally abandon their newborns, and someone is using it for the first time since Colin's been at the orphanage.

He creeps closer, keeping to the shadows.

The figure spends about five more seconds fumbling with something on the ground, then wrenches open the door to the capsule and deposits something inside. Colin's stomach twists; the blue light above the capsule illuminates, and he can hear a faint alarm going off in the nuns' office. He wonders if they'll even know what it's for. The figure startles at the light, hastily grabs what looks like an empty bag off the ground, and bolts.

Colin wants to follow, but finds himself unable to walk past the capsule without checking it, and once he sees what's inside, he knows there's no chance of him giving chase. The baby is sleeping, definitely not a newborn, but not more than a few months old. Its tiny body is wrapped in a dirty blanket, wisps of black hair sticking out from an unprotected head. Colin supposes he wouldn't have needed to pursue whoever dropped it off; for all intents and purposes, they might think they're doing the right thing. St. Aden's won't turn the baby away, and it's a better option than leaving it in a gutter or a dumpster, which, in Gotham, is not a thing unheard of.

The baby stirs as a stiff breeze swirls through the alley, making Colin shiver. The nuns will be dressed and out in five minutes, give or take. They'll at least put a hat on the baby, Colin thinks. He doesn't know much about babies, but he knows they need hats. The orphanage has baby hats, and diapers, and blankets, albeit thin ones, most with holes. They might even have a spare teddy bear for when the baby has nightmares. No one comforts you when you have nightmares at St. Aden's. The nuns aren't big on hugs, even the babies they hold as little as possible.

Colin may not know a lot about babies, but he knows what happens when you don't hold them. The kids at the orphanage who've been there since infancy are a testament to that. Colin shivers again, thinking of vacant eyes and hunched shoulders. Pale skin and raw voices. Underdeveloped, broken bodies, floating in the river.

The light in the nuns' office comes on. Less than a minute now. Before he can fully process what he's doing or why he's doing it, Colin scoops the baby out of the capsule and cradles it carefully in his arms, walking briskly out of the alley the way that he came. The fog feels damper; it clings to him like it means to shield him from view. As an afterthought, Colin takes off his own hat and uses it to cover the baby's head.

***

“What is so urgent,” Damian snarls, swinging into the garage and making Colin jump and almost topple over, “that it couldn't wait at six in the fucking morning?”

Moving past his initial alarm, Colin feels relief wash over him at seeing his friend. Damian is decked out in his Robin costume and, all things considered, no grumpier than usual. “I'm so glad you're here,” he says in a rush. “I think – I think I screwed up, and I don't know what to do. Um.”

He decides not to draw it out, and instead steps aside, gesturing to the side compartment of his motorcycle. The baby is still sound asleep; he's wrapped his jacket around it as well. He won't die from the cold, but he worries that the baby might.

“What the – ” Damian blinks at the sleeping infant, then points to Colin without looking away. “Explain.”

Colin does. “And I thought if I called you, you might know what to...because you and Batman have handled this kind of stuff, right? You know who to, um.” He pauses, and realizes that he doesn't actually know why his first instinct was to call Damian, aside from the fact that he really has no one else to call. He wraps his arms around himself and lets out a short breath. “What do we do?”

“There's no 'we',” Damian says automatically, just like Colin knew he would. “You can't take care of a baby. You're ten. You have to put it back.”

Colin doesn't move. He knows Damian is probably right. “I just,” he starts to say, searching for the words. He's so tired he can barely think straight. “I guess I wanted it to have a chance. You know? Kids at the orphanage...kids like me, we don't get a lot of choices. Everyone ends up being a bad guy or a victim.” He swallows. “We don't need any more of either in this town.”

Damian scowls and rubs at his mask absently. “You're not either one of those things.”

Colin look at his fist and squeezes it, concentrating. Within a minute, his forearm is as big around as his leg. “No, I'm not,” he says. Damian has gone very still. Colin closes his eyes and feels his way back to his normal size, flexing his hand once it's shrunk back down. “Not anymore.”

“I – ” Damian cuts himself off, clenching his jaw. “Fine. We'll take it back to the manor. We have to go now, before they realize I'm gone.”

Colin bites back a grin and scoops the baby up, cradling its head carefully against his chest. The baby's face isn't cold anymore, which gives him an unexpected surge of elation, and he practically skips to Damian's side, earning a severely reproachful look from his friend.

“How did you get here?”

“I swiped Father's keys,” Damian says dryly, holding them out and pressing a button. Brilliant headlights illuminate the alley outside the garage, and Colin's jaw drops as a sleek, two-door Batmobile pulls up in front of them.

“How did – ”

“Remote autopilot. It drives itself.”

“Whoa.”

Damian rolls his eyes and presses another button, making the roof retract halfway. He swings in over the door and says, “Don't scratch the interior.”

Colin slides in beside him, awestruck. He's in the freaking Batmobile. If everything under the sun goes wrong with this sort-of kidnapping, even if he winds up in jail, it'll be so worth it.

***

(jason)

Jason's not having a particularly good day.

Scratch that, it's nine in the morning, and Jason's already not having a particularly good day.

“Where did you say you heard this?” Bruce asks, frowning at his computer screen. Translation: which parts of this are you lying about, Jason?

“Oh, you know,” Jason says, not caring to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Me and some of my League buddies were doing tapas over at Ocho, and you know how they get when the wine starts pouring.” Bruce glares at him, and he glares right back. “All I know is Shiva's overseas for the foreseeable future. Just thought I'd share, since I heard you were looking. But whatever you want her for, I'm telling you, she probably didn't do it. This time.”

Bruce stares at him, cold and still as a statue. Jason wants to hit himself. Idiot move, coming here. Not like the Great Bat Detective needs his legwork anyhow.

He squares his shoulders and says, “Hey, take it or leave it. Which, speaking of, I'm gonna go ahead and leave now.”

Bruce's silence follows him out, and Jason practices the tried-and-true strategy of stirring up old resentments to mask the hurt. Not like he'd expected old Batsy to fall all over himself with excitement on account of a visit from his fallen son, but there's a cold reception, and there's the patented Bruce Wayne Freeze-Out. If Jason had imagined their shared history of returning from the dead would bring them closer together, he'd been sorely mistaken.

“Will you be joining us for breakfast, Master Jason?” Alfred asks, wiping his hands on a dish towel as Jason attempts to hustle past the kitchen. Habit has him pausing, because you just don't blow off Alfred, and that small hesitation is all it takes for the smells wafting out of the kitchen to hit him head-on. And oh, do they hit him. Pancakes, eggs, bacon – turkey bacon, Jason's favorite, of course Alfred remembers that stupid little detail. He probably also remembers that Jason is pathologically incapable of refusing food. Bastard.

“I'm not really – ” he starts to say hungry, but his stomach picks that exact moment to let loose a traitorous growl that echoes down the hallway and probably wakes up any still-asleep inhabitants of the manor.

Alfred, to his everlasting credit, doesn't even flinch. Jason heaves a sigh. “Yeah, all right. Just a bite, I guess.”

“I'll set a place for you.” Like the old man hasn't already.

Jason tugs off his gloves and makes his way to the sink to wash up. No telling what's living under his nails these days, but it's probably better not to ingest it.

“This is really good, Alfie,” he says through a thick bite of pancake. “Damn. I hope the new kid knows how good he's got it.”

“I'm afraid I haven't met anyone quite as enthusiastic about my cooking as you, Master Jason. Except, on occasion – Master Richard!”

“Hey, Alfie! Man it smells good, what's the occasion?” A shirtless, pajama-pants clad Dick Grayson bounds into the kitchen, more golden retriever than man, and stops on one foot with his face six inches above the bacon pan, breathing in. “Hey, is that turkey bacon?” He whirls around. “Jason!”

“Um.” Jason goes very stiff in his seat, teeth locked together around a forkful of eggs. Chew, swallow. He hadn't know Dick was here; hadn't figured any of the bat clan would even be awake at this charming daylight hour, except Bruce, who Jason's convinced deprogrammed the biological need to sleep out of his system years ago. “Hey.”

Dick looks pleased to see him, but confused. He's still on one foot. Jason represses the childish urge to throw something at him; knock him over like a big stupid bowling pin. “What are you doing here?”

“Just came by to drop off some intel,” he shrugs, fidgeting with his napkin. “You know how it is. Spend enough time cracking skulls, more than brain tissue leaks out.”

When Dick doesn't react beyond placing both feet on the ground and pursing his lips disapprovingly, Jason puts on his best shit-eating grin. Ah, ruining family meals. Just like old times.

“Thanks for the grub, Alfie,” he calls, swinging his legs over the side of his chair. “Think I've overstayed my welcome now, so I'm just be on my way.” He deliberates for a moment before snatching the last piece of turkey bacon off his plate, then walks briskly out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

“Jason – wait up a second.” Dick's voice behind him, close behind him, practically a whisper. Jason turns and takes a deliberate step backward, putting space between them. He's fairly sure he can take Dick hand-to-hand, but he wants to be as close to the exit as possible when he does.

“What?” he demands, more roughly than he needs to. He shifts his hip to feel the handle of his knife pressing into it; the exact shape he'll mold his palm to if he needs to draw it.

Dick crosses his arms and stares him down steadily. It's a mistake to make eye contact with him, because Dick's stare isn't like Bruce's, shrewd and penetrating, it's not a gaze that takes any effort to hold. Quite the contrary – Jason's always had trouble breaking eye contact with Dick. Bruce's stare goes through him, turns him inside out, but Dick's grips him, surrounds him, takes the full measure of him without pulling everything ugly to the surface. It's unnerving. He'd rather face Bruce any day.

“You don't have to leave just because I walked into the room.”

He shouldn't be able to project so much earnestness in nothing but faded Superman sleep pants, Jason thinks. It defies human nature.

“It was more of a sashay,” he smirks, still not blinking. “And it's not on your account, don't worry. I just have shit to do.”

“You should come by more often,” Dick presses.

It's all Jason can do not to throw his head back and laugh. “Right,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “That's gonna happen over Bruce's dead body.”

There's a flash of pain on Dick's face, and Jason thinks his phrasing was probably ill-advised. Too soon and all. Oh well.

“That's not true,” Dick shakes his head, shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes. Jason feels a bizarre and fleeting urge to brush it away, makes it an immediate priority to repress desires like that as far down as they can possibly go. “Look, I know it hasn't always been easy – ”

Jason scoffs. “Oh, sure.”

“ – but if you'd just give him some time, I know he wants you back, Jason. You're family. And I think you know it too, or you wouldn't even be here.”

Defiant rage stirs in Jason's stomach, but this isn't the time or the place for that kind of reaction. He settles instead on indifference. “That's an old tune, Dickie. Might be time to learn some new ones.”

Dick's expression softens. Damnit. This is why he can't stand around talking to Dick, making fucking chitchat and this perverse, endless eye contact. They observe each other in circles, it's nearly impossible to hide, and Dick doesn't hide anything, which means Jason's at an automatic disadvantage. Every goddamn time.

It's pointless to bare his teeth in a grin and offer a sardonic wave, but Jason does it anyways. “It's been real, Boy Wonder. I'll catch you la – ”

“Shh.” Dick puts up a finger, frowning. He looks up the stairs. “Do you hear that?”

If this is another strategy to try and stall him, Jason's gonna start throwing punches. “Hear what?” he demands. He's about to tell Dick to go fuck himself – which, he probably can, fucking acrobat – no, bad visual, stop thinking about Dick naked, Jesus fucking Christ – when he hears it too.

It sounds like – “Is that a baby?” He looks sideways at Dick. “Bruce have a second love child already?”

Dick says, “I'll see you later, Jason,” and starts climbing the stairs.

Well, obviously Jason can't leave now.

They follow the cries down one of the many upstairs hallways, which, from the portraits and weaponry lining the walls, Jason figures must lead to Damian's room. Dick pauses outside a closed door, pressing his ear to it, and, curiosity getting the better of him, Jason follows suit.

“You have to get it to shut up! The whole mansion's probably heard it by now!”

“I'm trying!” an unfamiliar voice hisses, and there's the sound of a hiccup from a third unfamiliar voice. Presumably something babylike. “Do you think it's hungry?”

“How the hell should I know? This was your moronic idea, Colin, don't you know anything about babies?”

“Maybe we should google it.”

“I'm going to kill you. Actually, when Father finds out we kidnapped a fucking baby, he'll kill us both. I can't believe I let you talk me into this mess.”

The crying starts again. Dick looks at Jason and mouths, one, two, three, before pushing the door open and revealing their presence.

It's quite a scene. Damian's in half his costume, mask, boots, and cape discarded on the floor, and he's grinding his teeth at another boy, a redhead kid in a dirty checkered sweatshirt who looks to be around his age. The redhead kid looks horrified to see them standing there, first going furiously red, then white as a sheet. But the thing that really grabs Jason's attention is the baby – yep, a flesh-and-blood human infant – cradled awkwardly in the redhead kid's arms, screaming its tiny head off.

Dick looks between them, his eyes enormous. “Damian? Colin? What is this?”

It's a question, not an accusation. Jason has to hand it to him; Bruce would've had them sizzling on the grill the second the word 'kidnapped' reached his ears.

Colin says, “It's not what it looks like!”

Dick glances sideways at Jason. “Okay, but. I'll be honest, I'm not even sure what it looks like.”

Jason shrugs. “You kids abduct any babies lately?”

“We didn't abduct it,” Damian snarls. “Colin found it. Abandoned. It was my mistake to bring it here.”

The baby cries louder. It's a miracle Alfred hasn't come running yet.

“Someone dropped it at St. Aden's,” Colin says quickly, between bouts of screaming. “I just – I couldn't just leave it there, you don't know what it's like, growing up that way.” He clutches the baby to him fiercely, bitterness etched all over his face. “You might as well hand him over to the gangs right now, because that's where he'll end up.”

Dick looks horribly conflicted. Jason laughs out loud.

“So, what was your plan?” he asks incredulously. “Two ten year olds, teaming up to raise a baby? Which one of you's the mom?”

Dick's arm blocks Damian's sharp kick to Jason's face. “Thank you, Jason, that was helpful,” he says. “But, uh, what was the plan, exactly?”

Everyone looks to Colin, who shrinks visibly under their combined gaze. “I don't know,” he says in a small voice, nearly indecipherable beneath the baby's cries. “I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I just – I thought Batman could save him.”

It takes everything in Jason's face-saving book not to respond to that, but he barely manages to keep his mouth shut. Dick shoots him a look of gratitude, and he rolls his eyes. Obviously there are more pressing issues at hand than his lingering manpain; Jason's not that self-involved.

“Okay,” Dick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Here's how we solve this. He – she? – we'll figure it out, whatever, is probably hungry. And wet. Did you two change its diaper?”

Damian and Colin look at each other and shrug helplessly. “Right.” Dick points one hand behind him. “I'm going to go to the kitchen; I know Alfred keeps formula in there somewhere. And we should have diapers in one of the emergency supply closets. I'll get that stuff. Jason, take the baby for a minute, would you? Colin looks like he's about to drop.”

Jason backs against the wall, saying, “Oh no, I don't – that's not a – ” but then the screaming bundle is being precariously extended towards him, and instinct has him reaching out to take it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, feeling the fragile weight of the baby in his arms. Can't be much more than ten pounds. He has handguns with more substance than this thing. “Where're you keeping those lungs, little guy?”

Silence falls over the room, and it takes Jason a minute to realize that he didn't spontaneously go deaf, the baby stopped crying. Its tiny eyes – brown, dark and wet – are blinking up at him like he's the most interesting thing in the world.

Oh, no.

This is a disaster.

He doesn't hear Dick's intake of breath so much as he feels it, which might be because he's holding his breath too, because the baby is looking at him, and damnit, this is the last fucking thing he needs in his life. “Go,” he says to Dick, inserting as much venom into his voice as possible, wrenching his eyes away from the baby's. “It's probably just going into shock or something.”

The baby farts.

“Okay, or that.”

Dick bites his lip hard, and ten different emotions of various intensities flash through Jason's gut. Then he's gone, cartwheeling down the staircase, knowing him.

Colin says, “Wow, it really likes you.”

Damian smirks. “I guess we know who the mom is.”

“Don't think because I've got a ten pound handicap I won't kick your ass, kid,” Jason snaps. It's an empty threat, and they all know it. For now anyways. Once the baby situation's dealt with, all bets are off.

Dick's back within five minutes, armed to the teeth with things more frightening to Jason than any weapon he can imagine. Diapers, wipes, blankets, bottles, even a tiny blue hat that looks handmade. Jason's heart thuds unevenly in his chest, recognizing Alfred's handiwork in the stitching; indisputable evidence that Bruce Wayne, Batman, was once a baby just like this one. It'd be hilarious, if he could push a laugh past the lump in his throat.

“Here.” Dick hands him a diaper. It has Mickey Mouse on it.

Jason shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I didn't sign up for this shit. And I mean that in the literal sense; I did not put 'clean up baby shit' in my day planner today.” He thrusts the diaper back at Dick.

“Fine,” Dick snaps, holding his arms out expectantly. “Give me the baby. Damian, shake up this formula, will you?”

Damian snatches the bottle out of his hand and shakes it with the aggression of a paint mixer. Well, hey, at least he's dedicated.

The baby starts to fuss as it's transferred from Jason's arms to Dick's, and the lump in Jason's throat gets bigger. “Hey, hey,” Dick croons, settling the baby down on the rug and starting to unwrap its blanket. “You're okay, little guy. We got you – oh, I'm sorry,” he grins, glancing up at Jason. “Little girl, I'm guessing.”

Jason peers over his shoulder and sees that under the blanket, the baby is wearing tiny pink pajamas with little white and green flowers. Like the blanket, the pajamas are dirty. He wonders when the baby last had a bath.

Not your problem. He needs to get the hell out of here.

“Ooh, someone's got a full diaper,” Dick goes on. Jason wants to kick him in the back of the head. “Let's fix that, huh? Oh, yeah. We'll get someone on that right away.”

Jason jumps backward when Dick extends the dirty diaper to him, and Dick rolls his eyes. “It's just pee. Get over yourself, honestly.”

“Fuck you,” Jason growls. “I'm not part of this.”

Colin walks over with dogged footsteps and takes the diaper from Dick, folding it over until it's a tight little pocket that fits in the palm of his hand. He turns to Damian. “Where's the garbage?”

Damian jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom, and Dick glares at Jason as he refastens the baby's pajamas.

The baby's fussing turns into loud wails again, and Dick picks her – no, it, can't think of it as a person, damnit – up, rocking his arms gently. The baby cries, rubs its face on Dick's chest, and then turns its head and look directly at Jason.

“Aw, Jay. Looks like she's got a crush.”

“Please.” Jason rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the vise that's squeezing in his chest. He really, really needs to leave. Like, yesterday.

But then Dick starts feeding the baby, and Jason finds himself utterly rooted to the spot.

It figures that parenting is something that would come naturally to Dick. It seems like most things come naturally to him, particularly the things that terrify normal people, like leaping off tall buildings, running into the line of fire, taking on twenty armed goons with nothing but his stupid fucking escrima sticks. Dick cradles the baby with arms that've put hundreds of criminals on their asses, arms that are scarred all over, just like Jason's. He gazes down at the baby as it eats, murmuring praise, shifting slowly from foot to foot, and that damn thing won't stop looking at Jason, even while it's sucking enthusiastically at the bottle.

Footfalls behind him; a distinct step he'd know anywhere. “I took the liberty of digging up some clothes for our young guest,” Alfred says, as though nothing is out of the ordinary. “They're a bit dated, but I believe they should still be suitable.”

“Can we all get out of my room now?” Damian asks. “I'd like to change, and I'd prefer to do it without the entire household watching.”

Alfred nods. “Certainly, Master Damian. Master Richard, perhaps it would be prudent to bring this matter to Master Bruce at this time.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dick says, heavily, shooting another look at Jason. Why does he keep doing that? “Let's just get her fed and changed really quick.”

“Of course.”

As soon as they're downstairs, the baby spits out the nipple and screws up its face like it's going to start howling again. Jason doesn't know what it is, some kind of long-buried impulse, a skill set he never thought he'd had to begin with, but he's stepping forward with his arms outstretched, palms open and flat, like he could do a damn thing to keep the baby quiet.

Dick pegs him with a curious look, and Jason freezes. “You wanna hold her?”

“What? No,” Jason says, shoving his arms down to his sides. “I just – I thought you were gonna drop it. Her.”

Dick doesn't say anything, and Jason feels a flush creeping up his neck. “You know what, it seems like you guys have this all handled. I'm just gonna...go.”

He turns, and the baby starts crying again.

Jesus Christ in a goddamn handbasket, this is bad.

“If you wouldn't mind,” Dick says, carefully, “We could use the help. Until we figure out what to do.”

“He can help,” Jason protests, pointing at Colin.

“I actually, um,” Colin looks vaguely terrified, glancing guiltily between them. “I have to go, my kids – there's kids at the orphanage, I have to be there. For them.”

Jason doesn't think about the time he spent on the streets, doesn't relive those fun childhood memories for any reason, but they're a scar on his psyche, forever etched in, and he can't exactly make them go away, either. He remembers the kids from the orphanages, how little and lost they were, better cared for but more unloved than any of the other street kids. He remembers standing up for them as much as he remembers knocking them over and stealing from them. No kids are worse equipped to protect themselves. Colin looks like he weighs eighty pounds soaking wet, but Jason reasons that he wouldn't be friends with Damian if he couldn't take a hit.

Colin probably takes a lot of hits on behalf of his kids. The thought turns Jason's stomach, and he knows he can't ask him to stay.

Dick frowns and starts to say, “I'm sure – ”

“Go,” Jason says quickly, giving Colin a short nod. “It's fine, whatever. My shit can wait a few hours.”

Everyone stares at him. The baby is still crying.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Fine, give me the damn kid.” He sets his jaw and takes the baby from Dick, expressly avoiding Dick's eyes, or any part of his face, for that matter. The baby fusses for a minute, then seems to catch sight of Jason's face again, and settles down at once.

Shit, shit, shit.

***

“You're doing this completely wrong,” Jason tells the baby as they make their way down to the Batcave. “I'm sure as hell not taking you home with me, I'll tell you that much. No offense.”

The baby coughs, and Jason finds himself holding it a little tighter. It's all very unnerving, the way he's already used to the shape of its small form in his arms, the way its head fits snugly into the soft spot of flesh between his shoulder and his breastbone. Alfred threw out the ratty blanket it was wrapped in and gave them a new one, along with a pink cotton onesie with a stiff lace collar. Purchased forty odd years ago by Martha Wayne, on the off-chance that she was having a baby girl. A little piece of trivia that Jason is going to any lengths necessary not to think about.

“It fits with the intel I got last week,” Tim is saying, “Qurac is a big job; she wouldn't be doing it alone.”

“No,” Bruce agrees, hunched over in front of his massive screen. “Perhaps the League of Assassins isn't behind this at all.”

“So either someone's setting it up to look like they...” Tim trails off, catching sight of Jason, or more accurately, the wiggling bundle in his arms. “Is that a baby?”

Jason looks down and gasps. “Holy shit, how did that get there?”

Dick rolls his eyes. Tim says, “Wait, it's not – ”

“It's not mine, Replacement. Don't give yourself a stroke deducing over there.”

Bruce turns in his chair to face them, frowning deeply. His eyes take in Dick, Jason, and the baby. “Where's Damian?”

Dick steps forward. “He went with Alfred to take Colin ho – back to St. Aden's.”

“Ah.” Bruce nods. “So that's where he went this morning.” His gaze lands on the baby. “I take it the infant came from the orphanage as well.”

“She's really sweet, Bruce.” Dick adopts a pleading voice. “Colin thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Colin can look after her when she's returned to St. Aden's,” Bruce says firmly. “The Mansion is no place for a baby.” He stands and walks over to Jason. “May I?”

It takes Jason a moment to realize that Bruce is asking his permission to hold the baby. He doesn't know what's more surprising, the fact that Bruce is asking at all, or the fact that he wants to refuse, to take the baby and run as far away as possible, to an alternate universe where parents don't abandon their kids or sell them out, where they don't let psychopaths murder them, where they'd rather burn the world down than let any harm come to another child on their watch.

He thinks that Bruce can probably see his struggle painted on his face as he waits for his answer. And he is waiting, because the question wasn't a formality, it's a real uncertainty, and Bruce is asking Jason whether or not he trusts him to take this small life and protect it, even if it's just for a few moments.

Jason's reflexive answer is a harsh and unforgiving fuck no, but that's not the end of it. There's something deeper inside him, something that's been climbing toward the surface for a while now, no matter how hard he tries to bury it, that tells another story. A lot of other stories.

Rather than sift through them, he bites his tongue and hands the baby over. He tells himself he won't look at Bruce to see his reaction, but how often do you get to see Batman with a baby?

Jason will die again a hundred times before he ever admits it, but the vision of Bruce, half-suited up, broad and unyielding and Batman, folding his arms into a cradling position for the baby, is actually pretty fucking charming. He wouldn't've guessed that Bruce had a lot of experience with small children, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. The baby whines and stirs, little hands feebly reaching up to clutch at the bat symbol on his chest, and Jason thinks he actually sees Bruce's mouth quirk in a smile.

“I'm just going to scan her handprint,” he says, addressing Jason.

Jason shrugs. “Whatever.”

The whining stops as soon as he takes the baby over to the enormous computer screen, and Jason hopes that all the lights and flashing images don't fry the baby's brain. There are shots of crime scenes, bodies with blood spilled onto the street, rotating in the corner of the screen, and Jason hopes the baby's subconscious doesn't file those images away for night terrors down the road. Although, if it's going back to the orphanage, it'll see the real thing soon enough.

There's an uplifting thought.

“Danielle Leigh Torres,” Bruce says after a moment. “Born the sixteenth of January. Parents Linda Torres – deceased, and Mitchell Howard, also deceased.”

“Wait a minute.” Tim's gone still with his hand hovering over the keyboard. “Mitch Howard – that's Big Mouth Howard's real name.”

Big Mouth Howard. Jason's heard the name – some lowlife, maybe a bookie? He doesn't know why it'd be significant to any of them, but the way Tim and Bruce are looking at each other suggests that there's something fairly major he's missing. Jason glances at Dick, and is relieved to see that he looks just as out of the loop.

“You two wanna clue us in?” Jason demands, stepping closer to the screen. “Who the fuck is Big Mouth Howard?”

Bruce continues scowling unfathomably at the screen, and Tim lets out a long exhale. “There's been a lot of activity in the East End this past week,” he says. “You guys have probably noticed.”

“Yeah, bunch of dealers got capped,” Jason confirms, still not understanding why this should matter so much to Batman. “Turf wars. Big fucking deal.”

Tim shakes his head. “Not just dealers. Cy Reynolds was Intergang, they bought out the Dragons’ territory a few months ago and have been pulling in major product from Venezuela. His whole family was taken out, all his lieutenants, all their families.” He pulls up a mug shot of a sneering, overweight man with some serious dental issues. “Big Mouth was one of them.”

“So, you're thinking professional hits.”

“Reynolds had a lot of enemies. Guy dipped his pen in way too many wells. We thought Intergang might've taken him out themselves, because he was something of a liability, but why take out the lieutenants?”

“And the families,” Dick adds, frowning. “Someone wanted to send a message.”

“Exactly. He's gotten on the wrong side of the al Ghuls more than once, and this is their style,” Tim continues, pulling up more detailed shots of the bodies. “That one's Linda Torres. She wasn't even married to Big Mouth, but they still got her.”

“League's got bigger fish to fry,” Jason says dismissively. “They wouldn't bother.”

“Yeah, well, you would know,” Tim replies, raising an eyebrow. “Anyways, we're thinking it's a move against Intergang now, not just Reynolds. I have a couple hunches, but we need to examine the bodies more closely to know for sure.”

“Bruce,” Dick says, “if they're really sending a message, they're gonna be looking for Danielle.”

Tim opens his mouth and shuts it. No one speaks, and, as if on cue, the bundle in Bruce's arms starts wailing again.

Something is squeezing Jason's lungs, making it hard for him to breathe normally. Danielle. The baby has a name, it's a goddamn person and it's – she's – been in this world for three fucking months and she's already got a price on her head. God almighty, what a piece of shit world they live in.

Jason grinds his teeth. “No way she goes back to that orphanage.”

Everyone turns to look at him. He ignores them and steps forward, extending his arms towards Bruce, who slides Danielle over to him without protest.

“Jason – ”

“Forget it, Bruce. I don't know what paragraph of your moral code stipulates that you have to throw a fucking baby to the wolves instead of, oh, I don't know, protect her, but you can shove it up your ass. I'll fucking take her if it's that goddamn important to you. And if anyone comes for her, they die.”

“ – I was going to say, I think she should stay here. For the time being.”

Jason pauses. “Oh.”

“Provided, of course, that someone will be able to look after her. Other than Alfred.”

“I'll stay,” Dick volunteers. Of course he does. Fucking boy scout. “Jason?”

Jason looks down at Danielle, at watery brown eyes and tiny hands, fingers stretching out without knowing what they're reaching for. She yawns and makes a sucking noise, turning her head into his chest.

Damn it.

“We'll do shifts,” he says to Dick, making his tone as businesslike as possible. “I still have shit to do; I can't sit around playing house with you all day.”

Dick doesn't smile, but Jason can see that he wants to. “That sounds reasonable.”

“This is temporary. Just until we find the fuckers that want to take her out.”

“Sure it is.” Dick's all doe-eyed now, watching Danielle settle down to sleep. Idiot. “Welcome home, Jaybird.”

***

#jaydick #reposting this initial chapter from 8 years ago bc the other one's formatting got all screwed up #we are back at it again though #my fics #heartlandverse #forgot to put this in the description but the word count for this chapter is 6000

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dustedmagazine · 4 years ago

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Dust Volume 7, Number 5

Sarah Louise

A week or two before this Dust’s deadline, we got our first tour announcement by email in more than a year. It was the first of deluge, as live music looks to be coming back with a vengeance starting this summer and really picking up steam around September. Meanwhile, we celebrate our newly vaxxed (or for our Canadian correspondents half-vaxxed) status with tentative steps outside. Your editor had her first beer at a brew pub in mid-May, and it was stupendous. Also stupendous, the onslaught of new music, which has, if anything, accelerated. This month, contributors include all the regulars plus a few new people: Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Patrick Masterson, Ray Garraty, Tim Clarke, Andrew Forell, Ian Mathers, Bryon Hayes, Jonathan Shaw and Chris Liberato. Happy spring, happy normal and happy listening!

Amulets — Blooming (The Flenser)

Blooming by AMULETS

Like a lot of us, Portland-based noise artist Randall Taylor discovered the solace of long walks during the pandemic. His work, which has always used tape degradation to explore the intersection of time, loss and technology, shifted to incorporate another source of decay: the natural world. So, in opening salvo, “Blooming,” alongside blistering onslaughts of eroded guitar sound, it is possible to hear the sounds of a fertile garden — birds, insects, air movement. You can nearly smell the flowers and feel the sunshine on your skin. “The New Normal” explores sounds of creaking, friction-y word and metal, alongside pristine chimes of synthetic tone. It is uneasy, with skittering string-like squeaks and swoops, but also deeply meditative; it shifts from moment to moment from anxiety to provisional acceptance, much as we all did last year, staring out our windows. Overall, the tone is elegiac, gorgeous, but Randall does not hesitate to introduce dissonance. “Heaviest Weight” thunders with frayed bass tones, a weight and a threat in their subliminal pulse. The contrast between that ominous sound and purer, clearer layers of melody, makes for unsettling listening—are we at war or peace, happy or sad, agitated or calm? And yet, perhaps that’s the point, that the past year has been swirl of feelings, boredom alongside anxiety, hope lighting the corners of our listlessness, the smell of flowers pleasing but faintly reminiscent of funerals. Blooming decocts this mix into sound.

Jennifer Kelly

Astute Palate — S-T (Petty Bunco)

Astute Palate by Astute Palate

Astute Palate is a hastily assembled group of rockers summoned to support David Nance in Philly on a date when he couldn’t bring the David Nance Band. Participants included Richie Records proprietor Richie Charles, Lantern’s Emily Robb, Writhing Squares/Purling Hiss/all around Philadelphia regular Daniel Provenzano on bass and, of course, Nance himself, all huddled together in Robb’s recording studio for a weekend together. None of this origin story does justice, however, to the pure liquid fire of this one-off musical collaboration, dominated by Nance’s viscous, distorted blues-inflected guitar wail, but knocked sideways by brute force drumming, wild hypnotic bass lines and the ritual incantation of Nance (and later Robb) singing. The long “Stall Out” does anything but, rampaging free-range in unbridled Crazy Horse/Allmans-style abandon for close to ten minutes without a single sputter. “A Little Proof” is somehow simultaneously heavier and more country, spinning out the soul-blues jams like a younger, unrulier cousin to MC5. “Treadin’ Schuylkill” gives Provenzano the spotlight, opening with a growling bass solo soon joined by heavy psych guitars (a nod, perhaps, to the illustrious locals in Bardo Pond). If Nance et. al. can pull stuff this fine out in a stray road warrior weekend, what are the rest of you doing with your lives?

Jennifer Kelly

Axis: Sova — Fractal (God?)

Fractal - EP by Axis: Sova

Axis: Sova is a combo of three Chicago guys plus one drum machine, which had already been inactive for two or three seasons before the initial COVID lockdown. This digital EP is their way of clearing up some business that could no longer remain undone. The title tune, “Fractal USA,” is a remake of a song from the early days, when the “band” was Brett Sova’s solo project, to full-on, no your pants aren’t tight enough rock band. They just needed you to know about the evolution, you see, so go ahead, do some scissor kicks and gurn while they windmill away; you have enough money saved up from not seeing live music to pay the inevitable chiropractor bill. “Caramel” hypothesizes that a Cluster song that’s played twice as loud and twice as long is twice as good; not sure if I agree, but it’s still not bad at all. Maybe you got a little weird after a few months of putting on your best mask for your daily trip to see if the stimulus check was in the mailbox? The Brenda Ray-meets-Old Black mash up, “(Don’t Wanna Have That) Dream,” is proof that while you were alone, you weren’t alone. If you’ve made it this far, you don’t need to have the fourth track described, so let’s just say that it’s longer.

Bill Meyer

Mattie Barbier — Three Spaces (self-released)

three spaces by mattie barbier

While perhaps best known as half of the trombone-centric new music duo RAGE Thormbones, Mattie Barbier is a member of several other combos and a sonic researcher under their own name. Three Spaces, which is a single, album-length sound file, has the air of experimentation about it. “What do I do,” one can imagine Barbier asking themself, “when I can’t play with other people?” Make music at home, and out of what’s at home, is the obvious answer. But doing isn’t the only point here; the outcome also matters, and while what Barbier has accomplished with Three Spaces sounds quite different from the RAGE Thormbones live experience, it registers quite strongly. Barbier has combined long tones and melodic fragments played on euphonium, trombone and reed organ, that were recorded both inside and outside of their home. Carefully layered, the source material combines into a sound rather like a bell’s toll, which over the course of nearly 39 minutes swells and recedes, but never quite decays; it ends with an imposed rather than natural fade-out. The sound is as deep as it is expansive, inviting the listener to let themselves fall ever father into its realm.

Bill Meyer

Beneath — On Tilt EP (Hemlock Recordings)

On Tilt EP by Beneath

One of the more pleasant surprises this year is the resuscitation of Untold’s Hemlock Recordings imprint. A vital voice in the post-dubstep fracas at the turn of the ‘10s thanks to releases from Hessle Audio’s Pearson Sound (when he was still Ramadanman) and Pangaea, James Blake, FaltyDL and Hodge to name but a handful, the label went dormant following a Ploy 12” in 2017 before the surprise announcement of Londoner Beneath’s On Tilt, which sounds every bit the sensible alliance in practice it looks on paper: These are low-end rumblers with irregular rhythms and spare melodic tics that worm their way into your brain in the best bone-humming fashion (see “Shambling” or “Lesser Circulation” for a good example). Who knows how long the return will last, but for a certain stripe of DMZ-damaged devotee and pretty much no one else, it’ll feel good to have some Hemlock in your life again. Tilt back, pour in.

Patrick Masterson

Black Spirit— El Sueño De La Razón Produce Monstruos (Infinite Night Records)

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More metal comes from South America than Spain, but these Europeans clear the high bar set by Latin America scenesters. The album’s title states that it was inspired by “El Sueño De La Razón Produce Monstruos.” That can testify both to lasting influence of Goya’s art and to the laziness of the current culture which seeks inspiration only from the most popular pictorial art of the past. The track “Ignorance and The Grotesque” perfectly captures the whole mood of the disc: it balances ignorant speeds, undecipherable vocals and grotesque parts with piano interludes and doom-ish atmosphere. It would be better without the grotesque, but that’s probably part of the baggage.

Ray Garraty

Burial + Blackdown — Shock Power of Love EP (Keysound Recordings)

Shock Power of Love EP by Burial

You might worry, occasionally, that Burial was becoming a victim of diminishing returns. Here, as ever, he uses a narrow palette to create tracks that few can emulate. However, even though the music has its rewards, it doesn’t clear the very high bar that his previous work has set. Thus “Dark Gethsemane” rides a 4/4 beat, angelic murmurs, vinyl crackle and a tightly ratcheted build that morphs into a sermon led by the repeated invocation “We must shock this nation with the power of love.” As his vocal samples become more explicit, the mystery of his music fades. This is all promise and no real resolution. “Space Cadet’ likewise sounds both gorgeous and minor with its soul gospel refrain “Take Me Higher” over an old-school jungle beat. At six plus minutes it would have been enough. It continues another three with an almost cartoonish second movement that lacks the subtlety that characterizes Burial’s best work.

Andrew Forell

Colleen — The Tunnel and the Clearing (Thrill Jockey)

The Tunnel and the Clearing by Colleen

While COVID messed with most people’s lives, it was both an endgame and an opportunity for Cécile Schott, the Frenchwoman who records under the name Colleen. She was just coming out of a series of health and personal dislocations, which resulted in her being newly healthy but alone in a new town just as the lockdown came down. Clearly, this was not a time for half measures, so she selected an entirely new instrumental set-up and settled in to make a record that reflected what she’d been through. Out went the viola da gamba and melodica that have figured prominently on her last few albums; in came a Moog synthesizer, a Yamaha organ, a tape echo and a drum machine.

Colleen’s voice, of course, remains the same. Airy and precise, her delivery doesn’t match the gravity of the experiences her songs describe. But that sense of remove is, perhaps, a reflection of one of adversity’s lessons; if you don’t stay stuck, you can wind up somewhere quite different. Between the keyboards’ cycling melodies and the drum machine’s fizzy beats, the music on The Tunnel and the Clearing imparts a sense of motion that carries her light voice along for the ride, dropping painful sentiments and letting them fall behind.

Bill Meyer

Current Joys — Voyager (Secretly Canadian)

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Nick Rattigan has been releasing music under the name Current Joys since 2013, and Voyager is his latest offering. It’s a dramatic and often brilliant collection of songs, bringing to mind the urgent rhythmic drive of Spoon, the dour grandeur of The Cure and the unapologetic emotional heft of Bright Eyes or early Arcade Fire. On Voyager’s standout, “American Honey,” a simple strummed backing and Rattigan’s vocal delivery are potent enough, but it’s the string section that proves devastating, cycling around for multiple punches to the gut. While more stripped-back songs such as “Big Star” and “The Spirit or the Curse” offer some respite along the way, Voyager does prove a little unwieldy. With 16 tracks clocking in at nearly an hour, the album’s execution doesn’t quite live up to its ambition. The wonky tom-tom rhythms of “Breaking the Waves” are more distracting than interesting; a serviceable cover of Rowland S. Howard’s “Shivers” feels more like an acknowledgment of influence than a striking interpretation; and the combined six minutes of the two-part instrumental title track may have worked better as shorter interludes. Nevertheless, plenty of Voyager’s tracks demonstrate Rattigan’s knack for a raw, emotive indie-rock tune.

Tim Clarke

Ducks Ltd — Get Bleak EP (Carpark Records)

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Toronto duo Ducks Ltd celebrates signing to Carpark with an expanded re-release of their 2018 debut EP Get Bleak. The pair — Tom Mcgreevy on vocals, rhythm and bass guitars and Evan Lewis on lead guitar — bonded over a shared love of 1980s indie bands. Their intricately constructed guitar interplay carries the DNA of Postcard and C86 over meaty bass lines that evoke Mighty Mighty as much as Orange Juice and McCarthy. The sprightly music belies the miserablism of the lyrics that focus on FOMO, poor decisions, screen induced isolation, the corrosive impact of gentrification and gig economies. Mcgreevy and Lewis don’t wallow, however. Their jaunty jangle is a paean to the joys of jumping about and singing along with those new favorite songs that suddenly mean everything and will stick with you long after the world’s shit slopes your shoulders.

Andrew Forell

Field Music — Flat White Moon (Memphis Industries)

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It’s easy to take Field Music for granted. Since 2005, the Brewis brothers have been making smartly composed and tightly executed guitar pop with obvious debts to The Beatles and XTC, and all their albums have fallen somewhere along the continuum from good to great (my personal favorites are 2010’s Measure and 2012’s Plumb). Album number eight, Flat White Moon, features the usual balance between Peter’s more pensive, bittersweet numbers with greater focus on piano and strings, such as “Orion From the Street” and “When You Last Heard From Linda,” and David’s funkier, more staccato cuts, such as “No Pressure” and “I’m the One Who Wants to Be With You.” Twelve songs, 40 minutes, tunes for days — what’s not to love? If you’ve yet to get acquainted with Field Music, Flat White Moon is as good an introduction as any.

Tim Clarke

Gabby Fluke-Mogul/Jacob Felix Heule/Kanoko Nishi-Smith — Non-Dweller (Humbler)

non-dweller by gabby fluke-mogul, Jacob Felix Heule, & Kanoko Nishi-Smith

With Non-Dweller, we have a trio of Bay-Area improvisers who certainly do not reside in one place for very long. There is an agitated freneticism about their interactions here, the performers acting like electrons seeking to release energy and break out of orbit. Each player brings a unique collection of timbres to the party with their implement of choice. Heule is a percussionist by trade yet focuses on extended techniques — mainly friction-based — as he wrests an unholy wail from the maw of his bass drum. Fluke-Mogul’s violin sways between tone generator and noise source. Nishi-Smith is a classically trained pianist who here is bowing and plucking the koto, or Japanese zither. The trio spend most of their time in sparring mode, their energies unleashed with synchrony as if in an elaborate dance. It is clear they have collaborated before. Heule and Nishi-Smith have been at it for over a decade; Fluke-Mogul joined the party in 2019. The most gorgeous moments happen when all three players are focused on friction: Heule slides across his drum, Fluke-Mogul soars with their violin and Nishi-Smith gracefully bows her koto. The energy is focused and particles collide, creating waves of tone. The players wrestle intensity into submission, and the ensuing sonorities are unmissable.

Bryon Hayes

FMB DZ — War Zone (Fast Money Boyz \ EMPIRE)

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Ever since FMB DZ got shot and moved out of Detroit, he has continued to release angry music. (He may not be more productive after the assault, but he’s certainly not less so.) War Zone is his latest effort, along with The Gift 3 and Ape Season, and DZ is back in his paranoiac mode and ready for vengeance. That’s hardly unusual in this type of music but DZ stands out because he’s a bit angrier, a bit more pressing and a bit more gifted than the next man. He doesn’t outdo himself in this tape, but rather mostly follows the blueprint of Ape Season. The standout track is “Spin Again.”

Ray Garraty

Ian M Fraser — Berserk (Superpang)

Berserk by Ian M Fraser

Ian M Fraser is kind enough to provide details about how he created and edited Berserk, although relatively few listeners are going to really know what “nonlinear feedback systems and waveset synthesis” are, let alone “sensormonitor primitives auditory perception software”. And fewer still will be able to focus on what that might mean while Berserk is actually playing, because the output of those programs and systems is immediately, viscerally clear. If a computer were actually capable of going rabid, feral, well, berserk, the human mind might imagine it sounds something like this. Over four shorter tracks and the relatively epic 8:26 of “The Cannibal,” Fraser either coaxes or allows (or both) his tools into the equivalent of something like what someone who knew very little about both genres might imagine is like a power electronics act playing free jazz or vice versa. It is absolutely viscerally thrilling (albeit probably easier to repeat at this length of 16 minutes than, say, 50) and will do the track the next time you feel like your brain needs a good hard scrub.

Ian Mathers

Human Failure — Crown on the Head of a King of Mud (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

Crown on the Head of a King of Mud by Human Failure

It’s tough to figure out if the band’s name is meant specifically to apply to D. Cornejo (sole member of Human Failure) or to the general field of human failure, which grows ever more capacious. Whatever the intent, Human Failure makes thoroughly unlovable music, pitched somewhere on the continuum that runs from the primitivist death metal to stenchcore to harsh noise. This reviewer is especially fond (yep, somehow that’s the only word for it) of the title track of this 10” record: “Crown on the Head of a King of Mud” sloughs and slogs along for two minutes, sort of like one of the ripest zombies in Romero’s Day of the Dead (1985), wandering about and slowly falling to pieces in Florida’s tumid heat. Just as that last bit of flesh is poised to slide from bone, the song unexpectedly breaks into a run. Where is it going? What’s the rush? No one knows. Things eventually bottom out into “Disassembling Morality,” a static-and-distortion laden electronic interlude that might squeak and spark for a bit too long — but then “Your Hope Is a Noose” shambles into the frame. That zombie seems to have found some equally noisome and truculent friends. They djent and pogo around for a while, and the song has a lot more fun than seems called for by the band name. Cornejo might be pissed off by the myriad manmade disasters and outright catastrophes that burden the earthball (he’s sure angry as heck about something…). But the record ends up being sort of successful, if deafening, grinding, growling stench is on the agenda. All things considered, why wouldn’t it be?

Jonathan Shaw

Insub Meta Orchestra — Ten / Sync (Insub)

Ten / Sync by INSUB META ORCHESTRA

Ten / Sync was recorded in September, 2020; not exactly lockdown time, but certainly not out of the pandemic woods. It’s no small task to keep any 50-strong orchestra going, let alone one devoted to experimental music. So, if you already have one, then having it perform during a pandemic is just another challenge among many. So, the Swiss-based orchestra assembled three groups of musicians, numbering 31 in all, and assembled their contributions during post-production. While this did not provide the social experience that IMO’s gatherings usually impart to participants, an outcome that just isn’t the same seems awfully representative of the time, right? And since one Insub Meta Orchestra subspeciality is making music that sounds like it was performed by many fewer players than were actually present, this collection of sustained chords concealing tiny actions and apparently disassembled passages is actually very representative of the ensemble’s music.

Bill Meyer

Amirtha Kidambi & Matteo Liberatore — Neutral Love (Astral Editions)

Neutral Love by Amirtha Kidambi & Matteo Liberatore

With her own group, the Elder Ones, and in Mary Halvorson’s Code Girl, singer Amirtha Kidambi shows how far you can take a song while still giving the meanings of words and the boundaries of form their dues. But Neutral Love, like her two tapes with Lea Bertucci, explores the territory outside the tower of song. The main structures for this improvised encounter with electric guitarist Matteo Liberatore seem to be a shared agreement to exclude certain options. Song form and overt displays of chops are right out; the patient manipulation of sounds is where it’s at. Liberatore opts mostly for swelling and subsiding resonations, while Kidambi spends a lot of time finding out what’s hiding at the back of her throat, drawing it out, and then tying it into elaborate shapes. Patient and eerie, these four tracks find a place adjacent to Charalambides at their most abstract, and make it their own.

Bill Meyer

Kosmodemonic — Liminal Light (Transylvanian Recordings)

KOSMODEMONIC - LIMINAL LIGHT by KOSMODEMONIC

NYC outfit Kosmodemonic is among the recent wave of metal bands attempting to effect an organic-sounding synthesis of numerous subgenres: a slurry of sludge, a bit of black metal, a dose of doom, and a hit or two of the lysergic. When it works — as it does on a number of tracks on the band’s long new cassette Liminal Light — it’s an exciting sound. Songs like “Moirai” and “Broken Crown” manage to couple tuneful riffs, dirty tone and a muscular bottom end in ways that feel thumping, groovy and pretty weird. You’ll want to bump your butt around even as you’re looking for something to break. But the tape is pretty long, and the further afield Kosmodemonic gets from that mid-tempo groove, the more middling (and sometimes muddled) the material sounds. “With Majesty” can’t quite find its rhythmic footing in its more technical passages, and the song’s sludgier sections feel like compromises, rather than interesting maneuvers. But the record begins and finishes with really strong songs. Both “Drown in Drone” and “Unnaming Unlearning” embrace scale, letting their big riffs rip. When “Unnaming Unlearning” slips into complex sections of blackened and distorted dissonance, the drama surges. Formal experiment and manipulation of mood fold into each other. The song gets interesting, even as it’s reaching for a peak. And then it ends, suddenly, violently. It’s pretty good. Your impulse is to flip the tape and hear it again, which is just what Kosmodemonic wants you to do. Well played, dudes.

Jonathan Shaw

Sarah Louise — Earth Bow (Self-Released)

Earth Bow by Sarah Louise

Asheville-based songwriter Sarah Louise wants to be your personal nature interpreter. The titles of her recordings, from her debut Field Guide through Deeper Woods and Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars are like planetary signposts pointing to a more intimate relationship with our planet as a living organism. With each successive release, her music has also become more and more organic sounding, culminating with Earth Bow, in which Louise herself is arms deep in humus, communing with birds and insects. Recordings of creation feature prominently; katydids, spring peeper frogs, a creek and various birds are credited as providing additional singing, augmenting the artist’s own mellifluous voice. For a recording in which the track titles and lyrics are focused on nature and Louise’s experiences therein, there are a lot of digital elements. Her 12-string guitar is prominent in places, but synths are everywhere: in the background, bouncing around like shooting stars, and mimicking the various fauna that they accompany. Yet the earthly and the machine-made are not juxtaposed, they are blended. The vocals, which center the recordings, tie both elements together nicely. Earth Bow is a tasty concoction, in which a variety of ingredients are married in botanical bliss.

Bryon Hayes

Le Mav — “Supersonic (Feat. Tay Iwar)” (Immaculate Taste)

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Nigeria’s alté scene has been bubbling for a couple of years now on the backs of guys like Odunsi (The Engine) and Santi, and Gabriel Obi bka Le Mav is no stranger to the fray, having produced Santi’s “Sparky,” Aylø and a recurring favorite of his, singer Tay Iwar. The two have already collaborated at length (for songs off Iwar’s debut album Gemini in 2019, as well as the entirety of last year’s Gold EP), so the comfort level here is established. It shows: Iwar’s smooth-as vocals match Le Mav’s breezy piano descent and gentle rhythmic shuffle in an easygoing song that matches anything you might hear coming from Miguel, Frank Ocean or the Sun-El Musician orbit. “If it feels right, touch the sky,” Iwar suggests early on. Well, don’t mind if I do.

Patrick Masterson

Sugar Minott — “I Remember Mama” (Emotional Rescue)

I Remember Mama by Sugar Minott

At some point after Lincoln Barrington Minott had left Kingston and his early dancehall and lovers rock legacy with Studio One and Black Roots behind for cooler climates and the old world of London, he ran into producer Steve Parr at the Wackies offices. Story goes that the two decided to start up Sound Design Studio with the intent to record and mix for ads, film and music — but scant evidence of this idea exists beyond “I Remember Mama,” released on 7” and 12” in 1985 and reissued for the first time since via Stuart Leath and his long-trusted Emotional Rescue imprint. Parr does most of the work on the recording (Andy MacDonald shines on tenor sax and Paul Uden guitar in the original credits), but it’s all about the sweetness Sugar brings to the table: With backing from two accomplished performers in their own right, Janette Sewell and Shola Phillips, Minott’s naturally relaxed delivery shines through on this. “Sound Design” is a dubbier instrumental version that retains Sewell’s and Phillips’ vocals, and Dan Tyler (half of Idjut Boys) provides an even spacier, handclap-laden 11-minute remix, but while both variants are excellent, the boogie of the original is unassailable. Look for the vinyl to hit in July.

Patrick Masterson

Jessica Ackerley — Morning/mourning (Cacophonous Revival)

Morning/mourning by Jessica Ackerley

It makes sense that Wendy Eisenberg wrote the liner notes to Morning/mourning, since they and Jessica Ackerley are bound by a shared commitment to string-craft. Both have a deep idiomatic foundation in jazz guitar, but neither is willing to be confined by what they’ve learned. In the case of Morning/mourning, that means that patiently paced ruminations upon Derek Bailey-like harmonics sit side by side with frantic but rigorously scripted forays that sound a bit like Jim Hall might if he input the contents of his French press intravenously. This album’s nine tracks observe passings and new beginnings, since Ackerley pulled the recording together while in quarantine, shortly before leaving Manhattan for Honolulu, and titled some of them in tribute to a pair of guitar teachers who were taken by 2020. But in their attention to tone, harmony, velocity and structure, these pieces, like Eisenberg’s records, speak as much to intellect as to emotion.

Bill Meyer

Nadja & Disrotted — Split (Roman Numeral Records)

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It makes a certain kind of sense for Nadja and Disrotted to tackle a split together; although both bands traffic in a particularly foreboding strain of doom metal, they also share a weird sort of comfort. There’s a sense more of horrible things happening around you than to you, like you’re in the eye of the storm or maybe in a bathysphere plunged to crushing depths. There is a precision to the menace, a measured quality to the noise. And they get there when they get there; as Dusted’s Jonathan Shaw pointed out in his review of Disrotted’s Cryongenics, “Pace seems to be the point.” This excellent split doesn’t shy away from these commonalities while still highlighting the distinct timbres of each act, with Nadja settling into and then returning to one of their indelibly titanic bass riffs throughout the 19-minute “From the Lips of a Ghost in the Shadow of a Unicorn's Dream” and Disrotted somehow conjuring the feeling of a massive structure corroding and collapsing on the 15-minute “Pastures for the Benighted”. When the latter slams to a half, one last hit echoing away, the listener may find themselves feeling equally relieved the onslaught is over and kind of missing both sides’ pulverizing embrace.

Ian Mathers

Nasimiyu — POTIONS (Figureight)

P O T I O N S by nasimiYu

Nasimiyu’s songs bounce and shimmy with complex rhythms, her background as a dancer and percussionist for Kabells and Sharkmuffin coming through in the intricate interplay of handclaps, breathy beat-boxing, rattling metal implements, all manner of drums and, not least, her lithe, twining vocal lines. “Watercolor” blossoms out of a burst of choral “la”s, each note allowed to flower briefly before behind cut off with a knife-edge; these are organic sounds shaped with mechanical precision. Against this background, Nasimiyu herself enters, her voice fluttery and syncopated, a bit like Neneh Cherry. The mix is full of separate elements, the backing vocals, a synthesizer working as a bass, handclaps, Nasimiyu’s singing, but the song remains light and translucent. “Feelings,” sings Nasimiyu, “I am in my feelings,” and so, for a moment, are we. Nasimiyu is half Kenyan and half Scandinavian-American, and you can hear a bit of East Africa in the surging sweetness of choral singing on “Immigrant Hustle.” But there’s a post-modern gloss over everything, as the singer brings in sonic elements from jazz, electronica, dance, pop and afro-beat. Yet however many layers are added, the sound remains bright and clear, a bead curtain of musical sensation whose elements click faintly as they brush together, but remain essentially separate.

Jennifer Kelly

Carlos Niño & Friends — More Energy Fields, Current (International Anthem)

More Energy Fields, Current by Carlos Niño & Friends

Multi-instrumentalist and producer Carlos Niño latest album which straddles and largely crosses the line between spiritual jazz and new age ambience features friends from both worlds including Shabaka Hutchings, Jamael Dean, Dntel and Laraaji. Niño, who plays percussion and synthesizer, edited, mixed and produced the album from recordings made in 2019 and 2020 in a variety of settings. The results are largely low-key soundscapes designed to assist meditation on the fields and current of the title. Much evocation of the natural world, chiming eastern influenced percussion and layers of acoustic and synthetic keys that are lovely but tend to lull. It is the slightly disruptive reeds that prick the ears here, Aaron Hall’s plangent tenor on “Now the background is foreground,” Devin Daniels’ alto phrasing on “Together” and Hutchings’ expressive duet with Dean on “Please, wake up.”

Andrew Forell

Shane Parish — Disintegrated Satellites (Bandcamp subscription)

Disintegrated Satellites EP by Shane Parish

The normally ultra-productive Shane Parish didn’t put out a lot of music in 2020, and none of what did come out was recorded that year. It turns out that he was busy giving guitar lessons via zoom and moving from North Carolina to Georgia, but we’re well into a new year and he’s back in Bandcamp. This three tune EP doesn’t declare a new direction, of which Parish has had many, so much as an integration of his interests in American folk music and far Eastern tonalities. Simultaneously familiar and alien, but above all propulsive, it serves notice that the time for reflection has passed.

Bill Meyer

Séketxe — “Caixão de Luxo” (Chasing Dreams)

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The thing that gets your attention about Séketxe is… well, everything: how many of them there are (i.e., how you can’t really tell who’s in the group and who isn’t), how they’re all propellant, a musical bottle rocket bursting out of your speakers, confrontationally in your face on camera — and how much fun it looks like they’re having. Somewhere out there beyond the reaches of kuduro and Mystikal lie the Angolan barks and rasps of this youthful sextet, who trade verses (and a soothing harmony drizzled right across the madness at around 1:40) among one another over an Eddy Tussa sample on a beat by producer about town Smash Midas. What are they on about? My Portuguese is nonexistent, let alone my Luandan slang, but even I can tell that title translates to “luxury casket.” Anyway, it’s bonkers and if you’re looking for a jolt your morning joe doesn’t deliver anymore, Séketxe oughta do it. You’ll never catch me thanking an algorithm, but I guess it’s true the maths can serve it up right every once in a while. Séketxe is the proof.

Patrick Masterson

Tōth — You and Me and Everything (Northern Spy)

You And Me And Everything by Tōth

The title of Alex Toth’s solo debut, Practice Magic and Seek Professional Help When Necessary, alludes to his belief in music as therapy — that there’s an alchemy in the process, yet one that can’t necessarily be depended on to pull you out of an emotional hole when that hole gets too deep. On his new album, You and Me and Everything, all of his recent personal struggles are out in the open. There’s the tale of when he was so fucked up he couldn’t play trumpet at a family funeral (“Turnaround (Cocaine Song)”); there’s leaning on songwriting as a means to process the pain of heartbreak (“Guitars are Better Than Synthesizers for Writing Through Hard Times”); and there’s his ongoing battle with anxiety (“Butterflies”). While such heavy emotional terrain could prove hard-going, Toth approaches everything with a playfulness, a lightness of touch and a gentle haze to the production. Plus, he gets a helping hand from Jenn Wasner (Wye Oak, Flock of Dimes), who lends backing vocals to standout “Daffadowndilly,” which taps into the woozy gorgeousness of prime Robert Wyatt.

Tim Clarke

Mara Winter — Rise, follow (Discreet Editions)

Rise, follow by Mara Winter

For people with busy performance schedules, 2020 posed a problem; how do you stay busy and creative when you can’t do what you usually do? Mara Winter, an American-born, Swiss-based flute player who specializes in Renaissance-era repertoire and instruments, used it to forge a new creative identity. In partnership with experimental composer and multi-instrumentalist Clara de Asís, she began exploring the commonalities between early, composed music and contemporary approaches and developed a platform to disseminate documents of that research into the world. Rise, follow, the inaugural release of Discreet Editions, is an hour-long piece for two Renaissance-style bass flutes played by Winter and Johanna Bartz. The two musicians played long, overlapping tones with contrast attacks, pushing on until they grew so tired from hefting those woodwinds that they just couldn’t play anymore. Effectively the performance unit is a trio, since the two musicians had to accommodate or collaborate with the reverberant acoustics of Basel’s Kartäuserkirche. The church’s echo threw sounds back at the player, turning pure tones into blurred timbres. While the instrumentation is antique, the ideas about sound combination and endurance have more to do with Morton Feldman, Phill Niblock and Aíne O’Dwyer. The result is music that is simultaneously meditative and as heavy as a bench-pressing competition.

Bill Meyer

Wurld Series — What’s Growing (Melted Ice Cream)

What's Growing by Wurld Series

Some reviewers of What’s Growing, the second album by New Zealand’s Wurld Series, have managed to avoid making Pavement comparisons, but it’s hard to fathom their restraint. Brief opener “Harvester” feels like you’re being dropped mid-solo into a random Wowee Zowee track; the guitar tone on lead single “Nap Gate,” on the other hand, sounds like it's nicked straight from Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. And while singer/guitarist Luke Towart doesn’t attempt to match Malkmus’ flamboyance in the vocal delivery department, their voices and wry lyrical observations bear a distinct resemblance to one another. “Caught beneath a dull blade / What a mess that would make” he sings on “Distant Business” before the song reaches its finale where guitar solos blast off from atop other guitar solos in an array of complementary textures. But besides being a ridiculously fun guitar pop record, What’s Growing is also threaded through with a British psych folk vibe replete with Mellotron flute — and the two styles blend seamlessly together thanks to Towart’s partner in crime, producer/drummer Brian Feary (Salad Boys, Dance Asthmatics). So, whether you're looking for a great summer indie rock record or you’ve ever wondered what the Fab Five from Stockton might’ve sounded like if they’d stuck to short songs and had more flutes, this one’s for you.

Chris Liberato

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queerbutstillhere · 5 years ago

Text

Bart was shaking.

Not from fear. Kon worried somedays that the speedster didn't actually know what fear was (he did, the nightmares confirmed that). He was just shaking, arms crossed over his small chest, teeth chattering.

He was cold.

Kon tilted his head, watching Bart for a moment, a little closer, noting how he was blurring slightly around the edges, trying to stay warm. They were standing in Central City, Town square, in the middle of winter, Kon had been helping the Flash fam with a supervillain and now they were cleaning up the aftermath and doing some reports.

Finally Kon just walked over, ducking his head to bring his mouth down by Bart's ear.

"Are you cold?"

"No!" Bart huffed out defensively, yet pouted up at his boyfriend.

Kon chuckled, reaching up and shrugging off his leather jacket. Bart's eyes widened under his goggles slightly, watching as Kon flipped the jacket around and slipped it over Bart's small shoulders. It was huge on him, but he immediately slid his arms into the sleeves and huddled into it.

"Superboy! Can you help me with this?!" Barry's voice called.

"Sure! Be right there!" Kon called, glancing back at the Flash, who was eyeing a statue they had knocked over accidentally.

He gently tilted Bart's chin up, lightly kissing him. "I'll be right back. Please don't freeze."

Bart just grinned up at him, wrapped up in the warm leather. Kon laughed lightly and went to help Barry.

Two hours later, they were with the other Teen Titans, preparing to run drills and Bart still had his jacket on. There was no reason for him to have it, it wasn't cold in San Francisco, but he did. It really was big on him, the sleeves went several inches past his arms, and it seemed almost inconvenient, how much extra leather there was, but Bart didn't seem to mind, just stood there, with his little jacket paws.

Kon certainly didn't mind either. He had always had a Thing™ for seeing his partners in his jackets and shirts and Bart was certainly no exception. In fact it was almost worse with Bart.

Kon watched Tim walk up to Bart and hand him a clipboard, then watched Bart struggle to write with his jacket paws.

"You could just take off the jacket?" Tim suggested, giving Bart an amused smile.

Bart gasped in horror. "I could never! How dare you suggest such a thing! My wonderful, amazing boyfriend gave me his jacket so I didn't freeze to death, I can't just take it off."

Kon felt himself grinning, even as his face was the human embodiment of the heart eye emoji.

From somewhere behind him, Cassie was laughing at their expense, but Kon didn't care. Because his truly tiny boyfriend was wearing his jacket and he fuckin loved it.

#this was for the bartkon group chat #they didnt request it #i just wanted to write it #bartkon #konbart #bartxkon #bart allen #conner kent #queerbutstillhere writes #queerbutstillhere

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fidothefinch · 6 years ago

Text

Dick and Dami Week 2019, Day 3: Injury

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Dick had to stop with his mask halfway to his face, grimacing as the movement caused his ribs to scream at him. He set the mask down again to steady himself.

The mirror was cool against his forehead, and he watched his reflection until his breath fogged the surface in slow, even gusts. Then he steeled himself and straightened his back again.

When he checked, he could only see the faintest of bulk around his ribs through his Nightwing costume, and he was looking for it. If he was careful, Damian would have no idea of the extensive bandaging during tonight’s patrol. It was imperative it stayed that way.

The brothers were in separate cities again, living their own lives. Damian didn’t want space, but he needed it if he was going to have any chance to bond with Bruce. So far, things had been getting better, from what Dick heard. But tonight was a rare night, planned a few weeks in advance. Bruce was out of town for a Wayne Enterprises conference; Tim and Cass were back in town to keep Gotham sane in Batman’s absence. Robin wasn’t allowed on patrol without a partner yet.

And, well, Nightwing was available.

After checking that the spirit gum was still tacky, Dick lifted his mask to his face again. This time he ignored the twinges of pain in his ribs. Under the bandages and the topical anesthetic, there were a smattering of deep purple bruises up his left side, hip to shoulder. Getting thrown from a moving vehicle into a concrete wall would do that. Nothing was broken; he had checked. Bruised, maybe even fractured, but nothing serious.

Didn’t mean he was going to tell Alfred.

As if on cue, there was a soft tap at his bedroom window. Dick couldn’t help his grin as he slid it open. “Hey, kiddo. You’re early.”

Robin shrugged. “The others wanted to get a head start, so they dropped me off early.” He stepped inside, gracefully but with a bit of bounce in his step. There was a bag in his hands. “Agent A insisted I bring you food.”

Dick laughed. “Can you put it in the kitchen for me? I have one last thing to do before we set out.”

Damian tutted. “Burning moonlight,” he muttered.

Dick hesitated before he returned to the bathroom. “Hey, Robin?”

Damian stopped halfway through unpacking homemade bread and were those cookies? “What?”

Dick couldn’t help it, bending down and wrapping an arm around him. “Missed you.”

The corners of Damian’s lips lifted, and he leaned slightly into the embrace. Dick hid his wince behind Damian’s shoulder. “Tt. Of course you did. Who else would keep you on track during patrol?”

Dick rolled his eyes teasingly. “Yeah, yeah. Just a minute, okay?”

Damian waved his hand dismissively, frowning at the cupboard full of cereal and protein bars he opened.

The second Dick shut the bathroom door behind him, he took a deep breath. Immediately regretted it. He ran some water through his hair, pulling it back out of his face in the Nightwing style, and used it as an excuse to splash some of the excess in his face.

He was still fixing his escrima to his back when he opened the bathroom door, only to almost run into Damian. The boy’s brow was furrowed, and he held up a prescription bottle. “What is this?”

Shit. Dick didn’t need to read the fine print to know it was his painkillers. Feigning nonchalance, he asked, “Where’d you find those?”

“They were sitting on the counter.” Damian rolled the bottle in his hand. “You’ve been injured.”

Dick took the bottle from the boy’s hands. “Nah, Jason was here a few nights ago. I told him to put it away, but you know him.”

Dick put the bottle away, in the hidden medicine cabinet behind the fake wall under his sink. Damian watched his actions, eyes narrowed. Dick fought the urge to hold his breath. Finally, after what felt like forever but must have been only half a second, Damian shook his head. “Todd is an imbecile.”

Dick bit his tongue as he rose back to standing, ribs and back aching. “You ready?”

Instantly, Damian’s posture shifted into something excited. “I’ve been waiting on you.”

Dick grinned. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

They both slipped out the window of Dick’s top-floor apartment.

And if Dick’s breath caught when he ducked through, Damian didn’t notice.

It became very clear, very quickly, that Dick’s goal of making it through the entire patrol was a fantasy.

“He’s headed to the alley by Finnley’s,” Robin huffed, somehow keeping pace with the much taller vigilante.

Nightwing squinted at the man they were chasing. Would-be mugger, wielding a knife and terrible breath. They had been chasing him for nearly five minutes now, and every time either of Dick’s feet hit the pavement his ribs jarred, making him short of breath faster than would be normal for him. “Yeah,” he said, eloquently. Then, he was struck with an idea. “We can cut him off—”

“You follow, I’ll go ahead,” Robin said brusquely.

“Wait, Robin—” Nightwing protested. But the kid was already grappeling up the nearest wall, out of earshot.

Dick rolled his eyes. Maybe he had been spending too much time with Bruce.

As predicted, the mugger stumbled as he changed course toward the diner. Dick had no choice but to follow, hoping that Robin was being smart with his poor choices.

He wasn’t expecting to round the corner at the end and get a stomach-full of knife.

He gasped, reacting on instinct to knock the attacker back. The man had a wild look in his eyes, and he yelled as he swung the bloody knife toward Nightwing again.

Dick dodged, managing to disarm the mugger in the process.

The man, fueled by adrenaline, swung his fist out, landing it squarely over Dick’s left ribs.

Dick’s vision went white, and he fell to a knee, clutching his left side like he would split in half if he let go.

The man took the opportunity to turn and continue down the alley. He didn’t make it far. Nightwing opened watering eyes at the soft thud of flesh on flesh, watching Robin dispatch the mugger with unfamiliar smoothness. Even gasping for breath as he was, Nightwing smiled at the nostalgia of it. Robin’s form had improved.

“Nightwing!” Booted feet ran up next to him, then knees were dropping into his vision. “Nightwing, status?”

Dick, still clutching his side, shook off a hovering hand and rose to his feet. “I’m okay, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been stabbed,” Robin grumbled.

Dick looked down. There was a slightly darker patch around a slit in his uniform. He was bleeding. “Oh, right.”

They stumbled back into Dick’s apartment, Dick smearing blood all over Damian’s cape where the smaller boy supported him.

“I don’t understand what happened,” Damian said. He dragged a towel off a rack and laid it out on the floor. Dick only half-protested as he was gently but forcibly told to lie down on it.

Dick shrugged (with one shoulder; the other was still keeping his left side from falling off). “He got the jump on me.”

Damian cursed as he pulled Dick’s first aid from beneath the sink.

“Hey,” Dick reprimanded. “Language.”

That, at least, got Damian to scowl up at him. Dick grinned, moving to sit up. “Come on, I can take care of this. It’s not even that bad; I think it just barely grazed me.”

“Tt. Don’t be ridiculous. If you try to do it from your angle, you’ll make an even bigger mess.” Damian set a firm hand against his shoulder and pushed down. “I can do this. Pennyworth taught me.”

Dick acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. He unzipped the top half of his suit and let Damian help him peel it off. Then he closed his eyes, knowing what was coming.

Damian went quiet, staring at the white bandages wrapped around Dick’s chest. His eyes flicked up to Dick’s, then returned. “What is this?”

Dick took a breath to explain. It was too deep; he grimaced.

Damian was already cutting the bandages away with the first aid scissors. When he uncovered the mottled skin, his jaw went tight.

Yep, definitely had spent too much time around Bruce. Dick rested his head back against the floor.

“You’re hurt.”

Dick flinched at the tone. It wasn’t angry, it was disappointed. “Damian—” he was cut off by Damian probing the worst of the bruises with two fingers. “Ow! You should warn somebody before—”

“They’re fractured.”

Dick blinked, looking down at his own bruising. It did look a little worse. “In my defense, it wasn’t that bad before tonight.”

Damian sat back on his heels. “You knew you were hurt, and you went on patrol? Like this? You could have gotten yourself—” he cut himself off, and Dick watched a dark cloud pass over his face. “You lied to me.”

Dick wiped a hand down his face. “This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.”

Damian’s lips were pursed. “No, it wasn’t.”

And there were words to say, Dick was sure, but he couldn’t find them. Instead, he reached a hand up to rest on Damian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Damian shrugged Dick’s hand off, and Dick pulled it back like he had been burned. The smaller boy pulled antiseptic from the first aid and poured it over the bleeding cut without warning.

Dick hissed at the sting. “I deserved that.”

Damian didn’t react, only numbly wiped the remainder away and said, “You’re lucky. It looks shallow.”

The next few minutes passed in silence, Damian cleaning and patching up the cut, and, with Dick’s help, wrapping his ribs in fresh bandages. Dick watched the kid chew on his bottom lip for the majority of it, and knew that pressing would only make him shrink into himself.

It wasn’t until Dick was sitting up again that Damian voiced his thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dick blinked, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t sound juvenile after the fact.

Damian filled the quiet with his own answers. “Do you not trust me? Did you think I would think less of you because of an injury like that?”

Oh. Oh. Dick had a flashback to Damian’s first few weeks as Robin. The kid hid a sprained ankle for days before Dick confronted him about it, and then only because it was obviously getting worse. And Damian had been terrified of being found out.

Talia had taught him to be.

Dick’s stomach rolled at the thought that his own stupidity was making Damian question his place in the family. Again.

“No,” he said, with as much certainty as he could imbue in the word. “No, Damian, that’s not it.” He pulled the boy down—he yelped with surprise—into a hug. Didn’t even care how much it hurt. “I trust you with my life. I just—I haven’t seen you in a long time, and I didn’t want you to worry about me.”

Damian went still in his arms, and then abruptly snorted. “That’s stupid.” He sat up and finally peeled off his own domino to look at Dick. “I’m always worried about you, you stupid oaf. It’s my job.”

Dick couldn’t help but smile. “I guess you’re right.” He shifted, winced, and apologetically asked, “If you can help me up, I can go ahead and call Tim and Cass and have them come pick you up.”

Damian frowned. “Oh.”

Dick was quick to catch onto his hesitation. “Unless you want to stay?”

Damian looked like he was going to protest, so he continued, “I need someone to make sure I don’t do anything stupid again.”

Damian was trying to hide his smile, but Dick knew him to well to miss it. “I suppose you’re correct. There’s only one way to fix fractured ribs, I’m afraid.”

And so that’s how Dick found himself on the couch, empty ice cream containers on the floor, little furnace of a brother curled into his good side, fast asleep.

#dickanddamiweek2019 #dick grayson #damian wayne #batfam #finch's fics #fido writes

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nochedura · 6 years ago

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bane “nochedura” bane timeline of events

so the thing about bane is most of the shit written with him in it is a) racist, b) ooc, c) a horrible mix of both, or d) uses him because of his status as Bat Breaker as a way to show someone else’s strength which is often times not realistic (ex. theres a new villain in town and to show how tough they are they clowned on bane). a lot of interpretations tend to forget he is brawn And brain (tbh i tend to write him as a strategist first and a fighter second) and its all just a mess.

this interpretation of bane is an attempt to right these wrongs and also streamline his canon a bit because we All Know comics are a mess and extremely inconsistent but especially with characters who don’t get their own titles. nochedura is an anti-hero and also currently on the path of redemption. obviously he’s still not nice and has done a lot of Fuck Shit but yknow. who hasnt.

with that in mind this is a very broad timeline of events that have happened to this bane in particular (with the links to the comics accompanying these events) to clarify what the heck is happening with this man and why he’s like this. im taking a lot of liberties here but fuck everybody im god. without further ado.

bane is born in pena duro. he grows up under the prison’s influence, gets a vision that he was born to rule and in order to become his ideal self he must kill his fear (which takes the form of a bat, obviously), spends 10 years in the cavidad obscura* after killing a man at 6 y/o, and comes out the biggest and the strongest. he trains his body and his mind (by reading thousands upon thousands of books) as he pursues self actualization. he learns from his ally bird that the greatest city in the world is gotham and it is ruled by batman and he decides to break out of prison and kill him to take gotham by force. he is selected for venom experimentation and is the only survivor of the drug’s intensity. the venom aids him in his efforts to get to gotham (if you read nothing else on this list read vengeance of bane #1 (+ 2) because its Good and its required bane reading material)

bane relocates to gotham after kidnapping and killing pena duro’s warden and studies batman. he’s able to figure out his secret identity within a few months and unleashes everybody from arkham city with the intent of mentally and physically breaking bruce so that he can kill him. this culminates in the final confrontation in which batman isn’t even strong enough to fight back and bane decides that killing him would be a mercy and breaks his back. (knightfall is long and incomprehensible so i’ll just link the directory page and broken bat #11)

bane rules gotham for a while and its sexy up until batman’s replacement azrael clowns on him. the fight’s pretty sexy but honestly i dont care about this that much. (he who rules the night #11)

after losing to azrael bane does some silent contemplation in black gate prison. he was taken off of venom cold turkey and suffers through crippling withdraws but he, and i quote, “bears the pain.” he realizes venom was, in fact, poisoning him and taking him further away from his Ideal Self. he finds out venom is being further distributed and after some nonsense breaks out of prison Again to track these clowns down. he has a confrontation with bruce who he tells he has no qualms with, decides he wants to find his father, and presumably goes back to santa prisca. this is also the beginning of bane coming to the conclusion that he’s an innocent man which comes up later. (vengeance of bane #2)

so this is where im Really taking liberties. this is what i’m choosing to call the switcheroo arc where i clown around and decide im in charge and im going to make this more comprehensive. bane goes to santa prisca and gets told that there are five men who could be his dad and it probably takes some time to narrow down that list (while also finding out who each of these men are) so i’m declaring that’s what he’s doing for a while. this search is ongoing and doesnt stop until, well, he finds him. he’s still a villain at this point even though he claims to be innocent.

this is also where he’s knocking out some loose ends. specifically he tracks down a reporter who interviewed him as a teen and murders him for knowing something that could paint him as sympathetic. (batman secret files #2)

it’s at this point that he joins up with the secret six. he probably does this for the purpose of networking and garnering information, but then gets sort of swept up in everything and grows extremely attached to scandal savage, who he takes in as an adopted daughter. secret six 2008 is long and has a lot going on but its a good time. (SPOILERS) at the end of it he convinces everyone in the group to go on a suicide mission with an ulterior motive of severing his attachments to them because he feels that his affection has weakened him. everything goes according to plan and he breaks out of a police van and fucks off. (/SPOILERS) (secret six 2008)

after some time away from all that he gets into a feud with ra’s al ghul who wanted bane as his heir but some bullshit happened with talia, i forget, this doesnt matter to me, what Does matter is he’s now on a crusade to fuck up all the lazarus pits for funsies. this is also the point where he realizes one of the men on his Dad List is thomas wayne. he confronts bruce about this and everyone in the batfam is, understandably, cross. but bruce is nothing without his rehabilitation shtick so he goes crime stopping with bane in the batmobile until the results of the drug test come out and thomas is not, in fact, the father. this absolutely crushes bane for reasons he doesnt understand (he’s a lonely man and it turns out he Does need a family) but batman tells bane if he proves he’s Actually innocent by, yknow, stopping crime rather than doing crime, then he’ll help him find his actual dad. he agrees, but uses... unconventional (read: horrific) methods. (gotham knights #33-36) (tw for rape)

bane continues fighting crime and trying to prove his innocence and change/redeem himself up until he actually finds his real dad who is.......... king snake! who at this point in the canon is really fucked up and somehow alive in the himalayas and is just a real mean son of a bitch. bane is conflicted because like, hey cool, a dad, but also, he kinda sucks! bane’s kinda fucked up himself because he’s been climbing up a mountain and he’s a little brain sicky so i think hes just like... trying to absorb everything and then the bat crew shows up because they do Not like the idea of bane finding his dad who is king snake who is also at a fucking lazarus pit. king snake gets pissed when they show up and starts attacking and almost shoots batman but bane, distraught, jumps in front of the bullet and takes several in the back, lamenting that he wishes thomas was his father and not king snake. king snake ends up getting killed(?) and batman dunks bane in the remainder of the lazarus pit and gets brought back to life, reborn and changed. (gotham knights #47-49)

at this point this is just. my own writing. i guess. but after bane, yknow, literally died for bruce, bruce realizes that bane truly has bettered himself and is on the path of becoming a good man. he welcomes bane into the vigilante side and, eventually, to the batfam itself. when a man breaks your back and then takes several machine gun bullets for you a few years later i figure batman’s like... alright we’re square. comics are like that.

this is also where bane realizes he was wrong to cut ties with the secret six and seeks out scandal savage and her wives and brings them back into his life as his adopted daughter (and daughters in law)

so bane’s just... clowning now. he’s still like, brutal, and when he’s fighting baddies he’s not opposed to just Wrecking their shit (see: the time he used one of mr. freeze’s goons’ freeze gun on his arm) and i think he definitely does some murders but only if it’s like. the sort of bastard who really deserves it(tm) so like. mass murderers. the joker. sex criminals. etc. he’s not always in bruce’s best graces and he’s still on THIN ICE with dick and tim and the rest but its a work in progress. he’s trying.

anyway i left out a Lot of shit because like. theres a lot. but this is ... the basics believe it or not tl;dr bane is a good man born into horrific circumstances and he did a LOT of bad shit but he’s working on redeeming himself.

#*originally it was called cavidad obscuro but thats. wrong. its bad spanish. im fixing it.#ooc #this is so long and im so sorry but this is my bane reading list so at least theres that.#i love talking about him so if you wanna know more my discord is available.#drug ment //

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berniesrevolution · 7 years ago

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Earlier this month, Twitter’s Jack Dorsey, Facebook’s Sheryl Sandberg, and an absent Google representative found themselves before the Senate Intelligence Committee (SIC), where they endured an uncomfortable grilling on topics ranging from the manipulation and value of user data to how one might police the “truth.” These lines of questioning inevitably generated vague speculation about regulation, though it’s difficult to imagine the scope of federal action that would be required in a serious effort to confront the crisis unfolding on the backs of privatized platforms.

It’s popular to refer to digital platforms as town squares, but the shopping mall is a more apt metaphor: they are built to approximate the participatory feel of an open market, while their corridors are ruthlessly designed for the purposes of encouraging consumption and maximizing profit. Depression, anxiety, hate-mongering, fear, and conspiratorial untruths are all acceptable outcomes so long as they are expressed, consciously or otherwise, in the service of growth.

Social media’s monarchs are more entrenched than ever. Still, its horizons remain murky.

These platform structures are, more and more, the dominant modes of abstract social organization: Amazon, Apple, Facebook, and Google have a combined market capitalization larger than the French GDP, and in an earlier hearing, Mark Zuckerberg struggled to name a single serious competitor when pressed on his company’s monopoly status. It’s clear that platform capitalism thrives at the expense of public discourse, and that its monarchs are more entrenched than ever. Still, its horizons remain murky.

The loudest, most frequent response to the crisis of platform consolidation has arguably been an appeal to better markets, such as the progressive coalition Freedom from Facebook’s effort to push the Federal Trade Commission to spin Instagram, WhatsApp, and Messenger into competing services. Law professor and New York Times contributor Tim Wu has similarly advanced this line, advocating for an aggressive antitrust campaign against the likes of Google and Amazon—including in his forthcoming book, The Curse of Bigness. If we break up the giants, the thinking goes, their progeny will improve each other in a rush to pan for attention. “We live in America,” he recently told The Vergecast, “which has a strong and proud tradition of breaking up companies that are too big for inefficient reasons.”

It’s hard to justify Facebook’s acquisitions of WhatsApp and Instagram as anything short of stabs at monopoly, but there are hard limits to antitrust—namely, that large platforms appeal to users precisely because of the network effects of intense consolidation. Smaller services routinely compete for attention-time, but typically do so by differentiating themselves and courting niche audiences rather than taking the behemoths head-on. Nobody thinks of Etsy as a replacement for Amazon, and not even Google+ could effectively compete as a direct replacement for Facebook. Unless it’s billed a subcultural phenomenon, people don’t see the point in adapting to a new platform until it reaches a critical mass—even though they’re the exact people it would need to get there.

Mastodon is a perfect example of the limits of platform competition. Optimistically billed as a community-focused Twitter-killer, the fledgling social network rode last month’s controversies into a gauntlet of fawning coverage that dared users to climb out of the Nazi-infested swamp. Mastodon is relatively free of hate speech and malicious bots, but few people made the leap: an unofficial bot currently reports around 230,000 users. This is partially due to individual preference for the familiar, but structural inertia presents a much stronger obstacle. Like any newcomer, Mastodon necessarily lacks the abundance of celebrities, journalists, and unhinged presidential proclamations that give Twitter the feel of a micro-celebritized commons. In a piece hailing the platform’s design strength, Wired editor Brendan Nystedt acknowledged its central deficiency in a bold understatement: “The only thing I truly miss from the old birdsite? My friends!” This isn’t a bug; it’s the exact reason we can’t look to a Mastodon, or an Ello, or a Gab for salvation—any more than libertarian seasteads can expect to cure traffic or gentrification. We need to make our platforms better, not wait for better platforms.

Given that these services often take the form of natural monopolies, others have suggested that, rather than break up the big platforms, we should subject them to stringent federal regulation as public utilities—or, as Platform Capitalism author Nick Srnicek has suggested, outright nationalization. But most digital platforms are transnational entities, meaning that regulatory efforts are narrowly limited to individual protections on the basis of citizenship (as we have seen with the EU’s General Data Protection Regulation). Otherwise, there are devastating implications for nationalization beyond our borders. Would a situation where the United States unilaterally dictates the policies of a platform shaping Paraguayan political discourse be any better than one in which Russian oligarchs are free to transmute capital into American speech?

If we’re to imagine a meaningful path for Congress to take, it’s worth considering the context of the recent SIC hearing. The previous month, conspiracy news site Infowars was systematically cut from Apple, Spotify, Facebook, YouTube, and a host of other platforms (Twitter followed suit after Alex Jones went on a Periscope rampage and berated its CEO at the hearing itself). The ensuing conversation was predictably frustrating, but enlightening insofar as it revealed how people conceptualize digital platforms. Ostensibly right-wing Infowars journalist Millie Weaver, for example, argued that Facebook has no right to ban private individuals, on the grounds that it is “public” rather than “privately owned.”

(Continue Reading)

#politics #the left #the baffler #capitalism #silicon valley #monopolies #facebook #Twitter #google #nationalization #democratic socialism #progressive #progressive movement

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thesoundlabyes · 3 years ago

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We have a brand new radio show now available at https://www.mixcloud.com/TheSoundLabUK/the-sound-lab-episode-284/ On this weeks show we have interviews from Slash & Myles Kennedy, Elles Bailey, Who Saves The Hero? & Babybird plus a Live Session from Joe Ramsey! Alongside all that, we have these amazing tunes! Sam Tompkins - Hero SEA GIRLS - Lonely Set It Off - Who's In Control Standing Like Statues - Truth Hurts DUNE RATS - What A Memorable Night (Acoustic) Square Halo - Ain't For The Money D3lta - Strange ENOKA - More Than Friends Eddie Mole-musician/songwriter - Gonna Run Slowly Slowly - Nothing On Skinny Knowledge - I Wonder Maddox Jones - Ready To Be Better Galaxy Thief - Timewaster Tim Dugger - Heart Of A Small Town METHYL ETHEL - In A Minute, Sublime Heart Of Gold - Bright Lights Daxx & Roxane - Heavy Metal Youth Sector - Always Always Always POLICE CAR COLLECTIVE - MIKE Johnossi - Something = Nothing Token Honey - Jumping Through The Ceiling Salvation Jayne - Apathetic Apologies Eliza & The Delusionals - Give You Everything Share the love! #NewMusic #Podcast #NewMusicPodcast https://www.instagram.com/p/Cafjae6sQXH/?utm_medium=tumblr

#newmusic #podcast #newmusicpodcast

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travelingtheusa · 4 years ago

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NEW YORK

2021 Aug 31 (Tue) – Well, the caravan is over. It was a job but we happened to fall right into the perfect time period to make our trip. We started just as everything was starting to relax and finished up just as restrictions were starting to come back into place.

Newburgh was lots of fun. We did not get to take the group to the FDR Presidential Home & Museum. The National Park Service stopped group tours but they were allowing individual, timed entry so several of our group went on their own. We took the group to an Italian restaurant for dinner in place of the museum. It was a great choice!

On Sunday, we took a small group of folks into New York City on an extra excursion. It was a long day with lots of walking but we got to see the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, and the 9/11 Memorial. Some of us couldn’t go to the Top of the Rock because they were requiring everyone to have a COVID vaccine card. That requirement was just started by New York City two days ago.

We had our farewell dinner on Monday and a continental breakfast on Tuesday. Then it was hugs and good byes and in one fell swoop, 15 rigs pulled out of the campground and we were standing there alone. And just like that, two years of planning, months of changes and nail-biting anticipation, and 41 days of caravan were over.

We pack up and leave tomorrow for a race to South Carolina to help our son celebrate his 40th birthday. We’ll be there for 2 nights then it will be another race to The Keys to join my brother, Tim, for a memorial service for his son, Joe.

2021 Aug 25 (Wed) – Our next move was to Saratoga Springs where we toured the racetrack. It was interesting to see that the horses have the right of way as their stables are across the street from the track. Cars were stopped as a parade of horses crossed the road back and forth. There was a cruise on a boat on the Hudson River where we saw several eagles. They have made a successful comeback in the area. We also toured the U.S.S. Slater, a WWII destroyer escort. Then the group moved to Cooperstown and we toured the National Baseball Hall of Fame. That night, we had a barbecue of hot dogs and hamburgers. That was followed by a rousing game of bean bag baseball where the women challenged the men. The women started off strong and kept the lead until the bottom of the ninth when the men rallied and overtook the women. It was a lot of fun. Tomorrow, we leave for Newburgh and the final stop on our caravan.

2021 Aug 17 (Tue) – We enjoyed Alexandria Bay and Clayton in the Thousand Islands where we toured the Boldt and Singer Castles, looked over beautiful antique boats, and enjoyed an outdoor concert on the St. Lawrence Seaway. Then we moved to Lake Placid where we saw the Olympic Sports Complex. Unfortunately, the Olympic Museum was closed for renovations but we did drive up to the top of Whiteface Mountain and climb to the summit. It was breathtaking! We toured John Brown’s Farm and Gravesite and learned about the abolitionist movement. We are currently in Ticonderoga where we toured the fort yesterday with a docent dressed as an English soldier. That was followed with a tour at the Star Trek Set Tour. They have lovingly recreated the set of the TV series Star Trek. It was fun to pose in the different sets and hear stories of how the series was made. Finally, we toured Ausable Chasm today with a delicious lunch of barbecue chicken and salads.

2021 Aug 12 (Thu) – The past week has been very busy. We moved from Niagara to the Thousand Islands. Took a boat ride on the St. Lawrence Seaway and toured both Boldt and Singer Castles. We went to the Antique Boat Museum and walked around a 106’ house boat. We had a potluck with a Cajun/Mexican theme. The food was very spicy! The campground host and her band played music for us while we ate. The next day we went to a free concert in Alexandria Bay where we heard a tribute to the Beatles. The music was very enthusiastic. Today we moved to Lake Placid.

2021 Aug 5 (Thu) – We are camped at Red’s Twilight on the Erie RV Resort near Rochester. We went to the George Eastman Photography Museum and Home. Eastman committed suicide when he was 77 years old. He left a note saying that he had done everything and “why wait?” We also went to the Strong Museum of Play. It was three floors of everything you ever wanted to know about games. They had a beautiful butterfly garden with 600 butterflies in the enclosure at any one time. They bring in 250 chrysalises a week.

We carpooled to Seneca Falls (an hour away) where we enjoyed lunch at the Ventosa Vineyards and walked up and down the historic street. The movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” was purportedly based on the town of Seneca Falls. We toured the museum. We also went through the National Women’s Rights Historic Park and the Seneca Falls Waterways & Industrial Museum.

At happy hour, we played corn hole and beanbag baseball. It’s been lots of fun.

2021 Aug 2 (Mon) – Sorry. We have been so busy that I fairly collapse at the end of the day and don’t get a chance to post on this blog. It will only go on for a few more weeks, then we will be back to normal (whatever that is). Hang in there.

In Chautauqua, we visited the Chautauqua Institute; took a dinner cruise on the Chautauqua Belle, a steam powered paddlewheeler; toured the Lucy-Desi Museum; and visited the National Comedy Center. We had a member of the caravan (Doug) have a heart attack. He went to the hospital and they put in a pace maker. We left him at the campground waiting for his son to come drive them and their rig home.

In Niagara Falls (where we are now), we saw the Falls and took a ride on the Maid of the Mist to the base of the Falls on the Niagara River. We took a bus tour that included the NY Power Vista and Old Fort Niagara. Today we took a ride on a canal boat on the Erie Canal and went through two locks. That was followed by a delightful buffet meal. Jim and his wife decided to leave the caravan because he is still now feeling well. We are now down to 16 RVs in the caravan.

Tomorrow we leave for Rochester where we expect to explore the Strong Museum of Play, the George Eastman Museum & Home, and Seneca Falls.

2021 Jul 26 (Mon) – We moved out today, leading the caravan with 3 other RVs. We arrived at Camp Chautauqua at 1:40 PM. After checking in, we got settled in then made us the sheets for where everyone else would go. It was another 2 hours to get everyone parked and settled in. There was a delay as Doug couldn’t get his satellite dish to stow properly and Johnny waited with him. When they left, Doug got lost on the way.

Paul set up the tent and we had happy hour at 4 PM. At 7:30 PM, we tried to show a movie – The Long Long Trailer with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. This is in preparation for our visit to the Lucy-Desi Museum on Wednesday. It was still too late and the movie didn’t show up on the screen. So we sat around, waiting for the sun to lower in the sky.

While waiting, Janet told me Doug was going to the hospital because he was experiencing chest pains.

2021 Jul 25 (Sun) – We rode with Rick & Brenda to the Brewery of Broken Dreams. The name intrigued me and I wanted to see what the place was like. As we were getting out of the car and posing for pictures, Rick passed out and face planted, hitting the car on the way down. After we got the bleeding stopped, we took him to the hospital. After waiting a while, Brenda gave us the keys to the car and we returned to the campground. Brenda called later to say they were admitting Rick for testing at another hospital. Hank and I took care of their dog, Timmy, until she came back after 10 PM.

At 5 PM, we held our travel meeting. Announcements included the fact that Rick was in the hospital and Jim was recuperating from his bout of dehydration.

2021 Jul 24 (Sat) – We went to the Finger Lakes Boating Museum this morning. They split us into 3 groups. We got the newbie who didn’t really know that much about the collection. After admiring their large collections of boating paraphernalia, we went down into the former wine cellar and enjoyed a catered lunch. After we were done, everyone was released to explore the area on their own.

We returned to the campground. At 4 PM, we had happy hour. Everyone appears to be very happy.

2021 Jul 23 (Fri) – We took the group to the Corning Museum of Glass today. Because the drive was long (32 miles), we told everyone to go on their own rather than drive in a long caravan line. They just had to arrive by 9 am. One person didn’t arrive until almost 9:30. We gathered outside and I assigned everyone their times to go do their projects – either a holiday ornament or a fusing glass project. The museum itself was huge! It is amazing how many products use glass.

We went to Corning with Rick & Brenda after the museum for lunch. We had wanted to tour the Rockwell Museum but we were running out of time and needed to get back to the campground. Western Winery did a free tasting at the campground. We also had a potluck dinner, which went very well. Everyone had a good time.

One of our group, Sue, came to me during the dinner and told me she and her husband were going to leave the caravan. He has been feeling very bad and she is afraid it is his heart. He is not able to go on and they are going back home. After she left, we discussed their situation and felt that he needed to go to the hospital if he was feeling that bad. So Paul and Hank took Jim to the hospital where they left him to be evaluated. While they were at the hospital with Jim, I worked with Sue to file the paperwork to the Good Sam Emergency Evacuation Program. If you are too sick to go on when you travel, this insurance policy assures you they will fly you home and transport your rig as well. We got a case number assigned and called to find out what the next steps were. Jim needs a doctor’s note saying he is unable to drive.

At 10:30 pm, the hospital called to say we could pick Jim up. It turned out that he was severely dehydrated. They gave him fluids and he says he feels 100% better. They will sit a day or two after we leave and then follow us. We are glad he is OK.

2021 Jul 22 (Thu) – We took the group to the Glenn Curtiss Museum today. What a remarkable man he was! He started inventing things at the age of 14. Curtiss was into speed and made motorcycles that went faster and faster until he hit speeds over 100 mph. This took place in the 1920s! He was soon billed as the fastest man alive. He moved from motorcycles to planes, dirigible and boats, and even built the first fifth wheel RV.

Following the museum, we went to lunch at the Switzerland Inn. We had originally reserved the Bully Hill Vineyard but they couldn’t stabilize their chicken prices and we wound up having to cancel. We found the Switz (as they like to be called) online but it turned out to be a disappointment. First, we arrived for an 11:30 lunch only to be told they don’t open until 12. Then they messed up the orders and Paul saw them take 3 meals back to the kitchen. Two people did not get what they ordered but were happy with the substitute meal they did get. The place was very small. We were all crammed in a small room that looked out on the lake. We had wanted to sit out on the deck but the restaurant insisted we sit inside. I think it was easier to serve us because we were closer to the kitchen. Then the bill came and I was unable to sort it out. Instead of listing each meal (burger, fries, Pepsi for example), they had 14 burgers, 17 fries, 8 onion rings, etc. There were many variations and they just billed the total. And, again, the bill came in higher than what was budgeted.

After lunch at the Switz, we went with Rick & Brenda, Hank & Brenda, Johnny & Linda, and Joe & Diane to the Bully Hill Vineyards. I was kind of depressed after that. It was beautiful located high up on the hill overlooking the lake with a large outdoor patio. They also had a tasting room, a museum, an art room, and a gift shop. What a come down to have gone to the Switz. I hope the rest of the trip goes better.

2021 Jul 21 (Wed) - The caravan started today! We spent the early part of the day getting things ready. Paul and Johnny put the ladder plates on and collected forms certifying vehicle worthiness. I finalized my briefing. We all put the gift bags together.

At 4:30 p.m. we held the orientation briefing. After that, we rode to the American Legion Post in Bath. They served us a meal of salad, chicken speedies, salt potatoes, brown baked beans, and cheesecake. The food was very good. They were very appreciative of our payment. We had everyone buying drinks at the bar to support the lodge. Everything went off well. It was a good start to the caravan.

2021 Jul 20 (Tue) – We spent a good part of the day getting things together. There was a quick run into town to get groceries and wine. Johnny & Linda are eager to take on their Tail Gunner duties.

At 4:30 p.m. folks started showing up at our campsite for happy hour. By 5 p.m., we had quite a crowd around us. About 2/3rd’s of the group is in the campground now.

2021 Jul 19 (Mon) – Hank left early this morning to go to Lockport. He is picking his wife up from the airport tomorrow. The rest of us left Laporte, PA, at 11 a.m. since we did not have very far to go. As we were going up the long hill, there was a bang and we lost power. We knew the repair on the turbo hose failed. We pulled over to the side and opened the hood. This time, the hose really blew apart. We told everyone to go ahead. We parked the trailer on the side of the road and drove back into town to the Ford dealer. After hearing of our dilemma, they sold us the turbo hose they were holding for another customer and fit us right into their schedule. They even gave us a car to use to go into town and get lunch while they did the repairs. We were in and out in less than an hour. Wow!

Back on the road, we arrived at the Hammondsport/Bath KOA campground around 3 p.m. We set up then returned to the office to settle accounts. What a shocker that was! They charged us more than $2,300 more than we budgeted. The manager mumbled something about us getting put in higher rated campsites. She is an extremely poor communicator. She changed our campsites about a month ago but never explained they were for more money.

About a third of the caravan is here. We were tired and didn’t really do anything tonight.

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helloloading313 · 4 years ago

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Post Box Vr

Post Box Vr Game

Postbox Versus Mailbird

Post Box Vr Controller

Vr Post Box For Sale

Vr Post Box Ireland

Post box

Post boxes in Australia The yellow box is for express mail.

A British Lamp Box post box of the 1940 pattern at Denvilles, Havant, Hampshire.

First Paris street letter box from c.1850

A public (though unconventional) post box in Japan shaped as tea caddy

A post box (British English and others, also written postbox, known in the United States and Canada as collection box, mailbox, post box, or drop box) is a physical box into which members of the public can deposit outgoing mail intended for collection by the agents of a country's postal service. The term post box can also refer to a private letter box for incoming mail.

Varieties of post boxes (for outgoing mail) include:

Contents

1History of post boxes

History of post boxes

Lamp box mounted next to a sewer gas destructor lamp in Crookes, Sheffield, England.

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Europe

In 1653, the first post boxes are believed to have been installed in Paris.[1] By 1829, post boxes were in use throughout France.[2]

In the British Isles the first pillar post boxes were erected in Jersey in 1852. Roadside wall boxes first appeared in 1857 as a cheaper alternative to pillar boxes, especially in rural districts. In 1853 the first pillar box in Britain was installed at Botchergate, Carlisle. In 1856 Richard Redgrave of the Department of Science and Art designed an ornate pillar box for use in London and other large cities. In 1859 the design was improved, and this became the first National Standard pillar box. Green was adopted as the standard colour for the early Victorian post boxes. Between 1866 and 1879 the hexagonal Penfold post box became the standard design for pillar boxes and it was during this period that red was first adopted as the standard colour. The first boxes to be painted red were in London in July 1874, although it would be nearly 10 years before all the boxes had been repainted.[3]

The first public letter boxes (post boxes) in Russia appeared in 1848 in St. Petersburg.[citation needed] They were made of wood and iron. Because these boxes were lightweight and easy to steal, they disappeared frequently; later boxes were made of cast iron and could weigh up to 45 kilograms.[citation needed]

Asia

The post box arrived in the late 19th century Hong Kong and were made of wood. In the 1890s, metal pillar box appeared in Hong Kong and remained in use till the late 1990s. From the 1890s to 1997 the boxes were painted red and after 1997 were painted green.

North America

The United States Post Office Department began installing public mail collection boxes in the 1850s outside post offices and on street corners in large cities. Collection boxes were initially mounted on lamp-posts.[4] As mail volume grew, the Post Office Department gradually replaced these small boxes with larger models. The four-footed, free-standing U.S. Mail collection box was first suggested in 1894, following the successful use of such designs in Canada, and quickly became a fixture on U.S. city street corners.[4][5] Unlike Canadian mailboxes, which were painted red,[6] U.S. mail collection boxes were originally painted a dark green to avoid confusion with emergency and fire equipment, then to red and blue in the 1950s, and finally, all-blue with contrasting lettering.[5][7] The coming of the automobile also influenced U.S. mailbox design, and in the late 1930s, an extension chute or 'snorkel' to drive-up curbside collection boxes was adopted.[4]

USPS 'Snorkel' collection boxes for drive-through access

A British pillar box with two apertures, one for stamped, and the other for franked, mail

Types of post boxes

Some postal operators have different types of post boxes for different types of mail, such as, regular post, air mail and express mail, for local addresses (defined by a range of postal codes) and out-of-town addresses, or for post bearing postage stamps and post bearing a postage meter indicator.[citation needed]

Some countries have different coloured post boxes; in countries such as Australia, Portugal, and Russia, the colour indicates which type of mail a box is to be used for, such as 1st and 2nd class post. However, in Germany and parts of Sweden, because of postal deregulation, the different colours are for the different postal services. Other nations use a particular colour to indicate common political or historical ties.[8]

Post boxes or mailboxes located outdoors are designed to keep mail secure and protected from weather. Some boxes have a rounded or slanted top or a down turned entry slot to protect mail from rain or snow.[5][9] Locks are fitted for security, so mail can be retrieved only by official postal employees, and the box will ordinarily be constructed so as to resist damage from vandalism, forcible entry, or other causes.[5][9][10] Bright colours are often used to increase visibility and prevent accidents and injuries.[11][12] Entry openings are designed to allow the free deposit of mail, yet prevent retrieval via the access slot by unauthorised persons.[5][13]

Clearance

Post boxes are emptied ('cleared') at times usually listed on the box in a TOC, Times of Collection, plate affixed to the box. In metropolitan areas, this might be once or twice a day. Busy boxes might be cleared at other times to avoid overflowing, and also to spread the work for the sorters. Extra clearances are made in the period leading up to Christmas, to prevent boxes becoming clogged with mail.[citation needed]

Since 2005, most Royal Mail post boxes have had the time of only the last collection of the day listed on the box, with no indication of whether the box is cleared at other times earlier in the day. The reason given for this by the Royal Mail is that they needed to increase the type size of the wording on the 'plate' listing the collection times to improve legibility for those with poor sight and that consequently there was insufficient room for listing all collection times throughout the day. Some post boxes may indicate the next collection time by a metal 'tab'[14] or dial that can be changed while the box is open. The tab displays a day or number, each number corresponding to a different time shown on the plate.

Terrorism and political vandalism

The surviving Manchester pillar box from the 1996 bomb

During 1939 a number of bombs were put in post boxes by the IRA as part of their S-Plan campaign. When the Provisional IRA blew up the Arndale shopping centre in the 1996 Manchester bombing one of the few things to survived unscathed was a Victorian pillar box dating from 1887 (A type A Jubilee pillar).

In 1952, a number of post boxes were attacked in Scotland in a dispute over the title adopted by the British monarch which was displayed in cypher on the boxes. This included at least one which was damaged in the Inch housing estate in Edinburgh with a home made explosive device. The issue in question was the fact that Queen Elizabeth I had not been the queen of Scotland, and so Scotland couldn't have a Queen Elizabeth II. The compromise was to put the Scottish crown on Scottish pillar boxes, without any reference to the particular reigning monarch. One such example can still be seen today in Hong Kong at Statue Square.

In the United States of America, nearly 7,000 USPS collection boxes were removed following the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack and the 2001 anthrax attacks in which letters containing anthrax spores were placed in public collection boxes. Since that time, a decrease in first-class mail volume and the onset of online bill payment processing has resulted in lower demand for collection box service in the U.S.[4]

Post Box Vr Game

In Northern Ireland several red Royal Mail post boxes were painted green by Irish Republicans in early 2009, in order to resemble An Post's post boxes in the Republic of Ireland.[citation needed]

In Britain the disposal of hypodermic needles into post boxes is a modern problem. This raises concerns among employees about AIDS/HIV and other infectious diseases and has caused Royal Mail (UK) to issue metal needle-proof gauntlets for their employees in high risk areas to protect those employees from infection.[citation needed]

Colours

Colours for Post boxesRed

Argentina • Australia • Belgium • Canada • Denmark • Gibraltar • Greece(express post) • Greenland • Hungary • Iceland • India • Isle of Man • Israel • Italy(domestic post) • South Korea • Japan • Jersey • Macau • Malaysia • Malta • Mauritius • Monaco • Netherlands - surviving heritage and PTT boxes • New Zealand • Norway(national and international mail) • Poland • Portugal • Romania • Spain(express mail) • Singapore • South Africa • Thailand • United Kingdom[15]

Yellow

Australia(Express Post) • Austria • Brazil • Bulgaria • Cyprus(red before 1960) • Finland • France • Germany(Deutsche Post) • Greece(regular & international mail) • Iran • Malaysia(Express Post) • Norway(local mail) • Russia(1st Class) • Slovakia • Slovenia • Spain(regular mail) • Sweden(national and international mail) • Switzerland (& Liechtenstein) • Turkey • Ukraine • Vatican City • Vietnam

Blue

Belarus • Faroe Islands • Germany(many private postal companies) • Guernsey • Alderney • Dominican Republic • Sark • Italy(Air Mail only) • United Kingdom(Air Mail - 1933-1940) • Portugal(1st Class (Blue Mail) only) • Sweden(local mail) • Russia • United States

Green

China • Hong Kong(red before 1997) • Taiwan • Ireland • Some heritage boxes in the United Kingdom, notably Stoke on Trent, Rochester & Scunthorpe

Orange

Czech Republic • Estonia • Indonesia • Netherlands (TNT N.V./PostNL (red before 2006))

WhiteGray

Symbols

Swedish Royal Post

Irish Post & Telegraphs 'P7T' logo

Postbox Versus Mailbird

Australia – a styled red letter 'P' on a white circle, 'P' standing for 'Post'.

Canada – a combination of a bird wing and an aircraft wing in a red circle and flanked by the words Canada Post / Postes Canada. Previously the words Canada, Canada Post, or Canada Post Corporation) were used on post boxes. Some older post boxes had the words 'Royal Mail'.

Continental Europe – most designs include a Post horn, like those used by postmen to announce their arrival. In Germany the post horn is the only element indicating post services.

Ireland – from 1922 the Irish harp entwined with the letters 'SE' for Saorstát Éireann, then 'P7T' Gaelic script for Post & Telegraphs and from 1984 An Post with their wavy lines logo, often on the door as a raised casting.

Russia – logo of Russian Post (Почта России) written white on blue and black on yellow 1st class mail boxes.

Japan – a 'T' with another bar above it (〒).

United Kingdom – all post boxes display the Royal Cypher of the reigning monarch at the time of manufacture. Exceptions are the Anonymous pillar boxes of 1879–87, where the cypher was omitted, and all boxes for use in Scotland manufactured after 1952 (including replicas of the 1866 Penfold design) which show the Queen's Crown of Scotland instead of the Royal Cypher for Elizabeth II. Private boxes emptied by Royal Mail do not have to carry a cypher. Royal Mail post boxes manufactured since 1994 carry the wording 'Royal Mail', normally above the aperture (lamp boxes) or on the door (pillar boxes). Before this date all post boxes, with the exception of the Anonymous pillar boxes, carried the wording 'Post Office'.

United States – the United States Postal Service (USPS) eagle logo, except that boxes for Express Mail use the USPS Express Mail logo.

Gallery of Post Boxes from around the world

British Edward VII Type A pillar box of 1902 by A.Handyside of Derby in front of Mansfield College, Oxford

French Post Box at Dinard airport

French Post Box at Ile de Bréhat

Post Boxes in Lisbon, Portugal (1st class mail in blue and 2nd class in red)

Post Box of Indian Postal Service

VR pillar box in Kilkenny, Ireland, painted green with obvious door repair

IrishLamp Box erected by An Post

Italian domestic Post Box

Japanese Post Box at the Osaka Central Post Office

U.S. Post Box in front of the Post Office in Conneaut, Ohio

Post box incorporated into a Type K4 telephone kiosk, introduced in 1927. 10 survive in the UK of this design by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott which also incorporates two stamp vending machines. This red telephone box is in Warrington, Cheshire, England

A standard British lamp letter box mounted on a post in Menai Bridge, Anglesey, Wales

A Victorian wall box of the Second National Standard type dating from 1859, in Brough, Derbyshire, England

Large square pillar box (type A wall box freestanding) in Gloddaeth Street, Llandudno, Wales

A Guernsey Post Type C double aperture pillar box

A Victorian hexagonal red post box of the Penfold type manufactured in 1866 outside King's College, Cambridge (not the original location for this box).

One of the 150 post boxes erected during the uncrowned reign of Edward VIII

German mail box with an old Post horn with arrows (stylized lightning bolts) from the Deutsche Bundespost, on the top sign the new Post horn from Deutsche Post AG

A post box in San Marino

A Polish post box

Swedish post box

A post box in Funningur, Faroe Islands

Pillar box in Bruges, Belgium

Singapore AA style sheet metal mail box in Hong Kong

A Ukrainian post box in the city of Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine

A Czech post box

A R2-D2 themed post box in Boston, Massachusetts as part of the celebration for Star Wars' 30th anniversary

A postbox of one the many private mail companies in Germany, this one PIN in Berlin[16]

Post box mounted on an electric pole in Bangalore, India

In Chellaston, Derby, United Kingdom

Krakow, Poland

Post box in Macau, China with Cantonese & Portuguese text

Post box in Lützelflüh-Goldbach, Switzerland

Post box in Quebec city, Canada

Post boxes in Heinola, Finland. Orange 2nd class postbox is very common, blue 1st class mailboxes only at selected places.

Post Box Vr Controller

See also

Post Office box, used for incoming mail

Stamp vending machine, often attached to post boxes

References and sources

Notes

^Lawrence, Ken. 'Before the Penny Black'. Ken Lawrence. http://www.norbyhus.dk/btpb.html. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^Batcow, Stan (2001-12-02). 'The Post Boxes of Blackpool, England'. http://www.ausgang.com/collect/post.html. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^Wicks, Paul (2002). 'History of British Letter Boxes - Part 1: Victorian Letter Boxes'. Paul Wicks. http://www.wicks.org/pulp/part1.html. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^ abcdMarsh, Allison (2006-03-20). 'Postal Collection Mailboxes'. National Postal Museum. http://www.arago.si.edu/index.asp?con=1&cmd=1&mode=&tid=2032051. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^ abcdeShaman, Tony. 'Antique Street Letterboxes'. Antique67.com. http://www.antique67.com/articles/antique_letterboxes/antique_letterboxes.html. Retrieved 2008-08-16.

^ Canadian Museum of Civilization Corporation, History In A Box: Red Forever!, Civilisation.ca. http://www.civilisations.ca/cpm/histbox/canad_e.htm

^Marsh, Allison; Pope, Nancy (2006-04-28). 'Orr & Painter mailbox'. Postal Collection Mailboxes. National Postal Museum. http://www.arago.si.edu/index.asp?con=2&cmd=1&id=76927&img=1&pg=1. Retrieved 2008-08-16.

^ Canadian Museum of Civilization Corporation, Colour, A Postal Symbol, Civilisation.ca. http://www.civilisations.ca/cpm/histbox/couleu_e.htm

^ abGlancey, Jonathan (2007-01-16). 'Classics of everyday design No 6'. theblog. The Guardian. http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/art/2007/01/classics_of_everyday_design_no_6.html. Retrieved 2008-08-16.

^Marsh, Allison (2006-04-29). 'Street collection box damaged September 11, 2001'. Postal Collection Mailboxes. National Postal Museum. http://www.arago.si.edu/index.asp?con=2&cmd=1&id=83037&img=1&mode=&pg=1&tid=2032051. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^'A Victorian post box in Brecon - made in the Black Country'. Black Country Bugle. 2007-06-28. http://www.blackcountrybugle.co.uk/blackcountrybugle-news/displayarticle.asp?id=106007. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^'Campaign to preserve red post boxes'. BBC UK News. BBC. 2002-10-03. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/2294797.stm. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^William, Earle (1975-04-29). 'Secured mailbox'. USPTO Database. USPTO. http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect1=PTO2&Sect2=HITOFF&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsearch-bool.html&r=38&f=G&l=50&co1=AND&d=PALL&s1=3880344&OS=3880344&RS=3880344. Retrieved 2008-08-16.

^'Changes to post box collections: Collection Tabs'. Postwatch.co.uk. Archived from the original on 2007-06-30. http://web.archive.org/web/20070630075459/http://www.postwatch.co.uk/issues/CurrentIssues.asp?id=15. Retrieved 2008-08-15.

^ All Royal Mail / GPO post boxes were painted BS 538 Post Office Red between 1874 and 1969. With the introduction of the K8 Telephone kiosk in 1969, a new 'red' colour was adopted for GPO street furniture, designated B.S. 539 Post Haste Red. After British Telecom and Royal Mail were split by the British Government, BT continued to use BS539 exclusively, whilst Royal Mail use both BS538 and BS539 in a seemingly random way. Prior to 1859 there was no standard colour although there is a document in the BPMA archive indicating that optionally, the lettering and Royal cypher could be picked out in white or black. In 1859, a bronze green colour became standard until 1874. It took ten years for every box to be repainted during this period).

^PIN MAIL AG

Sources

Farrugia, Jean (1969). The letter box: a history of Post Office pillar and wall boxes. Fontwell: Centaur Press. p. 282. ISBN 0900000147.

External links

Wikimedia Foundation. 2010.

Look at other dictionaries:

post box — post boxes also post box N COUNT A post box is a metal box in a public place, where you put letters and packets to be collected. They are then sorted and delivered. Compare letterbox. [BRIT] (in AM, use mailbox) … English dictionary

post|box — «POHST BOKS», noun. = mailbox. (Cf. ↑mailbox) … Useful english dictionary

post box — noun A box in which post can be left by the sender to be picked up by a courier. Would you take these letters down to the post box please theyve already got stamps … Wiktionary

post-box — see post box … English dictionary

POST-BOX — … Useful english dictionary

post·box — /ˈpoʊstˌbɑːks/ noun, pl boxes [count] Brit : ↑mailbox 1 … Useful english dictionary

Post-office box — redirects here. For the electrical device, see Post Office Box (electricity). A Post Office box full of mail … Wikipedia

Box — describes a variety of containers and receptacles. When no specific shape is described, a typical rectangular box may be expected. Nevertheless, a box may have a horizontal cross section that is square, elongated, round or oval; sloped or domed… … Wikipedia

Post office box — A post office box (often abbreviated P.O. Box or PO Box) is a uniquely addressable lockable box located on the premises of a post office station. In many countries, particularly in Africa, and the Middle East there is no door to door delivery of… … Wikipedia

box — [[t]bɒ̱ks[/t]] ♦♦ boxes, boxing, boxed 1) N COUNT A box is a square or rectangular container with hard or stiff sides. Boxes often have lids. He reached into the cardboard box beside him... They sat on wooden boxes. ...the box of tissues on her… … English dictionary

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‘Hand over your son or we’ll shoot him’: escaping Central America’s gang violence

By Tim Elliott, The Age, 14 April 2018

Eva got the call one day last April. “Come here now, and bring your son,” said the voice on the other end. “Or we will come to you and get him ourselves.” Eva lived with 10 members of her extended family in Usulután, a city in the south of El Salvador. As with much of this Central American country, Usulután has a heavy presence of Mara Salvatrucha, an ultra-violent criminal gang, also known as MS-13.

Eva knew the caller was MS-13, but she had no idea what he wanted with her or with her son, José, who was eight years old. “If you go to the police,” the man warned her, “we will make things worse for you.” Eva and José went to the gang house that afternoon. There were several men inside, one of whom approached Eva, pulled out a pistol and put it her head. She asked: “Why are you doing this?” The gunman explained that her ex-partner, José’s father, had fallen foul of the gang; now, by the convoluted logic of the underworld, Eva and José would have to pay. “We know it’s hard,” he shrugged. “But orders are orders.”

Eva pleaded with him. “At that moment, I felt death sitting on top of me,” she says. “I was so scared for my son.” Eva had a choice. The gunman could shoot José now, or Eva could hand José over to his father. That way the boy would be his responsibility, giving the gang leverage over him. Eva agreed, knowing that she had no intention of doing so.

For the next week, she fretted over her options. Then, one evening, the police called: they had received a tip-off that Eva was to be killed. “I remember coming home that night and seeing her, hiding in a closet, crying,” says her 54-year-old aunt, Ana, when we meet at a secret location in the Guatemalan countryside. Eva, 26, has long dark hair and a sweet smile. Ana, on the other hand, seems inconsolably sad. “My poor niece,” she says. “She was so afraid she could barely move.”

That night, the family bunkered down in their home. The police called again: the killers were close, they said. “Lock the doors and turn off the lights.” At 10pm, there was a knock at the door. “We were sure it was MS-13,” Ana says. “But it was the police. They said, ‘Come out, we have you safely surrounded.’ “ They could not guarantee the safety of the family, which included other children and adults; instead, they would drive them 100 kilometres north to the Guatemalan border. “We didn’t know if we could trust them,” Ana says. “But we didn’t have much choice.” The journey took three hours. At 1.30am, they arrived at Las Chinamas, on the border, where the two countries are separated by the Río Paz. The kids were exhausted; some were ill.

A Salvadoran official asked for their documents. The adults had theirs but they were missing the children’s. The official became angry. “How do I know the kids haven’t been kidnapped?” he asked. Ana started weeping. “I said, please have compassion, they are going to kill us.” But the official began swearing at her. “You’ll just have to f---ing well go back and be killed, then.” Eventually, he relented and waved them through. “If anyone asks,” he said, “Tell them I didn’t see you.”

They were in a no-man’s land, out of El Salvador but not yet in Guatemala. Terrified that the gang would come after them, the family hid under the bridge that spans the river. At about 3am, a car with blacked-out windows stopped above them, on the road. Some men got out, and looked around. One of them walked down, below the bridge, but Ana and the children scuttled out of sight. “They’re not here,” the man yelled. The gang members got back in their car and drove off.

“I thank God that none of the kids coughed or sneezed,” Ana says. At daybreak, they boarded a bus in no-man’s land heading north. “The driver was a man of God,” Ana says. “He let us on even though the kids had no papers.” Ana and Eva hid the children under the back seats. When the bus was stopped by Guatemalan border guards, the driver made no mention of the kids. “It’s just these women here,” he said, pointing at Ana and Eva. They rode the bus north, for 150 kilometres, to the outskirts of Guatemala City, where they applied for, and were eventually granted, refugee status.

Now they are safe. Or safer. “MS-13 can find you if they want to,” Ana tells me. She has begun to silently cry. “I still have relatives in El Salvador. When they ask where we are, I tell them we’re in Mexico.”

There are few places on earth more violent than El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala, an area referred to as the Northern Triangle of Central America. In 2016, El Salvador had a homicide rate of 81.2 people per 100,000. Honduras’ murder rate was 59 per 100,000. (Australia’s has fallen in recent years to a record low of about 1 per 100,000.) The violence has its roots in deep, intergenerational trauma, a legacy of agrarian conflict, persecution of Indigenous people, corruption, inequality and, in the case of Guatemala and El Salvador, decades-long civil wars that featured widespread torture and civilian massacres.

But among the most recent causes is organised crime, most of it perpetrated by gangs known as maras. There are many types of maras, including low-level street gangs, but the two most active are MS-13 and its rival, Barrio 18 or M-18. Both groups were formed in Los Angeles, in the 1980s, where large numbers of Mexicans and Salvadorans had fled to escape poverty and civil unrest. When the US deported them en masse in the mid-1990s, they returned home, where they flourished.

Turf wars between the two groups have since turned the Northern Triangle into a virtual war zone, where you can be murdered for any number of infringements: refusing to join a gang; joining the wrong gang; failing to pay a bribe to a gang or carry drugs for a gang; refusing to hand over your house to a gang. (Maras sometimes commandeer people’s houses in key parts of towns, with their land title papers, to monitor comings and goings.) According to a recent report by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), merely “looking mistrustfully at a gang member” is punishable by death. Government efforts to stem the violence have proved largely ineffective: a church-brokered peace between M-18 and MS-13 in El Salvador in 2012 led to a 50 per cent decrease in murders. When the deal fell apart in 2014 the killings resumed.

The violence has sparked a regional exodus. In 2016, more than 450,000 people transited through Guatemala on their way to the US. Many never made it, stopping instead in northern Guatemala, or Mexico, or being caught and turned back to their home countries. The UNHCR calls the crisis “a silent emergency”, but its resources are spread perilously thin. In 2016, the UNHCR set up a field office in Flores, in northern Guatemala, a major transit point for people coming from Honduras. The office has responsibility for 44,000 square kilometres, an area slightly bigger than Switzerland, a good chunk of which is handled by an Australian field officer named James Yong.

Raised in Adelaide, Yong, 31, speaks fluent Spanish and Italian (plus passable Portuguese and French), and has worked for aid agencies in Cambodia, Manus Island and Ecuador. He is slim and good-looking, scarily competent and cooly understated. When I mention he has a big job, he replies, “I guess I have a lot on my plate.”

On the morning we meet, Yong takes me to the local bus terminal, near the UNHCR office. It’s hot, glary, and humid. Migrants mill about, looking a little dazed: some have just arrived, others are looking to leave. A group of boys, no older than 15 or 16, lie snoozing on the pavement under an awning, using their small, half-empty backpacks for pillows. Yong walks about in his blue and white UNHCR vest, introducing himself and handing out information cards explaining, in Spanish, their rights as undocumented migrants.

“If you are fleeing violence or persecution, you have the right to request refugee status,” he says. He also tells them about the Casa del Migrante, a local UNHCR-funded shelter, where they can find a shower, a meal and a bed for the night. Many of the people here seem perplexed by this: they look at the information card, then look at Yong, then look back at the card. They have learnt to expect so little from authority, whether it be their government, police or non-state groups, that the idea of a foreigner walking up and offering assistance is genuinely baffling.

I talk to a man in his early 20s, with dreadlocks and a rasta ear stud, who is sitting on a concrete bench in front of the station. His name is Tomás, and he is from Puerto Cortés, on the Caribbean coast of Honduras. Puerto Cortés, he tells me, is a very, very bad place. “You can get killed for your mobile phone.”

Tomás has three young children back home, where he works--or worked--as a farmer on a small plot, growing melons, corn and beans. About a month ago, some MS-13 members made him “donate” his farm. (Gangs sometimes evict farmers from their land to build airstrips or to clear a drug smuggling corridor.) Now he’s heading north to Mexico for work. He’s been there twice before, three years ago, in Durango, where he loaded and unloaded fruit at a market. Both times he was found out, and deported.

“That’s the way it is,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You get there, they deport you, you try again, they deport you.” The only problem now is that he has run out of cash, and can’t get a bus. If they’re lucky, migrants can pick up casual work along their journey: sorting rubbish at the local tip, or cutting cane for $US7 ($9) a day. But Tomás tells me there is little work in Flores. And so he has been waiting here--literally right here, on this bench--for three days, while his wife back in Puerto Cortés tries to wire him enough money for a bus fare and some food. If it doesn’t come soon, he says he’ll just start walking.

Flores is a unusual setting for a migrant emergency. It is built around a lake, in the middle of which is a small, heart-shaped island, connected to the shore by a narrow causeway. The island is a popular tourist destination, with quaint Spanish colonial buildings and pastel-coloured waterfront bars. Where the causeway meets the mainland is the hard-scrabble suburb of Santa Elena, its heat-baked streets lined with hole-in-the-wall grocery stores and discount farmacias.

Further out, where the roads meet the jungle, is the Casa del Migrante, the migrant house. Established in 2016, the casa is part of a network of shelters dotted along popular transit routes; some are run independently, by local church groups, often with funding from the UNHCR. “Migrants hear about them through word of mouth, from other refugees they meet along the way, or from posters that the UNHCR put up in bus shelters,” Yong says.

The Santa Elena shelter can host 58 people, with separate men’s and women’s sections and a few rooms for LGBTI people and unaccompanied children. It has a pair of iron doors, dormitory-style accommodation and walls topped with razor wire. The setup reminds me of a low-security prison which, for its residents at least, is part of the appeal: no one can get in and rape them or rob them or shove a gun in their face.

The afternoon I visit, a steady trickle of migrants, mostly early teenagers, straggle in, looking thin, sunstroked and phenomenally grimy. Some have been walking for days, sleeping in the bush, washing in rivers. Their feet are blistered and swollen. When they first arrive, the resident nurse, a plump, kindly woman gives them a rudimentary health check. (The most commonly dispensed items are antifungal creams and worming tablets.) Migrants also bring their own medication, if they can. I’m told that rape is so common on the journey that some women take contraceptive pills before setting off.

The refugee crisis has become an industry. It’s common to see vendors at bus stations selling socks, soap, underwear and hand towels. Small shops rent out their power points, where travellers can recharge their phones. Border officials and police often supplement their salaries with bribes from undocumented migrants. Then there are the coyotes, people smugglers, who pay police, border officials and drug cartels for the right of passage through their areas of operation, as well as locals who allow their property to be used as “stash houses”, where migrants can hide.

Reliable figures are hard to come by, but the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement estimated in 2014 that coyotes charged anywhere from $US5000 ($6500) to $US12,000 ($15,500) per person. Often migrants sell their houses to pay for this; if they are sent back home, they have nothing to return to. Enrique Valles Ramos, the UNHCR’s head in Guatemala, tells me that the coyotes’ price includes three attempts to cross into the target country. After that, the migrant must pay again. And the coyotes are ruthless marketers. In recent years, they have spread rumours that US immigration is being more lenient toward children, leading to a sharp increase in the numbers of unaccompanied minors.

But the real winners are the gangs. They profit, first, by threatening businesses and individuals in their home countries; the Honduran newspaper La Prensa estimated in 2015 that Salvadorans, Hondurans and Guatemalans paid $US661 million annually in extortion fees. Then, when the migrants flee, the gangs cash in again, by owning many of the small bus lines that carry them north.

For obvious reasons, transport is a preoccupation for undocumented migrants. At the Casa del Migrante, in Flores, I watch as a group of young men stand poring over a large map of Central America that is stuck to the wall. They are discussing roads and routes and swapping tips on the most reliable bus lines and which checkpoints to avoid; some towns are renowned, they tell me, for their less-than-welcoming locals, or the preponderance of shifty smugglers.

The men also talk of something called La Bestia--“The Beast”--a train, from what I can gather, that has assumed almost mythic proportions. The Beast is not one train but several, a network of privately operated lines that runs from Guatemala through Mexico to the US border. The trains are for freight only--food, cement, plastics, steel--so migrants must hitchhike as best they can, jumping aboard, often when the train is moving, and riding on the roof or perched between carriages. It’s horrifically dangerous, thanks not only to the risk of injury but because the train routes are controlled by gangs which, one migrant tells me, charge a $US100 tariff per “passenger”.

One leg of The Beast runs through Tenosique, a gritty little town in southern Mexico. Tenosique is a popular stop for undocumented migrants, thanks to its location, about 30 kilometres north of the border with Guatemala, and for its large, well-known migrant shelter called La 72. (The name refers to a massacre, in 2010, in which 72 migrants were executed by Mexican drug traffickers and dumped in a mass grave.)

Whether by design or luck, La 72 is only a couple of hundred metres from a track that carries The Beast. The only problem is that the train has no fixed timetable. It might pass through town twice in one week, and not again for the next fortnight. Even then, there’s no guarantee it will be heading in the right direction.

Whenever people hear the train approaching, usually signalled by a blast of its air horn, someone will look out of the window of the men’s shower block, which overlooks the lines. If the train is moving south, they return to whatever they were doing. If it’s travelling north, there is a mad rush to meet it.

As it happens, I’m interviewing a Honduran man, Luís, who has had the great misfortune to have been shot in the head by a gang member and then run over by his truck, when I hear, in the distance, the unmistakable sound of an air horn. The Beast is approaching! What’s more, word is that it’s heading north.

I race out, following other hopefuls. Soon we reach a weedy, derelict siding, just as the train eases in, squealing and wheezing. Refugees, mainly teenagers, are already strung out along the length of the line. As the train slowly passes them they begin jogging beside it, then, picking their moment, jump up and climb onto the roof. There they stake out their spots. Some peer down at us, waving triumphantly.

Suddenly, however, there is an ungodly hollering. A man in a sweat-stained T-shirt is pacing beside the train, screaming and waving his arms. “Come down! Come down!” he yells. Apparently La Migra--slang for border and migration agents--have been spotted at Boca del Cerro, 10 kilometres down the line. It’s a trap. Initially, the kids are too excited to notice, but when they realise what he is saying, there’s a panic. People scurry along the top of the train, and crawl down onto the couplings. As The Beast gathers speed, I watch their long-limbed, adolescent frames silhouetted by the sunset, leaping off like bugs from a burning log.

The influx of migrants is straining the social fabric in many parts of Mexico, particularly in places where the social fabric was never that strong to begin with. One day, in Tenosique, I get talking to the owner of a small shop that sells mobile phone SIM cards. When I mention I’m writing a story on refugees, he raises his eyebrows. “The refugiados are no good,” he says. “There has been an increase here in assaults and robberies by them.”

I ask how he knows that it’s the refugees doing the assaults, and he looks at me like I’m simple. “Some of them are hard workers, but not many.” He adds, “The Guatemalans are fine. They come to buy stuff and then they go back. But the Hondurans and the Salvadorans stay, because of La 72. It attracts them here!” Besides, the Hondurans are pretty much peasants, he says. “They have no culture.”

According to the Mexican government, 43.6 per cent of the population was living in poverty in 2016. One of the things that most rankles locals, then, is the UNHCR’s policy of giving money to recently arrived migrants. This payment, called “cash-based assistance”, ranges from $US50 to $US70 per family, per month.

“They are meant to spend it on their rent, but what they do is buy alcohol with the money and then send their kids out to beg,” one woman tells me. She is standing out the front of our hotel, sweeping the pavement, dressed in skintight jeans and a hot pink singlet. “They all live in the same area,” she says, nodding over her shoulder. “A lot of them are prostitutes.” (This much is true; in the Mexican city of Tapachula, near the Pacific coast, there are reportedly 30,000 migrants, mostly from Central America, working in bars and red light districts.)

One afternoon in Tenosique, I meet a Honduran woman, Livi, who fled her home in 2016. “The 30th of October, to be precise,” she says. Livi is a case study in successful migration. She used the UNHCR money to get set up; she then took a job as a domestic cleaner. Little by little she saved money and now rents her own apartment, where she lives with her two teenage kids. “It has two bedrooms, and even a separate kitchen!” she says proudly. Recently, however, she was returning from work when she was beaten up in the lane behind her home. “Mexicans?” I ask. “No, by Hondurans!” she replies. “They have wasted their time here, the opportunities they have been given. So they resent what I have.”

On the last day of our trip, James Yong, the UNHCR officer, takes me to the town of El Ceibo, at the northernmost border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico. The drive takes us through Guatemala’s northern lowlands, a scrubby, unloveable landscape, much of which has been ruthlessly cleared by ranchers and farmers. Along the way, we pass the occasional group of migrants, walking by the roadside. Most are too tired to take any notice of us. At one stage however, three boys see us coming and hurl themselves, like startled animals, into the bush. “Our UNHCR car is white,” Yong explains. “The same colour as the cars the migration guys drive.”

He winds the car window down, coaxing the boys out of hiding with bottles of cold water. They are very young. They tell us they are 17, 18, and 19, but they look 14 at the most. One of them is wearing a New York Yankees T-shirt; the boy next to him is in a turquoise top with a panda on it. It has taken them eight days to get here from Honduras. Yong asks them if they have any food. “No.” Do they have any money? “No.” Are they meeting anyone in Mexico? “No.” Yet none of this seems to bother them. “We’re on our way north!” says the boy in the panda shirt.

Ten minutes later we arrive at El Ceibo, which is basically an overgrown truck stop. Dusty streets, a small market, a store where we buy a lemonade. Closer to the crossing, two bored-looking Guatemalan migration agents sit manning a boom gate. Behind them is a besa-block booth where another, similarly bored agent is stamping passports. But we do not head there. Instead, we park the car and scramble up a low, steep hill that overlooks the checkpoint. It’s cooler up here; there are more trees, dense bush, a patchy canopy. Hidden among the foliage are a number of tracks.

The tracks are rough and rocky. Some are as narrow as a person, others as wide as a car. “Pasos ciegos,” Yong says--“blind paths”--the hidden routes that undocumented migrants take to escape detection. The word “blind” refers to the fact that supposedly no one can see them, which is absurd, since they are only 100 metres from the checkpoint. It all seems like a bit of a joke. “I guess so,” Yong says. “The Mexican Army sometimes patrols on its territory, but the Guatemalans don’t bother.”

We follow one of the paths towards the border with Mexico. It’s obviously well travelled: the ground is worn bare, with smooth knuckles of rock poking through the dirt. As we walk we are joined by the boys we met on the road. They smile when they see us.

The path narrows until the bush abruptly ends, and we arrive at the border. Except there is no fence, no wall, no gates. No nothing--just a naked strip of grass, about 20 metres wide and closely mown. It stretches in both directions, as far as the eye can see. On the other side is Mexico. To get there, the boys have to dash across this open piece of ground, during which they will be exposed, clearly visible to the checkpoint below.

For a moment, we all stand there, Yong, me, the boys. They poke their heads out from the scrub, and peek down at the checkpoint, then bolt across, one after the other. When they reach the other side, they keep running for a few more metres, before slowing into a walk. We watch as they disappear deeper into the bush, deeper into the shadows. They never look back.

#El Salvador #MS-13 in El Salvador #Central American migrants #Central American gang violence

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glittergummicandypeach · 5 years ago

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Tearing Down Evangelical Icons: Why Penn’s Decision to Remove George Whitefield Statue May Be Good for American Evangelicalism | Religion Dispatches

It’s a curious fact of history that a statue of John Wesley stands prominently ensconced in the center of downtown Savannah, Georgia. In stark contrast, a nondescript gazebo dedicated to George Whitefield sits nestled in a quiet residential area on the outskirts of town.

It’s not what you’d expect given the history of these two men in Georgia. A young imperious Wesley, fresh out of Oxford, angered British settlers and made a mess of his time in the colony. The failed missionary eventually had to flee Savannah under cover of night with a lawsuit hanging over his head.

Whitefield, on the other hand, was a widely admired, steadfast champion of Georgia. He dedicated over three decades of his life advocating for the fledgling colony’s social and economic success, making time in his busy life as an evangelist, a catalyst for the Great Awakening, and a founder of the evangelical movement in America.

When I was a graduate student doing research in Savannah, the unexpected juxtaposition of Wesley’s statue and Whitefield’s gazebo served as a sobering reminder of the twists of historical memory. It’s a complicated matter to memorialize people and movements.

If Whitefield’s admirers were disappointed with the Savannah gazebo, they did get a statue of their hero at the University of Pennsylvania. After an early model was rejected by donors as “too limp and tepid,” the final version was a rousing success. When one supporter saw it, he exclaimed, “Whitefield is alive! He is resurrected!” Since its unveiling in 1919, the preacher’s towering figure in Philadelphia has become a pilgrimage destination of sorts.

That statue, however, is about to go away. Citing Whitefield’s legacy as an advocate for slavery, university administrators announced on July 2 that they would be taking Whitefield down. For many evangelical Christians, the removal of one of their founding fathers will be a bitter pill to swallow.

Acknowledging the sins of the past is a difficult thing. It’s easier to see history through a rose-colored lens. I’m reminded of Presbyterian pastor Tim Keller, one of the most celebrated preachers for evangelical renewal in our day, who frequently quotes Whitefield in his messages and describes reading all of Whitefield’s sermons as one of the most profound influences on his own preaching. Keller wrote in the New Yorker that true evangelical theology is inconsistent with the racism and xenophobia of politicians like Donald Trump and Roy Moore.

Quibbling with pollsters’ methods for identifying evangelicals and insisting on the purity of evangelical theology, Keller defended true evangelicalism, which he believes stands above racism. If we look back far enough in history, according to this view, a purer version of evangelical faith awaits rediscovery.

But we would search in vain. You can go all the way back to Whitefield and find that it was always possible to preach the Christian gospel and promote white supremacy and chattel slavery at the same time. Whitefield, after all, criticized the belated legalization of slavery in Georgia by lamenting white lives lost: “How many white people have been destroyed for want of [slaves]?”

Historical amnesia is buoyed by the display of statues and the proliferation of hagiographies. It’s also exacerbated by a rhetorical Christianity that denounces the most blatant outward manifestations of racial sin but shirks the hard work of examining the history of evangelical culpability. The truth is, pat answers like “nobody’s perfect” and “we can appreciate the theology of evangelical greats without getting distracted by their cultural and social blind spots” do more harm than good. Enshrining individuals and systems is a sure way to preserve their blind spots too.

For all these reasons, the removal of Whitefield’s statue might actually be good for evangelicals. A moment of apparent defeat may become an opportunity to question their proclivities for hero worship. They may examine myths of evangelical innocence and theological superiority, which obscure the hostile takeover of indigenous lands and violence against enslaved bodies. This more sober understanding of evangelical history might lead to honest reckoning with the deep wounds that continue to fester in our common life together.

A cult of celebrity that papers over a multitude of sins has long been a temptation for evangelicals, long before Trump. The fact is, Whitefield wasn’t just the benevolent founder of an orphanage in Georgia, but a plantation owner who profited from enslaving Africans. Worse, the preacher was an evangelist for British imperial expansion and arguably the most vocal and persistent lobbyist for the legalization of slavery in Georgia.

“I challenge the whole world to produce a single instance of a negro’s being made a thorough Christian, and thereby made a worse servant,” the great preacher said. Instead of listening to abolitionist contemporaries like Anthony Benezet and John Woolman, Whitefield rationalized and theologized slavery.

Removing Whitefield can become the occasion for rejecting nostalgia for a bygone era that never existed in the first place; it can be an opportunity to learn.

The tearing down of this iconic image might challenge us to reflect on Western Christianity’s obsession with what the theologian Shoki Coe called a “cathedral mentality,” the desire to build lasting monuments commemorating our own achievements. Such monument-making almost always requires a derogation of historical memory.

When an alumni group at the University of Pennsylvania set out to mark the bicentennial of Whitefield’s birth by erecting a statue and calling him a founder of the university, they veered from the facts of history and followed a script of their own revisionist making. Attributions to Whitefield as a “founder” of the university are overly generous, if not downright inaccurate.

It’s true that Whitefield intended to build a school for orphans in Philadelphia. He preached in a structure called the New Building as part of that work, which Benjamin Franklin later purchased to build the university. Whitefield preached in that structure before the roof was even installed, providing an apt image of the breakneck speed at which he moved for most of his life. It may have made for a dramatic scene of worship, where hearers could look up, not only at the honey-tongued preacher, but past him into the heavens. But like many other projects Whitefield started in his life as an itinerant, the work of actually building a school fell by the wayside and languished.

Rather than seeing the removal of statues as erasing our history, it might serve as a moment of reckoning, for redress. If it sparks conversations where we interrogate tropes of white saviorism and nationalistic greatness, that would be a good thing and a sign of hope.

It’s a fact now largely forgotten, but that gazebo in Savannah’s Whitefield Square is an important site not only for evangelicalism but also for Black history in America. A burial site for formerly enslaved persons, it is hallowed ground. Even if a decorative white structure has all but erased that harrowing memory, their story and their blood still cry out for justice.

Similarly, the statue of Whitefield in Philadelphia has also served to obfuscate the history of evangelical participation in America’s racial sins. Its removal might mark a turning point in the unfolding story of evangelicals in America. How evangelicals will respond remains to be seen.

This content was originally published here.

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