#it just seems like at best its unhelpful and at worst it plays into peoples hypochondria and/or the erasure of disabilities in the gen pop

[indierpgnewsletter]

There's Other Kinds Of GM Advice: Theatricality versus Transparency

(This first appeared on the Indie RPG Newsletter)

I find that broadly there are at least two kinds of GM advice – and they have a very different philosophy underpinning them.

The first kind of advice aims at all costs to maintain verisimilitude. It’s a solution that you can implement without breaking the players’ immersion in their characters. This can just be stuff like Matt Colville explaining that if your players are taking too long discussing plans, guess what, orcs attack! We’ve all probably played a game where people were going in circles and not able to decide what to do. If it looks like we’re not able to decide, we’re probably going to be relieved if the GM makes something happen to break the deadlock and prompt us back into the action.

(Historically, this kind of thing was taken to egregious lengths like Gary Gygax saying if players start acting uppity, have a rock fall on their head. It’s mostly gone now but reddit tells me that Cyberpunk Red which came out relatively recently still says something similar.)

The second flavor of advice involves breaking character and talking to your players directly. I know “talk to your players” is a mantra repeated so often that autocorrect suggests it as soon as you type the letter t. At its worst, this advice is vague and unhelpful. We’ve all considered talking frankly to people in our lives, we just find it awkward and hard and annoying. But, but, but – at its best, just describing the problem as you see it and escalating it from a character discussion to a player discussion will make it go away instantly. Like magic. (If you’re not sure what that means: In a previous issue, I discussed Jason Tocci’s excellent advice on escalating conversation in this way.)

And since the theatrical flavour of advice has the weight of history on its side and transparent advice keeps getting boiled down to mantra form, I thought I’d write down some examples of situations and some alternative ways to handle them:

Situation 1: The players are marines discussing whether to dive into the alien lair and recover their stolen engine (their main goal) or go and see if another missing team of marines is okay. There is only 45 minutes left and this is a one shot.

Theatrical: The other marines suddenly come on the radio and say, “hey we’re okay, please complete the mission.”

Transparent: “Hey, folks. There’s 45 minutes left. If we don’t do the alien lair now, we won’t be able to do it at all. Is that fine?”

Situation 2: The players are low-level fantasy nobodies who have a famous wizard friend. They’re about to tangle with some medium-level bad guy and decide to call in their wizard friend.

Theatrical: When the players try to contact her via a telepathic phone call / spell, she sounds breathless and says she’s busy doing something way more important like fighting a dragon.

Transparent: “Hey, folks. If we get the wizard in, she’ll absolutely make this fight a cakewalk. We won’t even need to roll initiative really. Is that what you want? Or would we rather have a fun fight?”

Situation 3: The players were having fun exploring when they meet a cool NPC (an android! an elf! an android elf!) who has this interesting backstory with an urgent, earth-shattering hook. They go along with the android elf because it seems more important but immediately look like they’re having less fun.

Theatrical: Narrate how the android elf meets a group of other android elves and have the elf say, “Hey, now that I have these folks helping me, you can leave it you want!”

Transparent: “Hey, folks. Talking to you as players here, do we want to stick with this whole android elf plot here? It does mean that we won’t do any open-ended exploration. Which would you prefer?” If they want to ditch the elf plot, you could just retcon it entirely or do the theatrical solution.

All of these situations have happened at my table. They’re all relatively low stakes and I think whichever way you handle it, it’ll probably be fine. But that said, some situations absolutely work better when done transparently so if you’ve never tried the transparent way, give it a shot. If immersion matters a lot to you, try it at the end of the session.

/End

PS. The theatrical options often still require the players to willingly suspend their disbelief and go with it. If a player didn’t play along, they might just say “I thought their radios weren’t working, otherwise we could’ve just contacted them before. Why can they suddenly contact us now?” or “Oh, the wizard is fighting a dragon right now. We can totally wait. There’s no reason we need to fight the bad guy right now.” And sometimes I can’t shut off that part of my brain either so I won’t judge. But if there’s a way to sidestep that situation even coming up, I’m going to take it every time.

[unidentifiedfuckingthing]

so funny as a person with "rare" conditions how medical literature defines rare. some people will say a 5% lifetime incidence is "very rare" and some people will say somethings "relatively common" at like 0.8% like are you just covering your ears and yelling when confronted with the existence of regular disabled people in your everyday life or what

[txbbo]

I've been debating making this because this is definitely not what my blog is known for and I was worried that people wouldn't want to see it, but with the amount of shit im seeing on twitter it's compelled me to make this because I'm so frustrated.

I feel like I could make 100 posts about 'Cancel Culture' and it wouldn't be enough, so I'm just going to focus on what caused me to write this tonight - the Tommy situation. *Warning for a VERY long post below*

To be clear, Tommy has been in 'hot water' on twitter for the past couple weeks, roughly starting with the KSI collaboration where he made a joke about dream stans.

Last week, when the SBI 'exposing account' got made and twitter hyped it up, someone made a Tommy account and made a thread of things he needed to be '''educated''' on: https://twitter.com/idktommyinnit/status/1379158964148002821?s=20

I'll let you read it for yourself (and come to your own conclusion) but to me.... half of this stuff does not require a twitter thread? Breaking it down accusation by accusation:

1) 'The Mexican accent' - the clips show he is clearly only doing it when copying big Q (who famously exaggerates his own accent) and there is zero malicious intent (Big Q is also IN the 3 clips mentioned in the thread, and obviously didn't tell Tommy it was offensive). There's debates in the comments from people who think it is offensive and people who don't, so I'm not trying to pick a side. To avoid accidentally offending anyone, maybe it is best for him to stop, but the way twitter acts as if he was purposefully doing this to offend people is just not true.

2- 'Making a slave joke' - Even saying that feels wrong, because it suggests Tommy is doing something awful. Instead, they are referring to the 'bit' that Tommy, Techno, Tubbo and Ant were involved in, when Tommy and Techno took Tubbo and Ant as their slave. People are taking this vod and using it to accuse Tommy of being insensitive to Black people, but I think people are just assuming the worst. Slavery existed long before the transatlantic slave trade and still exists today. This is a role-play server - Tommy 'forced' Ant to work for him and used the word slave, which to me is exactly what was happening? People 'murder' others on the SMP, people 'kidnap' on the SMP, people are 'terrorists' on the SMP, and all happen without issue. To add, Ant is a WHITE man. Tommy taking a WHITE man as a slave is not something uber problematic.

3- 'His reply to Techno's 'murder is bad' tweet'. - I get people saying that Techno's initial tweet was insensitive, but saying Tommy's agreement to this from almost over a year ago is something notable and worth addressing is just super nitpicky and is clearly only in there to pad out the thread. It also makes me wonder what other CC's interacted with it and if THEY should be cancelled too (according to twitter).

4 - 'The saying slurs' tweet / jokes about 'whats the worst word you know' - This one I can kinda see how people might not like it. However, it's clearly a 'poke' at his friends, making them seem like bad people. To me, its in the same vein as 'Tubbo is a Tory' or when Tubbo shoots back that 'Tommy is a Nigel Farage fan'. They're obviously not, but its making fun of your friends by saying they are, and mockingly making them out out to be bad people.

5- 'Covid jokes' - People are taking jokes he made about him 'having covid' and saying he shouldn't joke about this, even going as far to linking it to asian hate crimes. I don't even know how to explain that that this is just? not a 'cancellable offence'? I'm sorry but if I hear anyone in my family coughing I make a little joke that 'they better not have covid' and I know other people do. I have someone in my family who is extremely vulnerable to Covid and if they caught it, would quite literally die, but I can understand that jokes like these are harmless. The whole internet had a running joke that we were in a 'panoramic' or 'Panera' or 'insert any word that sounds like pandemic.

This thread got a lot of attention and anything he tweeted afterwards was spammed with the link and there were so many people upset that he hadn't addressed it. I saw so many people say how 'upset' and 'disappointed' they were in him.

Going on to today, this happened: https://twitter.com/khasiid/status/1380611890104139776?s=20

I get it, it looks bad. But for context (which the tweet doesn't give), the reply was only up for less than a minute. It was obvious to me, even BEFORE Tommy addressed it in his stream (clip here: https://twitter.com/cowrpse/status/1380640046202593283?s=20 ) that it was a mistake. In the clip, he clearly acknowledges his mistake and seems embarrassed. To me, this situation should just be laid to rest because a mistake does not need this much attention, but twitter disagrees.

In case it wasn't obvious by now, the tide is turning against Tommy and people are less willing to ignore genuine mistakes and assume the worst.

Today, during his birthday stream people were clearly already waiting for him to mess up. Around half way through, he started saying 'finna' out of context and Tubbo joined in. This led to tons of tweets telling him he was misusing AAVE, and while there were plenty of people willing to be patient and educate, there were also people seeing this as an example of him being a 'bad person' and someone who should be 'without a platform'. I think people forget that not everyone has the same internet upbringing as they do. In general, I think its noted that the misuse of AAVE is something that has just recently been brought to attention. I learned about it through tiktok and stan twitter, and I don't think it's unimaginable that a British 17 year old boy (who is not active on either) has never heard of 'African American Vernacular English'.

Just for a fuller picture, today has also brought about another 'criticism' that I just had to address.

1) 'Tommy made a KKK joke' - Like the 'slavery' point, saying this is extremely misleading. It makes people think the worst. Here's the clip: https://twitter.com/ghostburz/status/1380673589612011522?s=20

Here, Tommy and Tubbo are both joking about Tubbo's 'bit' of naming his alt streams 'aaaaaaaaaa', 'bbbbbbb', 'cccccc', etc and how it would've been bad if it was 'kkkkkkkk' (for obvious reasons). That is literally it. It is a less than 20 second clip. Acknowledging that people woulda thought about the 'KKK' is not him 'not understanding Black issues', its a throwaway joke about the obvious.

Lastly, someone on twitter has made a tommyinnit (address asap) doc - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tZEZtBzikS-EYYkssfFtwVOoFqOwCK0zhStLe6H1wCc/edit

I've basically already covered everything in this document, but I wanted to mention how extremely 'guilt trippy' the whole thing is. I struggled to come up with the perfect word for the situation, and I am open to hearing other peoples opinion, but as I have mentioned none of these things Tommy has been accused of were done with malicious intent, and some I believe don't even need addressed at all.

'slavery is a source of astronomical trauma for black people, and isn’t something to be taken lightly if you’re to look into the horrors of the slave trade."

and "Oftentimes they are the last words we hear before we die and it really is not Tommy’s place to joke about words that affect us so negatively."

Are extremely emotional words for a 17-year-old boy to hear on his birthday, for stuff that I believe has been taken out of context and blown out of proportion.

I really feel bad for him, because such a large proportion of twitter (which ofc is the loudest side of the fanbase) is angry at him and is demanding (as the document says) ''either a stream or twitter thread/twitlonger to addressing this' and 'a long and serious apology instead of a short statement pre-stream'.

We all know how twitter works, and unless his apology is perfect (which to me means apologising for stuff that he should't have to, as explained in the thread), twitter will continue with this weird hyper focus on everything he does, and it's not going to end well.

Twitter's mentality of 'putting everything this person has done that could ever be considered problematic' into one neat little thread is so unhelpful and counter intuitive. I got overwhelmed reading some of the stuff people were saying about him, I can't imagine how he feels.

I feel like I have more to say but at risk of writing an essay longer than my actual work I have to do, I'm going to end here.

[otterskin]

Dumb Details From the Loki Trailer I noticed but then got too serious about

First - apparently it’s not a trailer, so I guess we’ll get ‘Trailer 1′ later? ‘Exclusive Clip’ hardly seems accurate, but hey, I’m not Disney’s marketing division. I wouldn’t live in a shoebox if I was.

Dumb detail no. 1:

Owen Wilson’s jacket is...weird. Look closely.

And another shot:

Yeah...his jacket has a ‘reversed collar’. It’s a cut-out rather than cloth folding on top. Huh. What a strange design choice. What could it mean?

I’ve no idea, but that I watched the trailer enough times to notice this should concern you.

Detail No. 2

In this scene, we see what we can presume to be President Loki’s ‘Throne’. Notice the candy-canes. This is a Santa Claus throne, presumably from some mall Santa. This whole place might be in a mall, judging by the stuff in it.

But the Loki in this shot is not President Loki. Notice that he’s wearing brown pants, a thin brown tie, and the beige shirt he’s seen wearing in other parts of the trailer after he's apparently joined the TVA. President Loki wears black pants, a green vest and a wide green tie with a golden clip that resembles Loki’s little chevron he always has (more on that later).

So it would seem that Loki might meet President Loki here. President Loki might even be addressing him at the end of the trailer. It’s possible that his minions turn on him because there’s two Lokis and they don’t know which is the ‘imposter’. 

Speaking of, there’s a minion with bicycle handlebars grafted to a football helmet here, likely meant to resemble Loki. I dig it. There’s also cans of food scattered among the rubbish here. Makes sense that food production is non-existent since everyone has resorted to wearing license plates and spoons. Love how tattered the whole aesthetic is.

This reminds me of the opening Michael Waldron’s script ‘Worst Guy of All Time’, which featured a similar post-apocalyptic setting after the ‘worst guy’ ruins everything and makes himself king of the ashes. That’s likely what’s happened here, but I hope that Loki isn’t anything like Logan Paul, who was the inspiration for that title character.

Ah, the mysterious female character watching a meteor shower WAY TOO CLOSE UP. But my eyes are drawn to one thing...

What is that oblong object with a shiny handle? Could it be...

A sword? I do love swords. Did you know there’s a bunch of pictures of me in the stock photos for ‘Fencing?’ That’s my cred for loving swords.

I suspect that this female character will be an amalgamation of Amora (shudder) and Sylvie and an alternate Loki of some kind. This sword is currently in her possession, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it or another timeline version of it becomes the Loki Show’s Loki′s weapon. 

Loki has lacked a ‘weapon of his own’ in the MCU for quite some time. I mean, yes, he has his little knives, but they are many and disposable and something he chose for himself, rather than the two legendary weapons wielded by Odin and Thor, Gungnir and Mjolnir. In fact, throughout his appearances, Loki has seemed to want such a thing of his own - he briefly had Gungnir, and then the Gungnir-like scepter, and even tried to lift Mjolnir.

One might ask why Odin would’ve overlooked such an obvious show of favouritism. Why give Thor a storied weapon and leave Loki empty-handed? Heck, even Hela had the Necroblade.

In Thor 1, we might’ve assumed that the Casket of Ancient Winters was perhaps intended one day to be given to Loki, as it is shown with Mjolnir in the Vault and thus connected to it and the children who would inherit it.  But in the comics, Odin did have another weapon of storied history put away for his second son: Gram the Sword.

It was locked for eons by Odin in a special vault which required five keys to be opened, and it was meant to be for Loki if he be worthy.[2] The five keys were infused by Odin with the powers of "journeys", "endurance", "secrets", "new beginnings", and "brotherhood", respectively.[3]

The sword, like everything else in comics, has a complicated history full of take-backs and twists, but let’s just leave it at ‘it’s a representation of Loki’s worthiness and belonging in the trifecta with Odin and Thor as a King of Asgard’. It gives him ‘equality’.

In the original mythology, it’s wielded by Sigurd to kill the dragon Fafnir, and the only relation it has to Loki is that Loki is partially responsible for Fafnir existing in the first place (my username is nod to this myth by the by. Sorry Ottär.) But hey, maybe that means we’re getting a dragon? The Fafnir would be very cool.

Or it could just be a bit of rebar in this mining quarry.

Then again...it appears somewhere else...

It’s easier to see in motion, but that’s a sword swinging on this person’s back.

So the hooded figure is this lady...shall we call her Amylkie? Does that mean she’s the antagonist of this show? Well...maybe, but I suspect the true antagonist is foreshadowed here  -

So, what’s going on here? A young girl (Young Amylkie? Some other TVA prisoner that the guard is watching over? An oracle, A Norn, or a kid who wandered off from the tour group in a basilica somewhere?) She’s giving Mobius M. Mobius a...piece of chocolate. Maybe he saw a Dementor, I dunno. I suspect it’ll be a MacGuffin of some kind later. He looks pretty concerned here, which contrasts with his ‘another day at the office’ blaséness when dealing with Loki. But of course this is the eye-catcher:

So, Norse Mythology. It’s been Christiannized. You can thank Snorri Sturluson for that, but you can google all about him later. Let’s just say that he made many Norse figures into equivalents for Christian ones. Baldur is Jesus, pure and a sacrificial lamb who dies for a greater good. And the devil is...Loki. Something the Marvel comics and the MCU have continued.

Here we have a devil, dressed in green and with a distinct shape on his chest:

Hmmm...wait...I know that weird horny shape...

Ah. I’d say that cinches it. This is meant to be Loki. If you look at the devil’s hair, it also resembles Loki’s, being shoulder-length and black.

So, what’s devil-Loki doing? Laying an egg? Trying out a foot massager? For a second I thought it was a moon, but we see the moon over his left shoulder, amongst the stars. Which means this is - probably the Earth.

...Dammit; I live there.

So Earth is barren and being devoured by flames, likely caused by this Loki sitting atop of it (in a throne, no less). Aw gee, things look pretty bad, don’t they?

But wait - what’s that? Under the Earth (and, possibly, under the earth)?

It’s a plant. A shoot, to be exact.

Back to Ragnarok for a second. Ragnarok isn’t the apocalypse (something we see a lot of in this trailer - all of it seems to be exploring the end of days). Ragnarok is the fire meant to wipe out the old and fertilize the ground for the new. And after the gods have died, what happens? Well, Baldur emerges from Hel, one of the only surviving gods (hmm, seems him dying worked out, didn’t it?). He’s joined by Líf and Lífþrasir, who are the new first man and woman, who’s names mean ‘Life’ and who are pictured, usually, with plants and new life. It is they who are tasked who growing a new Yggdrasil after the destruction of the old. The previous first man and woman are Ask and Embla, meaning Ash Tree and Vine/Elm tree, so there’s a theme there. 

So a new sprout, possibly a tree, growing out of the destruction of the old.

This fits with Loki’s role as understood in mythology. He checks the arrogance of the gods, including when they tried to achieve immortality (sorry, Baldur, nothing personal), and that keeps the gods at their best. After Loki is imprisoned, the gods become weak, unhelpful and foolish, and Yggdrasil starts to rot. Eventually Loki escapes and returns along with Surtur (who also resembles this figure) to burn it all to the ground. This is also referenced in Thor:Ragnarok, with Loki releasing Surtur in the Vault, a place of thematic importance to Loki and one that represents the hidden secrets and sins of Asgard). You could say Ragnarok continued into Infinity War, where Loki played an important part in aiding Thanos’ destruction, giving up the stone to protect his brother and essentially dooming the rest of the universe - but also ultimately leading to its salvation, even if, like Myth Loki, he wasn’t around to see it.

So, we see Amylkie literally start a fire in the trailer -

- in fact, this whole trailer is awash in flame -

It’s fire, fire everywhere and she’s setting them!

It’s possible Amylkie’s our big bad, but I think there’s a chance she’s either a red herring, or, much like how Loki ‘worked’ with Thanos in The Avengers, she is the pawn of a greater foe -

  - a Loki bent on destruction, for some reason or other. The TVA is obviously aware that this is the case, and it seems like they might be trying to ‘fight fire with fire’ by enlisting one Loki to combat another. The villain could be President Loki, since there's evidence of 2 Lokis in that scene - or maybe that's one of many Lokis, and the Big Bad Loki is being played by Hugh Grant as Old Loki. In any case, it would appear that Loki will be coming face-to-face with the worst versions of himself, and many of them. And, if I’m right about this scene:

...Loki will likely eventually discover that even his ‘good’ timeline ended in the destruction of his people and home, plus his own gruesome and torturous death. Although I think the TVA will keep that from him, and just show him the happy parts in an effort to inspire ‘good behaviour’. Until Loki inevitably discovers the rest of how that timeline played out and realize he’s been lied to. I don’t imagine he’ll take that very well...

Damn, even our ‘hero’ Loki is burning stuff down! Does this mean that Loki is doomed, always meant to be an avatar of death and toasty destruction?

Well...let’s go back to that stained glass.

Hmmm...wait...I know that weird horny shape...

And there’s something else...the bottom of the Earth is being lit up, and not by fire. Light appears to be coming off this little plant.

What colour is this plant again? That’s right, green. Green is the colour of new life and growth and change and...hang on, I’ve heard that before, too...

Hang on hang on HANG ON... let me have a look at the shape again.

That’s...a letter. An L? For Loki? Like in the title sequence?

Wait...no, a different letter. An older letter. After all, Loki is old Norse. How do you spell his name in that again?

ᛚᛟᚲ ᛁ -

And ENHANCE on that third letter!

This, my friends, is a Kenaz/Kaunaz, or what would become 'K' in our alphabet. It is also known as the 'Loki Rune' (and the Ulcer Rune, for some reason. I suspect Odin understands why). It’s used to spell his name, but is also used on his own to represent him. Heck, it's even his Superman 'S' in the comics:

Runes are more than letters - they are symbols for concepts. So what else does it mean?

Primarly, it means ‘torch’.

And also ‘knowledge’ (ken). As well as ‘growth, change, the search for truth, decay, arrogance, elitism, feminine, kinship and creativity.’

...Okay, that’s a lot, but you have to admit it fits.

More specifically, it means ‘Mastery of the Fire’. As in, someone who has learned to tame fire so that it is helpful, not harmful. To bring light and, symbolically, knowledge.

There’s another way Loki’s been associated with fire - in the Wagner Ring Cycle, Das Rheingold, the opera that inspired much the Thor films’ aesthetic and certainly their helmets, Loki is called ‘Loge’, which means ‘Fire’. He’s usually dressed to match, too -

Many trickster figures are associated with fire. They are usually called ‘Fire-bringers’ - See: Raven, Lucifer, Prometheus, etc. They are often complex figures with a foot in different worlds, but who nonetheless help mankind with the gift of ‘fire’ - although they usually pay for it, and tend to be self-destructive.

(Side note. Lucifer means light-bringer, which is what luciferase is named after. Because it glows. Which is helpful in labs. In case someone needed to know that.)

Moving from a destructive fire-starter to a fire-bringer seems like a great character arc for Loki to take, especially given his rehabilitation in pop culture, the comics, and even wider culture. Loki has gone from being seen as an evil, deviant, destructive character to one who’s seen as a patron of the arts and creativity, of stories rather than lies. Heck, some scholars of Norse Mythology even posit that he’s the closet thing to a protagonist Norse Mythology has, so I guess that backfired, Snorri!). Being dressed in green and with the sprout clearly also being stylized after his Kaunaz, there’s foreshadowing that he’ll be capable of growing good things even out of ashes.

So, to sum up: Being ‘Satan’ sounds pretty bad, but with a little letter re-arranging like we see in the title sequence, you can be...

...practically a saint. Maybe even a saviour.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 23: Shuffle

Wrote some silliness in the hope it makes friends smile. Featuring the ever wonderful characters from the even more wonderful friends of mine, @foewreckem‘s Aoife Mahsa, @holyja‘s Hyana Geriel, @karoiseka‘s...Karoiseka O’dayla, and @nuclearanomaly‘s Ninira Nira

Uthengentle just wanted his stars read, not a dissertation on why it’s pointless to do it.

Word count: 2,036

It was a relatively quiet day. Quiet enough that the group had made camp for lunch, taking a rare opportunity to enjoy the mild weather. 

Hyana and Ninira tended to the fish that had been freshly caught, grilling over the fire. In a pot, they added fish stock and vegetables to the rice they had only just cooked and fluffed, the smoky, rich scent of the cooking meal enough to inspire hunger even in the most stoic of the group. Karoiseka strummed lightly on her lyre, shaded in the tree as she was. At her side, G’raha dozed on and off peacefully, intermittently humming along to the tune his dearheart plucked out. Even not knowing the song necessarily, Aoife managed to harmonize on her own lyre, her voice soft as she joined G’raha in humming. Once he had laid out a folded up blanket as a smooth surface for his triple triad board, Uthengentle held out a deck of cards in offering to his sister, and at her nod, started to cut and shuffle the deck as she produced hers and did the same. 

By all rights, it was a blessedly mundane day, where they were beholden to nothing but the road, basking in the quiet calm, hard won after the chaos and strife they had endured.

That was usually when the trouble started.

“Why don’t you ever read people’s stars?” Uthengentle asked his sister offhandedly as he looked over his hand of cards.

“I don’t see the point to it,” Serella told him with a shrug. She laid her Moogle card on the bottom middle tile of the Triple Triad board. “I can, but whatever I could say is vague and doesn’t help anyone with anything.”

“Don’t you read stars to heal and shite?” He pressed, tossing down a Morbol card on the bottom right.

Serella’s Moogle next to it turned from blue to red, lost to her. She sighed.

“That’s different,” She replied, half mumbling into her hand of cards. “That would be more akin to pulling from the stars rather than reading them.” 

“Sure, sure,” He half heartedly agreed, eyes sharp as she laid her Tonberry in the center tile. He placed down a Griffin card to its left to steal it, motion swift and decisive. “But couldn’t you, I dunno, just put up a stall when we hit towns, help people out for a bit of extra gil?”

“I’d just feel like I’m lying to them. I assure you, card reading is just unhelpful in the best of times, outright harmful in the worst of them.”

After a moment’s deliberation she decided her Moogle was utterly lost to her, and instead opted to play her Ixal card on the middle right space to reclaim the Tonberry in the center as hers, and stealing his Morbol card in the process. Uthengentle glared at her.

“Cheeky.” He clucked his tongue. “And anyway, isn’t it something useful for people anyway? If you can predict a possible future for them and all? That’s what they do, right?”

“You’d think, but it’s so vague that there’s naught to be gleaned from it,” she answered, though let out a defeated grumble when he played Hraesvelgr on the left middle slot and all three cards flanking it turned red— with all but one tile his, his victory was secured. “Absolute bastard, you are.”

“And a sore loser be ye!” Uthengentle replied in a mock pirate accent, his arms scooping the not insignificant amount of gil they’d been betting, sat in a jar, and curling around it, held to his chest as he cackled like a gremlin adding to his hoard. When he was sufficiently with her flat, unimpressed staring, he put the jar away and asked, “So why can’t you get aught from a reading?”

“It isn’t helpful,” she huffed, even as she took her cards back from the board, “the most detail I might glean from reading the cards is that something might happen, but whether that thing is good or bad depends on how the card is facing.” 

“I don’t follow.”

“The best reading you could hope for would be me saying, “hey, in the morning, something might happen to you!” She wiggled her hands in front of her. “And then, in the afternoon? Surprise! Something else might happen!” She leaned across their makeshift table as a show of mock dramatic tension, hands on her knees as she rocked forward enough for her backside to leave the grass. “And then...in the dark of night…”

“...Something might hap—?”

“Something might happen!” Serella exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air and flopping back dramatically. With a huff, she let her arms slump back to her sides. “So yes. Very vague. Unhelpful. If I charged for it, I’d be a swindler and a crook.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Can’t do it.” Serella handwaved him as she tucked her deck back into her pack. “Stars say no.”

“Can you show me?” Uthengentle asked, and she could tell that his enthusiasm would not be sated with aught less.

“Really need a demonstration of how useless it is?”

“I like judging things for myself,” Uthengentle answered, leaning back in his chair and slinging an arm over the back. “Besides, sounds like it’d be interesting.”

“You have a strange idea of, ‘interesting,’ but sure,” Serella capitulated with a sigh, “I’ll read your stars— on the condition that you don’t complain when you’re disappointed.”

“Deal,” he agreed, already shuffling the Triple Triad board to clear it of his cards and flipped it over, blank side facing up on the folded over blanket. 

“May I watch?” Ninira asked, coming over to take a seat between them. “I’m curious on how this works.”

“Ah, is Ella on her bullshit again?” Hyana called over from the fire. 

At Ninira and Uthengentle’s confirmation, she dusted her hands on her pants and moved to sit right next to Serella. When the Astrologian turned a playful quirk of her eyebrow at her, Hyana shrugged and offered only, “If one or both of you is being stupid, I at least know it’ll be entertaining.”

“Cards?” Aoife asked, standing and peering down at their little makeshift reading board.

“I’m gettin’ my fortune read. Want to see?” Uthengentle asked her over his shoulder, gesturing for her to join them.

Aoife took a moment, eyes dancing between him and Serella. After a moment, she crouched down in place, not joining the unfinished circle that was forming, but not excluding herself.

“I will watch.” She said, tail twitching behind her. “From here.”

“As you like!” Uthengentle beamed at her.

Karo joined on the other side of the makeshift table, opposite of Ninira, between Hyana and Uthengentle. G’raha, equally curious for how little he had been able to witness of Astrology in practice, sat on his knees and pressed against his beloved’s back, hands on her shoulders, peering over her shoulder, tail swishing behind him excitedly.

Even as she laid her arcanima deck on the board, Serella could only shake her head at the group’s dogged curiosity.

“I can’t stress this enough: the only prediction I’ll make today that’ll be right is that you’ll all be disappointed. Now then.” Her hands were practiced as she shuffled the cards. “Let’s see what hand fate has dealt you.”

When the group groaned collectively, she laughed out of sheer delight, as she always did when she told her puns.

“Had to get one in, didn’t you?” Hyana grumbled at her side, half into her shoulder.

“You’re smiling.” Serella mused without even looking at her; she could feel it pressed into her shirt.

“I am, and I hate it.” Hyana groused, even as it was obvious in the way she tried to hide her face entirely that her smile had only widened.

“Now then— I will draw six cards. A full sleeve.” Serella dictated her actions, laying the six cards face down on the board in two rows of three. “I will reveal them one by one, and read the stars’ intent for you.”

The first card on the top row was overturned. The group collectively leaned in ever so slightly to peer at it.

“The Bole, upright.” She gave a pleased hum. “Your immediate future is filled with potential. The energy it turns into is dictated by the energy that you put into it.”

“Explain this to me like I don’t understand it.” Uthengentle said slowly. “I do, though. Understand it. Just...just for the group, y’know?”

“Try to have a good day, and you probably will.”

“Seems a fairly straightforward reading,” Ninira noted, tapping her chin in thought. “Though I can see why it would be unhelpful.”

“Hey now, there’s five more to go!” Uthengentle insisted, pumping his fist. His optimism would not be denied.

Serella turned over the next card, and frowned as she laid it out.

“Balance, reversed. Uncertain times approach you, and you will be made to make difficult decisions. Hard though they may be, stay the course. To flounder is to spell doom.”

“For...what…?” Karoiseka asked, a ponderous tilt to her head.

“A nondescript decision of uncertain import.” Serella replied, shrugging. “As I said: unhelpful at best, harmful at worst.”

“I’m starting to understand— this is primarily meant as a guideline, rathar than a strict edict from the stars, yes?” G’raha guessed after a moment’s thought.

“Generally, that’s the way of it. The idea is that it informs you of how things can go, if—” Serella pointed her finger up. “—You play your cards right.”

Another collective groan.

“I can’t stand you.” Hyana huffed, even as she leaned bodily into her.

“I know.” Serella gestured back at the cards. “Shall we?”

At the group’s murmured agreement, she turned over the next card. As she lay it out, face up, she hummed.

“Arrow, upright. I could wax more poetic about it, but more or less, what you’re doing is working, so keep doing it.”

“What...am I doing…?” Uthengentle asked, scratching his head.

“Exactly.” Serella turned over the fourth card. “Spear, upright. Your confidence works to your favor, but avoid growing arrogant, else your luck with take a turn for the worst.”

“How do I know when I’m arrogant and not confident?” Uthengentle asked helplessly.

“How indeed.” To prove her point, she didn’t answer as she flipped the fifth card. “Ewer, reversed. Your energy is finite, and you would do well not to run yourself dry of it over useless endeavors. Save something of yourself for yourself.”

“Wh—”

“No idea.” Serella replied, already knowing what he was going to ask.

As she flipped the last card with a dramatic flourish, she held it up, and as her eyes roved over the art, her face paled. The group leaned in even more, their attention hung on her reaction.

“What...what is it?” Aoife asked from just outside the circle of people.

Wordlessly, Serella laid the card down.

“The Spire. Reversed.” She said, tone grave as she laid the card down. “Your struggles will turn against you. Everything you’ve done will be for naught.”

Uthengentle swallowed heavily, though after a moment hesitantly spoke up, “Wait...didn’t you say this only pertained to the immediate future?”

“Oh hey, you’re learning.” Serella dropped all pretense of dramaticism, posture going lax as she shrugged. “And thus your fortune predicted itself: all your anticipation led only to disappointment.” Another shrug. “Or something else might happen. Who knows?”

“Coulda just said that in the first place.” He grumbled, puffing his cheek in annoyance. 

“I did, you gullible maroon.”

Peace returned to the late morning. Ninira and Hyana dusted themselves off and returned to the food, soup now happily bubbling and fish pleasantly cooked and crispy with the perfect amount of flavorful char. Aoife took to happily rummaging around for bowls and cups, replacing the bubbling soup pot with a kettle of water and tea leaves. Karoiseka and G’raha returned to sitting against the tree stump, the former now playing a brighter song with an amused smile on her face as the latter rested his chin on her shoulder, watching Uthengentle chase his sister down the hill as he lobbed stale muffins at her head. 

Mundane, exactly as they had fought for.

[mst3kproject]

Dracula vs Frankenstein (1971)

 I’ve been meaning to get to this one for a while.  It was directed by Al Adamson and stars Lon Chaney Jr. from Indestructible Man in his last and worst film.  Also featuring appearances by Greydon Clark (director of Angel’s Revenge), Forest J. Ackerman (the comic book guy from Future War), and Jim Davis (the grandpa from The Day Time Ended, not the guy who invented Garfield), and generally being one of the shoddiest and most confusing movies I’ve ever sat through, it is a mystery to me why Joel chose Carnival Magic and just left Dracula vs Frankenstein sitting there.  Maybe it was the widescreen thing.

It’s hard to say what the hell is going on in this movie but I’ll give it a try.  Under the cover of a carnival freak show, mad Dr. D’Ray is decapitating nubile young women and then sewing their heads back on, because… uh… because.  One night, his work is interrupted by none other than Count Dracula!  The Count reveals that he knows D’Ray’s secret – D’Ray is really the last surviving member of the Frankenstein family, and Dracula has recovered the body of the original Frankenstein’s Monster and wants D’Ray to help him bring it to life, because… uh… because.  Meanwhile, a woman named Judith Fontaine is looking for her sister, Joannie, who was last seen on the beach near Dr. D’Ray’s Creature Emporium.  Judith and her boyfriend Mike eventually find their way into D’Ray’s lair, and the doctor and his various deformed assistants (obviously he has deformed assistants) are all killed as the couple attempt to escape again.  What Judith and Mike don’t know is that they’re not safe yet.  They still have Dracula to deal with!

That outline actually only represents a fraction of the madness in Dracula vs Frankenstein.  There’s a rapey biker gang and a bunch of noticeably over-age hippies who seem to think they’re in a very different movie.  There’s D’Ray’s hunchback Groton and his pet puppy, and Grazbo the Angry Midget. There’s the stunningly unhelpful detective who’s supposed to be looking for Joannie.  D’Ray brings the Frankenstein Monster back to life with the help of a magical comet.  The idea that creatures like Dracula and the Frankenstein Monster actually exist is treated as obvious and commonplace, and the climactic fight between the two is over who gets to feel up Judith.  It’s a mess.

The reason Dracula vs Frankenstein is such a mishmash of incongruous ideas, at least according to El Santo of 1000 Misspent Hours, is that Adamson filmed for a while, then ran out of money and had to set the project aside while he raised more.  During this intermission, he got a bunch of new ideas, and had to shoehorn them in with what he’d already shot to turn his original sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll film into a monster-versus-monster piece.  It should therefore surprise nobody if the results are about as graceful as a giraffe on roller skates.

The two title monsters are astonishingly shitty. Frankenstein’s Monster looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy gone horribly wrong.  He looks like his head got stepped on and they couldn’t afford to fix it. The first time you see him, when Dracula digs him out of a cemetery, you can barely tell you’re supposed to be looking at something’s face – it looks like a mass of home-made play-dough that’s been left out in the sun.  He has claws for some reason.  That sequence of similes still doesn’t do justice to just how absolutely terrible he looks, and yet, shockingly, he’s less stupid than Dracula.

Oh, god, this movie’s Dracula.  His face is slathered in Observer makeup (though his hands aren’t, probably because it would have gotten all over everything) and he wears bright red lipstick and fake fangs that don’t allow him to fully close his mouth.  His vinyl cape almost definitely came from Party City. His voice echoes like he’s talking into an empty garbage can, even when he’s sitting in the back seat of a car. He has an incredibly funky goatee and a ring that shoots fire.  Everything he says and does is deeply, self-consciously dramatic and it all comes to an absurd crescendo in the series of priceless faces he makes as he turns to dust in the sun.

On a scale of absurd theatricality, Dr. D’Ray is only shortly behind him.  The mad doctor dresses like Colonel Sanders, has some classic evil facial hair, and spends much of his screen time monologuing… but nothing he says ever makes a lick of sense. The stuff that comes out of his mouth is literally indescribable so I’m going to have to give you some examples:

Rambling in his lab, D’Ray describes his work as follows: “human blood is the essence from which future illusion may be created, but the secret is not to have the blood at rest.  No, the circulatory system must experience a traumatic shock, one that is inconceivable to the human mind.  The idea of trauma is not a new one, but I am sure I am the first such experimenter to incorporate the horror of an actual decapitation into later rejuvenation of a human body!”  This is evidently supposed to be a justification for the sewing-heads-back-on thing – it ‘activates’ the blood and allows D’Ray to make his ‘serum’.  He then injects that ‘serum’ into Groton, who transforms into an axe-wielding maniac.  Later, Dracula claims that the same ‘serum’ would have made him invincible.  I, uh… what?

Sorry, I was talking about D’Ray’s monologuing.  When describing his Creature Emporium, D’Ray informs some guests, “the greatest mysteries in the world are not mysteries at all, unless we take time to become familiar with them.”  Isn’t that the opposite of how mysteries work?  It’s easy to believe in, say, the Loch Ness Monster, until you familiarize yourself with the history of the ‘evidence’ and realize that it’s almost all complete bullshit.

When Dracula shows up, D’Ray declares, “I am too old and too sick to be interested or surprised by anything, but when a man comes into my house and casts no reflection on my mirror, and on his hand wears the unholy crest of Dracula, there is no scientific answer to anything.  Now, what is on your mind, Count Dracula?” Honestly, this nonsense is spoken with such conviction that you almost don’t notice that the end of the sentence has nothing to do with the beginning.

The movie has two things that might qualify as a ‘special effect’.  One is Dracula’s zappy fire ring.  It’s crummy, but you can tell what they’re going for.  The other is the ‘comet’ that is instrumental in giving life to the Frankenstein Monster.  This is represented by a slow pan past a flickering light bulb against a black background.  Even having just heard Dracula talking about the importance of the comet, it took me a minute to figure out what I was supposedly seeing – it’s that bad.  This might be halfway forgivable if the comet were somehow important to the plot… if the Monster, for example, had to complete some mission before it sets or something.  But it’s totally gratuitous.  They could have taken that out, avoided a distractingly awful effect, and made the movie a little bit shorter!

As for meaning anything… Dracula vs Frankenstein does not, and indeed seems to go out of its way to avoid it.  The events that unfold are remarkably meaningless.  Judith finds her sister Joannie, who is not dead but neither is she alive, and then the story just forgets about Joannie and gives her no resolution.  Hippie girl Samantha is saved from being raped by her angry ex and his biker gang, but then she, too, is entirely forgotten.  D’Ray and his henchmen die in a series of contrived accidents that serve no purpose but getting them out of the way so that Dracula and the Monster can fight uninterrupted.  This is particularly anticlimactic because so far, D’Ray has been presented as our main baddie.  Dracula disintegrates Mike with his magic ring and then the movie rushes to its climax without giving either Judith or the audience time to deal with it.  Dracula, the movie’s actual main baddie, just turns to dust in the sun.

There are a couple of moments that are probably supposed to be social commentary, but they have nothing to do with the meandering main plot. One is the scene where a hippie guy says to his girlfriend, “let’s get ready for the big protest tonight.”  She asks, “what are we protesting this time?” and he shrugs and replies, “I dunno, but I bet it’s fun.”  Later we see this protest, which does seem to have a major ‘party’ component and features some very unspecific placards being waved.  In another sequence there’s a druggie bar with the walls covered in graffiti that say things like POT and SOCIETY SUCKS.

Boy, I bet Adamson was really proud of sticking it to those angry young people.

Dracula vs Frankenstein is mesmerizingly bad.  Usually the best bad movies are the kind where you can follow the story a bit, so you aren’t wasting time wondering what the hell is going on instead of appreciating the nonsense dialogue and unconvincing effects.  Dracula vs Frankenstein is a singular exception.  You never have any idea what anybody’s doing and yet somehow it doesn’t matter… the movie gives up on making sense very early, and just forges merrily ahead, dragging you along behind it.  What’s actually happening never matters enough to distract.  I honestly don’t know if this is a point in the movie’s favour or not… but it would have made a hell of an MST3K episode.

[mllemaenad]

Wizards in Harry Potter aren't liable to be possessed by literal demons from Hell regardless of their good intentions. Furthermore, non-magical people in Harry Potter also have guns, sniper rifles combat planes, tanks, heat seeking missiles, NUCLEAR BOMBS to equalize the fight if a dark wizard starts thinking that he should rule them. The two settings are completely different. Give these advantages to non-magical people in Thedas and I will agree that the Circles aren't necessary.

Hi Anonymous person!

Look. I’m a little perturbed by what you’ve got there, because you seem awfully willing to cause harm to helpless people on the basis of what they might do. But I’ll do this in chunks.

Wizards in Harry Potter aren’t liable to be possessed by literal demons from Hell regardless of their good intentions.

Well. Neither are mages in Dragon Age, largely because ‘hell’ doesn’t exist. I know that sounds flippant, but it’s important. Andrastianism isn’t Christianity, of course, but it does have a Christian aesthetic – more specifically a Catholic one – and the Chantry operates in a world reminiscent of a time when a pope could dominate kings and start holy wars.

That Christian aesthetic is also applied to spirits. Instead of the ‘Seven Deadly Sins’ we have Enchanter Brahm’s five demons: rage, hunger, sloth, desire and pride. It’s a useful game mechanic, absolutely; you can’t have infinite monster designs in a game, and it helps the player figure out what kind of weapons to employ in any given fight. However, as the story goes on it becomes increasingly clear that the Chantry’s view of spirits and demons is simplistic at best and outright wrong at worst.

Spirits embody something that has become important to them. There are many, many more kinds than the Chantry’s sins and virtues lists would acknowledge. There’s a spirit of Command hanging out in Crestwood in Inquisition who just really wants someone to obey its orders for a while. Solas will talk to you about a spirit who embodies an ideal people have forgotten.

Demons seem to be largely spirits who have suffered in some way. We usually don’t know why. Solas’s friend is an obvious example – a spirit who was inexpertly summoned and trapped by frightened mages. It’s also noteworthy that Merrill talks about her ‘demon’ being bound and left over from war. While of course we can’t know exactly what happened there, we can fucking guess, right?

These are all just beings – people. And they’re all from the same place. Not hell, heaven, purgatory or anything like that. They’re from The Fade, which is their home, the source of magic, and was apparently much closer to the rest of the world before Solas and the Veil.

I’ve noted repeatedly that spirit possession is an important part of several cultures, and is often a positive thing. Possessed mages serve as companion characters (Wynne, Anders) and kick some serious arse in battle, and Justice just wanders around in Awakening wearing a corpse and it’s fine.

Of course, no one is saying that possession can’t go wrong. I’ve played the games, and of course my characters have killed both ‘demons’ and ‘abominations’. But. When you say something like ‘demons from hell’ you’re imposing a particular religious view on the story – one that allows you to simply declare that these people are evil and that it’s fine to kill them. We know that it is possible to liberate a possessed mage, and to heal a spirit who has been corrupted. We have seen both those things. But why bother if they’re evil, right? Just lock them up and kill them if things get tricky.

That view is wholly wrong for the setting of Dragon Age. But it is … pretty well on par with the view the Chantry actually expresses. So when you say ‘demons from hell’ I actually think that’s an excellent reason why the Circles should be abolished, because it’s imposing ideas on this situation that are wrong, unhelpful and cruel.

Also. I mean. Also. Yes, I have fought possessed mages in Dragon Age. I have also fought possessed templars. Possessed trees. Possessed bones. Possessed rocks.

If you feel we need to lock up everything that can get possessed, you’re going to have to start with all the people and then move on to all the plants and inanimate objects. If all things can be possessed, then all things need to be locked up. And if all things are inside the prison, couldn’t we just … not have one?

Furthermore, non-magical people in Harry Potter also have guns, sniper rifles combat planes, tanks, heat seeking missiles, NUCLEAR BOMBS to equalize the fight if a dark wizard starts thinking that he should rule them.

Um. Sorry Anonymous person but … what? Have you … read those books? Now, granted I haven’t read them in a while but I have read them. And … I have no idea what you’re talking about.

‘Muggles’ in Harry Potter are usually comic relief, and even the ones that aren’t simple buffoons are depicted as largely helpless against magical attacks of any kind. The British government shows up just long enough to express a heartfelt ‘What the actual fuck?’ at the war with Voldemort before promptly vanishing from the plot again.

All of this … stuff about conventional weapons you’ve introduced has come from your imagination. It’s not how the relationship between Muggles and wizards is portrayed in the novels at all.

In fact, conceptually, I would say that the wizards of Harry Potter are much scarier than the mages of Dragon Age. Tevinter had an empire in Dragon Age, and because they value magic the magisters undoubtedly used it in the fight to obtain that empire. But they were taken down by famine and Blight, and finished off by war. In the series’ ‘present day’ Orlais has achieved the exact same thing as Tevinter with significantly less magic (not no magic, of course, since they will drag their imprisoned mages into battle), and there’s no sense that Tevinter can just zap its way back into power. They are constrained by economics, geography and politics just like everyone else. Magic is useful, but only up to a point.

Now … in Harry Potter, there’s a pretty strong sense that wizards could just take over the planet any time they felt like it. In fact, the back story contains one Grindelwald, who actually did want to take over the world and enslave Muggles. This was not a war between Muggles (who are not supposed to have been able to prevent this) and wizards, but rather an internal schism in the wizarding community. Gindelwald was not defeated by NUCLEAR BOMBS (And seriously – what the hell, is your plan to defeat wizards ‘flatten Scotland’? because that’s what would happen if you tried to bomb Hogwarts. You want to take out Diagon Alley? Congratulations, you just blew up London.), but rather in an old style man-to-man duel with another wizard. In a castle. They were ex-lovers. I’m assuming it was on the ramparts, it was raining and everyone was screaming like Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker in Revenge of the Sith.

I haven’t kept up with it, but I am peripherally aware that J K Rowling has said … increasingly weird things over the years, and I’m not attempting to defend any of that. But there was a general … theme in the novels that … most people probably aren’t fascists, and when the fascists come from within it is the community that must take them down. So Muggles are not given much power or agency at all.

This had nothing to do with heat-seeking missiles. Just … what?

Meanwhile, over in Dragon Age the Chantry talks a lot about mages having advantages in battle, but in practice that’s not what we actually see. For a start, non-mages have plenty of weapons that work just fine against magical enemies - swords, spears, arrows, axes. Nobody in Thedas has NUCLEAR BOMBS, mage or not. It’s not setting appropriate. Anders may have been a mage, but he had to rely on explosive material (likely gunpowder) to actually get a significant bang.

Non-mages may also wield enchanted weapons, meaning that they can literally take magic into battle with them. The mage over there is shooting lightning from her fingers? Your sword shoots fireballs. What the hell are you complaining about?

Nor does simply having a weapon in your hand mean that you know how to use it. I don’t know how to use a gun. Someone could give me one, in a crisis, I suppose. But it would only be luck that allowed me to incapacitate an assailant, and I certainly couldn’t fight several. Most ‘ordinary’ people in Thedas won’t have much in the way of weaponry. But likewise, neither will mages. They have magic, but that isn’t the same thing.

How many dead bodies do you need to prove this? The mage who was apparently murdered by villagers in Crestwood, when she went in to try to help them. The mages cut down by the Qunari swords in The Demands of the Qun. The villagers who were going to fucking lynch Rhys and his friends in Asunder.

It feels like you’ve made up a story about how magic works in both of these series that isn’t true to either of them.

Give these advantages to non-magical people in Thedas and I will agree that the Circles aren’t necessary.

So … to be clear, you’re arguing for:

the abduction of and permanent separation of children from their parents

forced conversion to a religion and the suppression of alternative religious beliefs

deprivation of citizenship and the basic rights that come with that

reducing people to a permanent infantile status as wards of a religious institution

permanent surveillance of affected individuals (phylacteries)

execution without trial where deemed appropriate by religious authorities

… because people might get possessed and can sometimes make fire come out of their hands? Well. Okay then. Good to know.

[imagesofthegreatgull]

Hybrid Rainbow

Joy has always been a rare and precious commodity. I would argue, though, that in the developed world (Wherever, exactly, that is), it has become somewhat less rare in recent times, as standards of living and education continue to go up. That’s an absurdly privileged thing to say, I realize, but I’m trying to start this thing as evenhandedly as I can. I understand about suffering and poverty; I’m reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn right now, even! Okay, saying we’re closer now than ever to utopia is going to smack of ignorance no matter how you phrase it, but it also strikes me as undeniably true, in the grand scheme of things. I think most people--aside from the fascists--would refuse a one-way trip in a time machine to any previous era, or at the very least, would recognize that it wouldn’t improve much of anything for them. As unruly as our age is, it’s still probably the best one we’ve gotten thus far, and as the boot-heel of oppression starts to ever so slowly ease up its pressure on the necks of the long-suffering masses, the question has begun to enter into the collective consciousness: what is to be done with joy when it begins to fall, unbidden, into your life with something like abundance? What is to be done if moments of joy no longer must be pried with great effort and sacrifice from the rockface of life, but lie strewn liberally throughout our days, needing only the will and lack of embarrassment to seize them?

Thus far, the latter-day generations have faced up to this problem with decidedly mixed success. The idea that expecting anything other than the very worst leaves one vulnerable to the universe’s cruel whims has been stamped upon the human brain for centuries, and has left many sadly unable to recognize their own privilege (Which, by the way, is a big part of why a whole lotta white folks refuse to admit they have it better than anyone else and continue to dig their heels in against progress because to them it looks like cutting in line). It is still widely accepted that constantly finding joy and peace and purpose in one’s own life is the purview of children and children alone, that it is a naivete to be grown out of. We have the impulse always within us to be hard, to be warlike, to show the world that we’re not weak and frivolous but monsters to be feared, without emotions to be appealed to or ideals to be fallen short of.

Remedying this problem has turned out to be one of the primary functions of counterculture. If it is often unhelpful to simply look at the entire value system of one’s parents and say “Fuck that”, as it tends to foster a rather negative self-definition, still, if part of that value system is a deeply entrenched distrust of happiness, “Fuck that” may be exactly the response called for. The beauty of “Fuck that” is that it leaps past the slow loss of faith in something and arrives immediately at a flat rejection of it, and since much of the history of civilization has been bound up with blind faith in arbitrary and harmful things, the ability and the courage to flatly reject something, to give it no credit for however widely accepted it is but to dismiss it as bullshit from the ground up, is a step forward in human consciousness tantamount to the reinvention of the wheel.

The great irony of the end of the sixties is that all the hippies were miserable for no reason: they won. Rock n’ roll did change the world, it just didn’t immediately transform it on every level into an unrecognizable nirvana. For all the apparent emptiness of its utopian dreams, the basic thrust of the thing worked out just fine: that particular cat will never be put back into its bag, and those ideas are now out in the ether forever, always waiting for someone to find them and be inspired to change their own life and the lives of those around them for the better. The same goes for the punk rock revolution a few years later: they may not have brought the bastards down, but they did successfully bring personal liberation to a lot of people, and poured exactly as much gas on the fires of populism as they intended to. Culture, and in particular art and in particular music, cannot, unassisted, change the world, but it can change your world, and has been changing small worlds all over the frigging place at least since those mop-topped Brits set foot on American shores and probably since Johnny B. Goode learned to play guitar just like a-ringin’ a bell. 

The thread can get lost, however. Culture is always a reflection of the people, and the people still spend a lot of their time bored, frustrated, and terrified of letting on that they have feelings about stuff. Young people especially, formerly the eternal pirate crew waving high the flags of “Liberty” and “Up Yours”, in recent times have often capitulated and resigned themselves to no more than a few stray moments of fun pilfered from the fortresses of the almighty Money Man-Kings, usually in the form of drugs, sex, and reckless self-endangerment. The cost of the hippies and the punks giving up their battles is that the counterculture lost its intellectual leadership, at least until the resurgence in political literacy in the 2010s. In the wasteland following the 70s, there were no John Lennons or Joe Strummers to look to for guidance; even the people who were elected to speak for their generation seemed adamant that there was fuck-all they could really say. Yeah, it’s nice to know that someone else feels stupid and contagious, but that’s not really a direction, is it? The generation-defining message Kurt Cobain and his peers sent out was “We’re all way too fucked up to do anything about anything”, and that introspective moodiness pervaded American underground rock music from the invention of hardcore at least all the way up to the moment Craig Finn watched The Last Waltz with Tad Kubler and said “Why aren’t there bands like this anymore?” and set out with rest of the Steadies in tow to remind everyone that music can save your immortal soul and that hey, that Springsteen guy was really onto something, headband and all, and together they all successfully ushered in the New Uncool and now we’ve got Patrick Stickles wailing that “If the weather’s as bad as the weatherman says, we’re in for a real mean storm!” and Brian Fallon admitting “I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis” and everything’s great, except it’s not, everything’s fucked, but rock n’ roll is here to stay, come inside now it’s okay, and I’ll shake you, ooo-ooo-ooo.

The point of all this is my belief that even with the responsibility rock music has to provide cathartic outlets for dissatisfaction, is has an equal or greater responsibility to provide heroes. I think it’s time we all got over pretending that we’re better than the need for heroes, because we all insist on having them anyway, imperfect roses by any other name, and we’d do a hell of a lot better selecting them if we just admitted what we were after. We don’t just want particularly talented comrades, we want King Arthur, Robin Hood, Superman, Malcolm Reynolds. Damn it all, they don’t need to be perfect, they don’t even need to be all that great really, and yeah, Arthur dies, and Robin never gets Prince John, and Superman can’t save everyone, and the war’s over, we’re all just folk now, and John Lennon beat women and Van Morrison is a grumpy old fart and John Lydon’s a disgrace, but it’s the faith that counts. The faith that there’s something greater than ourselves that some people are more keyed into than others, and that whatever they can relay from that other side is what’ll see us through. All the best prophets are madmen, and madmen aren’t always romantic fools; sometimes they hurt people, or fail at crucial moments due to a compulsion they can’t control. Let he who is without sin etcetera, right? Why not cast aside realism and sincerely believe in something or someone, huh? 

I believe in the Pillows. I don’t know hardly anything about them; my expertise of Japanese culture and history extends to the anime I’ve seen and that “History of Japan” YouTube video that made the rounds a while back. I can’t locate them within the Japanese music scene; all their western influences seem obvious to me, and the rest I know nothing about. They’re the only rock band from their country I’ve listened to any great amount of, I don’t speak the language they mostly sing in, I don’t even know their career very well. The particulars of any experiences they might have had that motivated them to make the art they make are not ones I could possibly share in, so, saying that I “Relate” to their work sounds a little preposterous. They ought to be a novelty to me, a band that clearly likes a lot of the same bands I do despite hailing from a foreign shore, marrying that shared music taste with a cultural identity I have nothing to do with, a small, nice upswing of globalism pleasing to my sense of universalism but not having any kind of quantifiable impact on me.

Yet I, like a good many other westerners, believe in the Pillows. I’m a little buster, and my eyes just watered as I wrote that. In fact, it’s likely because of the barriers of language and culture that exist between us that my belief in the Pillows is so strong. Pete Townshend, someone else I believe in, once opened a show by saying “You are very far away...but we will fucking reach you”, and though the Pillows are both geographically (At the moment) and culturally miles away from me, Lord strike me down if they don’t fucking reach me. They reach me in a way many of their American college rock peers, many of their biggest influences in fact, never have. Dinosaur Jr, Bob Mould, Sonic Youth, the Pixies, Nirvana--all these artists speak directly to the American adolescent experience, but though they have all moved me to one degree or another, none of them have produced a body of work I can so readily see myself in as that of the Pillows. Maybe it is the novelty of it, maybe I’m fooling myself and it is just my sense of universalism carrying me away, but there’s something I hear in the Pillows that I don’t hear in those bands, and though the obvious candidate for that thing would be the foreign tongue the majority of the lyrics are written in, when it comes down to it, I think that thing is joy.

Joy, to me, is the possibility glimpsed by rock n’ roll. Not hedonistic pleasure, not a sadistic glee over the outrage of authority figures, but real, true, open-hearted, “Freude, schöner Götterfunken/Tochter aus Elysium”--type joy. Buddy Holly had joy. The Beatles, The Who, the pre-fall Rod Stewart, they had joy. Springsteen’s got joy to spare. Those people have such profound love for their art and their audience that just the continual recognition of the fact that they have a guitar in their hands and they’re being allowed to play it is enough to make them ecstatic, and whenever they want to actually express something serious they have to get themselves under control to do it. Yet, whether it’s the unfashionability of those utopian dreams, or the simple fact that rock music has become accepted by mainstream culture and is now a commonplace, unremarkable thing, but half the people who have picked up an electric guitar for the past few decades don’t seem all that excited about it. From Kim Gordon snarling about how people go down to the store to buy some more and more and more and more, to Thom Yorke moaning about how he’s let down and hanging around, crushed like a bug in the ground, even up to Courtney Barnett asking how’s that for first impressions, this place seems depressing, it’s not really a given anymore, if it ever was, that people who make rock music are very joyful in what they do. 

Of course, I’m not demanding that our artists be empty-headed fluff-factories; far from it. The Pillows write sad songs and angry songs same as everybody else. But the important thing is this: every song the Pillows play is played with an exuberance and abandon that is immediately striking, regardless of the emotional content of each song. Channelling that kind of revelry into rock music is both to my mind the initial purpose of the genre in the first place and something which has become so rare as to be remarkable. A veneer of detached cool, a howling ferocity, a whimpering woundedness--these have become the hallmarks of American rock music, and they are nowhere to be found in the Pillows.

At the same time, the Pillows are the very antithesis of artlessness. Joy of the caliber they deal in is more commonly found in folky rave-ups, a lack of musicianship giving way to trancelike festivity. But the Pillows are skilled song craftsmen like few others; their sound has evolved throughout the years, but they tend to settle in the neighborhood of power-pop, abounding in glorious hooks and surprising structures. A hundred unnecessary, perfect touches seem to exist in every song; a pause, a solo, a bassline, all deftly elevating the song into a perfect expression of something sublime, something that always--always--takes ahold of the musicians themselves and imbues their performances with power and purpose the likes of which most little busters can only dream of feeling. It should be testament enough to their brilliance that upon first listen to a song I never know what most of the lyrics mean, but whenever I look up a translation, they always turn out to be exactly what I felt they must be; their songs are so musically communicative that they all but lack the need for lyrics. 

This dual nature is why I believe in the Pillows: by so utterly failing to neglect both the highest possibilities of musical composition as an unparalleled tool for capturing emotional nuance and the unrestrained id-like rush that is the province of rock n’ roll, they successfully attain the lofty realm that is--or ought to be--the goal of music in the first place. Never once is there a hint of straying into the realm of primitivism nor into overthought seriousness, and instead they locate themselves somehow exactly center on the scale between punk and prog, lacking the weaknesses and gaining the strengths of both. They make rock whole again by finally disproving the tenet initially laid out by their heroes, your heroes, and mine, The Beatles: the notion that growing up means having less fun. The viscerally exciting early work of The Beatles lacks any of the depth and vision displayed by their later records, but those records are so carefully and expertly crafted that they tend to lose spontaneity, and constantly second-guess themselves where the juvenilia they followed forged unselfconsciously ahead. That legendary career path has laid out a false dichotomy that every proceeding generation of kids with guitars has chosen between, save for the few who could see past it, the ones who heard the wildness in “Revolution” and the wisdom in “Twist and Shout” and realized that they were of a piece, were one and the same, not to be chosen between but embraced fully. Pete Townshend. Bruce Springsteen. Joe Strummer. David Byrne. Paul Westerberg. The Pillows. The real heroes are not those who champion one side or another but fight all their lives for peace between them, knowing that we have not yet begun to imagine what could be accomplished if that were made possible.

Just as they bypass the divide between what Patrick Stickles termed the Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies of rock (I prefer to think of the usual battle as being between the Dionysians and the Athenians, with the true devotees of Apollo being most of those heroes I keep referring to, except Dylan, who might be a Hermesian), so too do the Pillows bypass the Pacific frigging ocean. And the Atlantic, to boot. Their music quotes the Pixies and The Beatles directly, and obviously owes much to Nirvana and all their college rock predecessors who spent the entire 80s desperately stacking themselves until the doomed power trio could finally vault over the wall. Their first record is practically a tribute to XTC. They do speak a lot of English, too. I’m informed that much of western culture is seen as the epitome of coolness in Japan, which might explain their obsession with Baseball, and apparently sprinkling a bit of the Saxon tongue into the mix is far from uncommon in the music scene(s). Regardless, there is something ineffably touching to a distant fan in a foreign land about hearing Sawao Yamanaka spit “No surrender!” or exclaim “Just runner’s high!” It looks from here like a show of mutual effort to understand me as much as I’m trying to understand them. They’re generous enough to have already walked to the middle where they’re asking me to meet them, a middle where it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a suffix attached to my name or that they don’t wear shoes in houses. The invisible continent that all forward-thinking and sensitive people come to long for is where the Pillows are broadcasting from, because they’ve realized that its golden shores and spiraling cities are attainable. They’re attainable with joy, with the fundamentally rebellious act of refusing to let the fascists bring down even your globdamn day, because who the hell gave them that power other than us? I know enough about Japan and America to know that either one accusing the other of being imperialist and socially conservative to a fault is a fucking joke, and to know that we’ve done a lot more wrong to them than they’ll ever do to us and the presence of the Pillows amounts to a “We forgive you”, not an “I’m sorry”. Having watched a decent amount of anime, which is basically the result of Japan’s mind being blown by western media and then proceeding to show their love by often almost inadvertently surpassing their inspirations, I know that the only way to save our respective national souls and everybody else’s too is to put our knuckles down, have Jesus and Buddha shake hands like Kerouac tried to explain that they would anyway, and embrace each other’s dreams and passions and adopt them into our own. 

It takes better people to inhabit that better world, and in case that sounds like fascist talk, I mean we’ve got to do better, not be better. It’s no physical imperfection that holds us back, nor a mental imperfection exactly, as we all have our own neuroses and if we expunge those then we’ll be kissing art and lot of other vital stuff goodbye. No, it’s our discomfort with ourselves, our world, our neighbors, our aliens, that keep us from seeing that crazy sunshine. If we can’t even acknowledge the greatness around us, that surplus of joy I mentioned a while back that we just seem to have no idea what to do with, then we have no hope of ever achieving further greatness, of ever quelling man’s inhumanity to man down to an inevitable fringe rather than the basic order of the world. 

There was always more to do 

Than just eat and work and screw

But now that there’s time at last to do those things, we’re still afraid to, afraid that we’ll come up empty, that the search for fulfillment leads only to disappointment, better to hang back and play it safe, better not to risk becoming one of those people I shake my head at and pity and will secretly envy until I die. It’s a new world, and we must learn to be new people. I believe in the Pillows because I believe they make excellent models for that new kind of person. The way they behave in the studio and on the stage is the way people behave when they’re truly free, and we’ve all been set free already or will be soon, so if we’re going to try and learn what the fuck is next from anyone, I think we might as well learn from the Pillows. At least, that’s one of the places we could get that insight. There’s a lot of art and a lot of philosophy and political theory to sift through to in order to put together a workable 21st century identity, and the Pillows are hardly the only people to have begun making the leap. But because of a silly thing like the size of the earth, the infinitesimal size of the earth even compared to the distance between us and the next rock we’re gonna try and get to, not everybody is getting their particular brand of free thought and action, and I happen to think that’s regrettable, and it’s my will as a free individual to rectify it as much as I can.

Writing about music really is worthless, isn’t it? I haven’t said jackshit about what the Pillows actually do other than to vaguely qualify their genre and temperament, and the only more useless thing I could do than not describing their songs would be to describe their songs. If you don’t hear the bracing weightlessness in “Blues Drive Monster”, or the aching nostalgia in “Patricia”, or the soul-bearing cry in “Hybrid Rainbow” then nothing I could write about those would be more effective than “Little Busters is a really good album.” The better primer might be Happy Bivouac, from a few years later; it has the melancholic rush of “Last Dinosaur”, the ascended teenybopper “Whoa, whoa, yeah” chorus in “Backseat Dog”, and the intro that should make it obvious immediately that you’re listening to one of the best songs ever recorded which opens “Funny Bunny”. Those two, Runners High, and Please, Mr. Lostman are the classic era, selections from the former three immortalized in their biggest claim to western fame, the FLCL soundtrack, a brilliant use of their music that could warrant an equally long piece. Before and after those four are periods of experimentation and discovery equally worth your time, not all of which I’m familiar with yet. See, now I’m just an incomplete Wikipedia article; it’d be equally worthless to expound upon the individual bandmates, on the pure yawp of Yamanaka’s vocals, on the passionate drumming of Yoshiaki Manabe and the supernaturally faultless lead guitar of Shinichiro Sato, or the contribution of founding bassist Kenji Ueda, which was so valued by the others that when he left he was never officially replaced (They’re so sweet). I’m not here to write an advertisement or a press-release, I don’t really even know why I’m here writing this, but I know that I believe in the Pillows, that they’re important, and that people should write about them. I’m being the change I want to see in the world, get it? That’s all we can be asked to do.

It occurs to me that people believed in Harvey Dent too, and that didn’t turn out so well. Hell, let’s leave the comic book pages behind, people believe in Donald Trump, they think he’s a hero, and that’s all going down in flames as I write this. Having heroes can be dangerous, but I still believe it’s not as dangerous as not having heroes. “Lesser of two evils” sounds an awful lot like one of those false dichotomies between fun and intelligence or between misery and foolishness I mentioned earlier, so, let’s call it a qualified good. I’m not much of a responsible world-citizen if my only effort towards bringing the planet together is spinning some sweet Japanese alt-rock tunes and bragging about how open-minded I am, but if I do ever end up doing anyone any good, then I’d consider it paying forward the good done to me by the Pillows, among others. They helped me form my identity as an artist (Read: functional human being) and they made my adolescence a lot easier. Actually, that’s a lie: my adolescence was (And continues to be) pretty easy already, and the Pillows reassured me that I wasn’t avoiding reality by feeling that. While American bands sang about the downsides of being a mallrat or a non-mallrat, the Pillows offered a vision of teenagedome much like my own, one that was grandly romantic, in which suffering wasn’t a cosmic stupidity but a trial with pathos and merit, and joy was not an occasional indulgence but a constant presence, whether it was lived in or lost and needing recovery. 

That’s the old idea of youth, the youth of John Keats, the youth that makes the old miss it, makes it required that we explain to them that it’s still there, it never left, it’s a dream, a momentary affirmation, an attitude, a muttered curse word. So many of my peers, now no longer engaged in a constant race to stay out of the grave as their ancestors were, seemed intent on beating each other into their tombs, as if reaching walking death before their parents was the only way to outgrow them. There’s so much life just lying around and it’s just plain wasteful to let it lie in the sun and rust in the rain. There’s space enough to stretch, to not keep who you are awkwardly curled up inside yourself, to breathe the air and taste the wine and dig the brains of your fellow travelers in this loosely-defined circus. I found that space in the Pillows, having often suspected it was there, and while everyone is going to find that space in their own way--or not, still, tragically not--I have to think that experience was due in part  to some innate and unique quality of the music itself, not just a complimentary sensibility contained within myself. The Pillows are free, and that makes them freeing, it’s easy as that. Their liberation is plain as day; it rings in every chord, every snare-hit, every harmony; it’s up to us ascertain what we can do in our own limited capacity to hoist ourselves up to their level and give some other folks a boost along the way and a hand to grab afterwards. It’s the gift that art gives us, and the Pillows just give it more freely than most is all, which is why I think the suggestion to listen to them is more than just a solid recommendation. Like the insistence on listening to The Beatles, or The Clash, or any of the others, it’s a plea to save your soul, to learn the language of tomorrow and drink the lifeblood of peace and love and piss and vinegar, or else you’ll be lost, lost, lost. 

Can you feel? Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?

[haiky-u-lously]

Soul Searching Comments-- Part 1

W/ Iwazumi Hajime

--Soulmate AU where each day a random sentence that the person has/would say shows up on the mate’s body.

Because of tumblr's weird mobile text limit, had to break this into 2 parts. So, here is part 1. Then click for Part 2

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Your PV]

“Do you think you’re fighting by yourself?!” You read from your wrist out loud.

It had become your practiced ritual every day since you learned what the writing on your skin was. You would follow your wake-up routine and then check your body for the new statement of the day. Sometimes they were hilarious, sometimes sad, and sometimes worry-ing. But this time, you were more astonished. Lowkey wondering what could make your soulmate need to scream this out at someone.

“What was that (F/N)?” Your friend drowsily called from the other room.

You shook away the feelings currently flowing through your brain and went back to sit on the edge of their bed. “Oh nothing, just reading out the new comment. Have you found yours yet?”

You friend just sighed. She flew the comforter off her body and over your head and jumped up to run to the bathroom before you could retaliate. “Ah! Yes! It’s on my back today!” She exclaimed happily.

“And what does it say prey tell?” You asked, knowing she would tell you either way.

Opening the door, you saw she had started brushing her teeth and just held her shirt up for you to read yourself. You read out, “Could you teach me how to serve? Um…well…yea I don’t know what to say to that luv. Sorry.”

Your friend shrugged and closed the door behind herself, finishing her own wakeup routine.

[Months later]

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)! (Y/N)!” you heard being called from across the large gymnasium.

Turning towards the voice you saw your friend racing towards you and sent her a smile. “(B/F/N). What’s up?”

“I found him! My soulmate. He isn’t anything like we thought he would be, just a bit socially awkward since he is so much younger!” She yelped excitedly jumping up and down while latching her hands onto your own.

Her energy being contagious forced your own expression to grow into a wide grin that overtook your whole face, “Wow! I’m excited for you! Where is he?” You asked, looking over her shoulder to see if you could find a love-sick looking first or second year.

Kitagawa Daichi Junior high was a big school, so it made sense you would not have know everyone not in your grade, but to find out that your best friend’s soulmate was in your school was just to unreal, and you needed to see it for yourself.

“Oh yea, well… He actually doesn’t know yet.” She said sheepishly.

Raising your eyebrows at her questionably, she understood your unspoken questions and went on to explain.

“So, my comment today was something very very specific, right? And during the closing ceremony I overheard the volleyball team arguing and went to check it out. I mean how can I pass up getting the scoop on that juice, huh? Anyway! So, I’m watching pretty-boy yell at that first-year prodigy and then.” She smiles before continuing, “And then! The freaking prodigy said the line! And I’m freaking out so I run away to think if what I heard was actually what was written, but while I’m running away, by ankle starts burning which just solidifies that the one I heard that line from is in fact my soulmate.” She clasped her hands on your shoulders as her eyes bore into your own, “And then I rushed here to tell you.”

You put your hands over hers and slowly removed them from your shoulders, eyes searching her face for any indication that she was joking, or pretending, or you did not know, but something that indicated she didn’t actually run away after finding her soulmate. When you found none, you pinched her upper arm. “You idiot! Why didn’t you say anything to him? We are going on holiday now! And then you and I will go to a different school than him! What’s wrong with you!”

Her eyes bulged and you face-palmed at how she was just now realizing her mistake. “I gotta go find him! Bye, (Y/N)! Thanks for the advice!”

And she was gone.

[Years later]

“”Guys that girls squeal over piss me off even more.” You read out loud to your friend Kiyoko on the bus.

The statement being presented on your calf having caught her attention when you were both climbing aboard for the trip to the tournament.

She smiled sweetly at you, “It seems your soulmate has some very strong opinions. That should be good. Maybe he can actually handle you then.”

You laughed before lightly pushing at her shoulder, “Maybe, but if I don’t ever meet him, it won’t ever matter. Will it?”

Both of you sighed and looked out the window, individually thinking about how you hoped your soulmate meetings would go when they finally happened.

--------

Once at the tournament gym, your team quickly found its way to its court.

Soon enough it was time to face their old rivals from Seijo.

During the match you were standing with the coach yelling at the boys of Karasuno for their stupid plays as well as trying to yell encouraging tid-bits of information to help them succeed.

[After graduating university]

Kiyoko, (B/F/N), and you were waiting for your ordered car to arrive and take you to the next location for Kiyoko’s birthday scavenger hunt.

After she had met her soulmate, they had planned extravagant activities for her for every holiday. Always either leaving room for her friends to join, or making the time be set aside for her and her friends. It made you like them even more.

While thinking about this, you felt something slap you in the face. Having a mild panic attack and karate chopping the air around you, it took longer than should have been necessary to realize it had just been a falling leaf.

Your friends laughed at you and you decided to continue your antics, turning to look up at the tree above-head. Waggling a finger at it and shouting, “You wanna go bro? I will cut and burn you to ash.”

The wind blew through it again, and another leaf fell in your direction. You playfully jumped out of the way and stutteringly spoke out, “Okay okay okay, Mr. Tree. I’m sorry I will not burn you. But seriously I didn’t do anything to deserve being hit like that.”

Your friends laughed at your craziness, until (B/F/N) called that the car pulling up was your ride. Climbing in, they were still laughing, and you couldn’t help but beam that you were able to make Kiyoko’s day that much better.

“Oh!” She suddenly exclaimed, “(Y/N)! You never said what your random comment of the day was! Please tell us?”

You rolled your eyes, “Fine fine. Let’s see. You moved your hair off your neck so they could read it out for themselves.”

“It’s just every time you open your mouth, you seem to get even more annoying.” They both read aloud.

Seeing the struggle in their expressions in a positive thing to say about this seemingly rude statement, you laughed their worry away. “I know, I know. I can’t wait to ask them about it all though. One day.”

(B/F/N) laughed a bit before asking what you meant.

Then Kiyoko explained how you had started a journal writing down all the strange comments to ask them about when you would finally meet.

They both laughed harder at this, and you just smiled silently as you wondered when that would finally be.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

[Iwa’s PV]

He stood facing his back to the mirror in astonishment. Sorry, being clearly written on his lower back. “Sorry? Sorry is all this has to say?!” He screamed in disbelief.

Wondering how he was supposed to find his supposed other half when apparently his side of the bargin was only meant to get all these super unhelpful words and phrases.

“How many people say sorry in a day! This is the worst!” He yelled, unknowingly scaring the first years who had just entered the locker room.

They promptly exited and went to find the one who was known to back handedly control the strongest player on the Kitagawa team.

“Iwa-chan~~” Oikawa sang while entering the locker room. “Some little birdies came crying to me about how angry the big bad ace was. Screaming in the locker room, tsk tsk Iwa-chan. Tsk tsk.”

“Shut up Baka-awa. I’m not in the mood,” The olive-green-eyed male lamented, pulling his jersey over his broad shoulders.

Oikawa pouted, “So mean, Iwa-chan. Your soulmate will never want to meet you if you’re so mean to your friends~” Singing out the last taunt, Oikawa quickly ran back out of the locker space before the ace could catch and pummel him into a goop.

[Months later]

At the end of closing ceremonies, Oikawa had led Iwazumi towards the ole volleyball locker rooms, wanting to give the new captain some “helpful” advice.

Unfortunately, the pair of graduating males ran into the one and only Kageyama Tobio.

“Oikawa-sempai, Iwazumi-senpai. I wish you luck in your high school careers.” The boy bowed, and Iwazumi was grateful that’s all he said.

He thanked the blue haired boy and moved to go around him but was stopped by the glint in Oikawa’s eyes.

Whispering a warning, “Oikawa…don’t” The ace realized he was too late.

“Don’t sit here and tell us what to do. You are nothing. You will never be anything. You are just some prodigy who doesn’t know anything about what it takes to put in hard work for something you love as much as Iwa-chan and I do. So just keep your luck to yourself. You will need it.” He pulled his eye down and stuck out his tongue before continuing his verbal rampage.

Eventually he ended his onslaught of a speech, much to Iwazumi’s welcomed relief, but then continued by asking if Kageyama had anything more to say.

“I was just thinking it would be cool if you could finally beet Ushijima Wakatoshi in high school, since you couldn’t here.”

Iwa knew the boy was just stupid. He knew the kid didn’t mean it the way the Oikawa would take it.

But Iwazumi was also distracted by a loud gasp and quickly retreating steps before he could explain this to his best friend. Instead he just grabbed the light-brunette by the back collar of his shirt and dragged him away as quickly as he could.

[Years later]

“Geesh Baka-awa. Can’t you control your fans at all. You’d think since they live for your every word and action, they’d listen to you at least a little bit.”

The captain just smiled to the group of girls screaming for him from the bleachers, “Ah Iwa-chan. Its okay if you’re jealous. I’m sure they could cheer for you without my asking them to.”

He received a punch to the gut for that one, before Iwazumi went to finish warming up now that the team captain had been located…again.

-----

During the game he had let himself get distracted by the girl screaming at the Karasuno team. He couldn’t make her words when she gave hints on how they could adjust their playing to match Seijo, but he could hear her clear as day when she was tearing them down.

“Pick up your damn feet and move those asses or you are doing nothings but drills for practice until the next scrimmage!” She shouted before throwing her clipboard to the floor.

The quiet manager sitting besides the seat she had stood in front of, quickly picked it up before the shouting one could step on it as she started yelling at Kageyama specifically. About how he wasn’t the only player on the court and to trust his teammates if he wanted to stay on it.

This made Iwazumi smirk before refocusing on the game in front of him. She’d be an interesting manager to keep an eye on though.

[After graduating university]

Mattsun had sent his soulmate on a scavenger hunt for her birthday activity. Iwazumi was responsible for the last item on the list and had holed up in his apartment for the afternoon.

Waiting for the small group of females to come in for the item, so he could then take them to the surprise party the Mattsun had also planned for them. He had just reread the comment that had appeared on his ankle that morning, laughing about how ridiculous it seemed. An apology to a Mr. Tree. At least it was original, as opposed to his former ones.

Thinking about his own lack of knowing who his soulmate was, reminded him all over about Mattsun and Kiyoko. How they’d found each other. And how hard Mattsun had fallen.

Man that boy was head over heels in love with Kiyoko and he was not afraid to admit it, or share it with the world. And dammit, if Iwa and Oikawa couldn’t get him to say those three words to her tonight, how could they call themselves his best friends.

Knocking at his apartment door caused the male to stand up and shake his head out of his inner thoughts.

He opened it to see Kiyoko, the girl that he’d learned was Kageyama’s soulmate, (B/F/N), and the feisty manager from Karasuno high school. He smiled at the girls and welcomed them in.

“Hello, Iwazumi-kun.” Kiyoko greeted shyly.

(B/F/N) just shook his hand as she passed.

He watched as the third-party member entered, but didn’t say anything, and didn’t move too far from the entry way either. And, found himself wishing he had the fore thought to ask Mattsun who to expect so he could start a conversation with her.

But that thought to was cut short as Kiyoko asked if she had the last item, they needed to complete their scavenger hunt.

He laughed before leading her to his living room and giving her an envelope. “It’s just Mattsun wanted to surprise you, ya know?”

The girl opened the envelope and her eyes bulged before she answered, “He is so…I cannot accept this. No!” She said a bit more forcefully.

(B/F/N) came over to look at what she’d received and was soon in a fit of joyous hysterics. “Oh, this is golden. Boy sends us on a scavenger hut to get us out of the way, and then ends it with a card to go on a shopping spree with? Damn girl, your boy is so totally whipped. What did you do to him?!” Kiyoko’s face went red with embarrassment and the other two girls laughed at her expense.

“Now, (B/F/N). be nice. It is her birthday after all.” Iwazumi still didn’t know your name but he knew he’d remembered your voice. And it was still as hypnotizing as it had been years ago. “Kiyoko, what does the note say?”

The birthday girl, huffed around her emotions, trying to calm down so she could carefully read what was written in the letter provided with the card. “My dear…um yes anyway…I hope your day with your friends has been exciting in as many ways possible. While I’m sad I couldn’t spend the day with you, I…okay skipping this part since (B/F/N) will just tease me, um let us see…oh here we go…This card is for (B/F/N), (Y/N) and you to buy some ballroom styled dresses, along with a couple of fancy masks. Today and tonight might be about you…*cough cough*” While she was coughing, Iwa looked over her shoulder and saw he had written in some sugary-sweet nicknames. She continued after getting her heart back in order, “but other holidays must unfortunately be shared with all. So, I wanted to help you buy your costumes for the annual masquerade ball. I will see you at the party tonight, but please go get your outfits on my dime before getting ready and showing up tonight.”

When she finished reading, she looked at all three of the pair of eyes on her, before exploding into a blush again. “I cannot just take his money! No.”

Iwazumi smiled slightly to himself, happy he finally has your name for his inner thoughts to run wild with.

“Well, I say we can.”(B/F/N) started, before adding, “He literally told us to. DO you want to ignore his wishes?”

You laughed slightly before agreeing with (B/F/N).

Kiyoko just huffed, “Of course the crazy girl who argued with a tree would take sides with the idiot who ran away from her soulmate until she was told she shouldn’t have.”

Both girls yelled a “hey!” back in shock.

“Well ladies,” Iwazumi spoke with a smile, “as much as I would love to see how this all plays out first hand, I too must get ready for your party Kiyoko, so I must ask that you argue about the fact that you will end up follow instruction while on your way to do so.” He ushered the three out the front door, before calling a final goodbye, “And maybe, don’t argue with any more trees along the way.”

He rushed himself to his restroom as soon as he latched the door shut behind them, splashing cold water on his face to calm his racing heart. What was going on with him to be acting so strangely?? He couldn’t figure it out.

Okay, here is part 1. Since I am on mobile, it stopped me at the 250 text blocks. Part 2 will be up shortly. And then any questions/comments/concerns/ideas are welcome as always.

Right as he thought he could get ready in peace after calming down, Oikawa called whining about something or another. Iwa decided to tease him a bit to get out of his own head and the insult about his voice had the intended affect.

Hajime was able to get ready at the speed of light after that.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hope yall enjoy.

[vagrantblvrd]

That Kind of Comfortable (1/1)

Summary: Geoff likes to think he’s done his time, put in his dues.

Likes to think he’s suffered enough in life, and if the universe at large would just give him a fucking break any time now, that would be great.

Notes: Felt like writing something a little different. Set in the GTA V FAHC AU, but different. Because reasons. /o\

(Read on AO3)

Geoff likes to think he’s done his time, put in his dues.

Likes to think he’s suffered enough in life, and if the universe at large would just give him a fucking break any time now, that would be great.

But no, no.

Because there the Vagabond is on his doorstep, bloodied up and looking like hell like it’s not the middle of the night and also storming out and there’s sure to be at least one more murder on the news in the morning.

“Hey, asshole,” Geoff says, tired and put upon and joints aching like hell because he’s an old fuck and the weather does a doozy on him. “Do anything interesting lately?”

The Vagabond sighs. Big heavy thing like Geoff is the one always trying his patience.

“Oh, not much,” he says, light and airy, tiniest hint of strain to it as he plays along. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

Geoff should slam the door in his the asshole’s face and call the cops. Let them know about the whole Vagabond visiting him in the middle of the night (again) business, but -

“Yeah?” Geoff says, undoing the chain and opening his door wider. “You look like you’ve had a rough night, buddy.”

The Vagabond hums, waggles his head like Geoff might have a point about that.

“Eh,” he says. “About the usual.”

That...that’s kind of the problem.

Geoff stares at the Vagabond for a long moment. Takes note of the blood on his mask, tear on the sleeve of his jacket that looks like someone with a knife got lucky. The way he’s doing his best not to favor his side and tries very hard not to sigh. (He doesn’t succeed, but damn does he try.)

“You know where the medical supplies are,” he says, and lets one of the most notorious men in Los Santos int his home instead of calling the police like he should.

========

Geoff isn’t what you’d call an upstanding citizen.

He’s got infractions under his belt. Small things like traffic tickets and parking violations. A few drunk and disorderly offenses back when he was younger and stupider, before he got his life figured out – or what passes for it these days.

And even with all of that hanging around him, the Army still took him. Snapped up the idiot kid he’d been and did its best to make something of him, the way the recruiter claimed it would. After that he managed to trick the police department into giving him a chance, and they had a good run of it for a while there.

Geoff out protecting and serving and putting assholes and scumbags behind bars where they belonged, but then there’s been the Mitchel case and things had gone to hell. The job lost its shine and even with his captain backing him, there were too many reasons not to stick around. (Never knowing when he’d get a bullet in his back from people he was meant to trust was a major one.)

So going from that to whatever he is now -

Well.

It’s a hell of a thing, is what it is.

Has his own little business as a private investigator (not much else he could think of doing with his particular skill-set, and also it had seemed funny at the time).

It’s a sweet gig, really.

Geoff gets to make his own hours. No dress-code, which is great because no boss breathing down his neck and side-eyeing him when he gets the itch for a new tattoo.

Not much like the television shows he used to watch growing up, All conspiracy after conspiracy brought to him by a client scared to go the cops. No murder mystery after murder mystery and flashy car chase scenes and back alley shootouts.

No, Geoff mostly gets the wives of cheating husbands and estranged family members hoping to track down some deadbeat relative for legal matters. The occasional creep thinking he wouldn’t pick up on their shitty stalking by proxy and other shit like that.

Which makes the fact that he’s somehow got people like the Vagabond dropping in and out of his life a little surreal.

========

“You know,” Geoff says, swinging his feet as he watches the Vagabond stitch himself up. “A few years ago and I’d have arrested you by now.”

The Vagabond looks up from his work, and even though the mask in the way Geoff knows he’s getting a raised eyebrow.

“You would have tried,” the Vagabond says, nice and level like they both know Geoff would have gotten his dumb ass dead in the attempt.

Geoff makes a face at that because he’s not wrong about that.

The Vagabond isn’t someone he’d like to run into in a dark alley, or even a well-lit street.

Someone like him, the terror of Los Santos to go by the rumors floating around the city?

Yeah, no. Hard pass on that one.

Geoff’s an idiot, sure, but even he’s not that stupid.

The Vagabond snorts and goes back to piecing himself together while Geoff watches. (Hands curled tight on the edge of the bathroom counter he’s sitting on because the asshole is stubborn. Won’t let Geoff help even though there’s a slight tremor in his hand and his stitches are coming out uneven as hell.)

========

Trevor’s watching the news when Geoff gets to his office the next morning.

Something about something and a hell of a lot of police cars and emergency vehicles on the scene while the reporter offers what they know about the situation. Speculation and guesswork based on what the police shared with them, the way the city works.

Unhelpful as hell because all it does is stir up fear and paranoia in an already paranoid city.

Trevor glances up when he sees Geoff, smile curling the corners of his mouth because the kid’s an asshole.

“There’s been another murder,” he says, thick southern accent and this laughter to it that ruins the effect he’s going for.

Geoff...he sighs.

Does a lot of that in his life these days.

Assholes like the Vagabond and Trevor bring it out in him.

“Color me surprised,” Geoff mutters, and takes a hefty swig of the coffee he picked up on the way to the office.

Trevor cocks his head, narrows his eyes.

Takes a good look at Geoff in all his sleep-deprived glory and puts the pieces together. (Clusterfuck of a crime scene on the news and Geoff looking like death warmed over?)

“Trouble sleeping?” Trevor asks, all sweetness and light and too smart for his own good. “Is it that stray you picked up again?”

Geoff bites back another sigh.

He regrets hiring the little shit sometimes, but he needed someone to keep his files organized. Keep him organized and figured since Trevor was the one least likely to run screaming when things got weird – they always do – he was the right guy for the job.

“You know what?” Geoff says, because it’s too damn early in the day to deal with Trevor’s nonsense. “Yeah. Yeah it was.”

Just about the best way to describe the whole Vagabond Situation when he thinks about it.

========

Geoff’s day isn’t very productive.

He makes a few calls, follows up on a few leads. Reassures his current client he’s doing what he can, but trying to find someone in a city as big as Los Santos when they don’t want to be found is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Trevor’s some help there, has contacts Geoff doesn’t and offers to make a few calls of his own to help even though it’s not in his job description.

“Silly Geoff,” he says - pshaws - “I’d like to get paid too, you know.”

There’s that, too.

Geoff’s private investigator business, employee count two. (Technically.)

Not quite raking in the money, but that’s never what it’s been about.

Just Geoff and a shitty city and the thought maybe, possibly, he could do some good out there for someone.

He stops by the corner grocery store on his way home, picks up things for dinner and has a nice little chat with the little old lady who runs the place.

Sharp-eyed biddy with a sweet face and one hell of an arm on here, even now. (Cold-cocked a robber with a can of spaghetti sauce once.)

She smiles sweet as anything at him when she notices he’s buying enough for two - “Is it that stray of yours again, young man? - and throws in a freshly baked pie for free of charge despite his protests.

“You can’t keep doing this Maddy,” he says, but it’s a token effort. Hard to argue with a woman as stubborn as she is.

Maddy laughs like she thinks he’s adorable and sends him on his way with a cheery wave and admonition to bring his nice young man by again sometime.

========

The Vagabond’s long gone by the time Geoff gets home, no sign he was ever there which is great for the whole plausible deniability thing Geoff likes to pretend he has.

He puts the groceries away and goes to take stock of his medical kit to see what he needs to replenish and take a moment to ask himself what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Los Santos is a dangerous city, all kinds of weirdos and nutjobs out there. (The Vagabond, for one.)

Not the safest place for someone like him, always poking his nose in other people’s business. Picking up secrets here and there he really shouldn’t know, and yet -

He likes it here for whatever damn reason. Likes the energy the city has to it, the way life just happens here. (Good and the bad and everything in between.)

People who end up here doing the best they can how they can. (Ones like him who don’t have anywhere else to be, no rush to leave even though they should.)

Geoff putters around for a while, checks missed calls and texts while he was shopping and goes through his mail. Tosses the junk mail and flyers into the recycling and sorts the rest by priority before shoving it all in a desk drawer to deal with later. (Part of the reason he needed someone like Trevor for his business.)

When he’s done his stomach is grumbling, so he gets up to make dinner. Hesitates when he opens the fridge because he’s never sure when that stray of his will show up, but figures if worse comes to worst he’ll have dinner for tomorrow night already made.

He’s just starting on the sides when his doorbell rings and has to laugh a little at the timing.

Taking the pan off the stove, he goes to answer it and feels his mouth stretch into a smile when he sees who it is.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, “long time no see.”

Ryan huffs, like he thinks Geoff’s ridiculous.

“Well you know,” he says, and shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

He looks tired, and there’s this pinched look around his eyes. Wearing long sleeves even though they’re in the middle of one of the hottest summer’s Los Santos has seen in years and -

“You’ve got something there,” Geoff says, and reaches up to wipe a dark smudge away from Ryan’s face, and tries not to smirk when his hand comes away with a smear of black on his fingers.

Face paint.

“Huh,” Ryan says, like they both don’t know about his little secret. “New make-up artist.”

Geoff doesn’t roll his eyes, just nods and plays along with Ryan and his whole...modeling thing. (It’s not a complete lie. Geoff’s found photos from past shoots, and every so often he’ll see a billboard with the smug asshole’s face on it.)

Still.

“Oh, yeah,” Geoff says. “I know how it is.”

He lets in Ryan in and tells him to make himself at home the way he always does and doesn't sigh when the asshole helps him finish making dinner instead.

“Hey, no,” Geoff says, lightly slapping Ryan’s hand away from the pie on the counter when the asshole makes a go at it when he thinks Geoff’s not looking. “Pies are for dessert, asshole.”

Ryan, a fully grown adult pouts at him, rubbing the back of his hand like Geoff took a bat to it and gives him these truly pathetic puppy-dog eyes.

“But Geoff,” he says, all woeful and sad, poor little orphan all alone in this cold and cruel world. “Pie.”

Geoff, heartless bastard that he is, hip checks Ryan away from the pie and towards the cutting board to finish chopping up the salad he insisted on helping with.

“Suck it up, buttercup. You’re just going to have wait until dinner’s over.”

Somehow the pout intensifies, but Geoff’s a stone-cold bastard who doesn’t budge. (Knows if he does Ryan will be even more insufferable than usual.)

Geoff keeps an eye on him, because Ryan’s the stubborn sort. Runs himself into the ground and forgets to look after his own well-being, runs himself into the ground time and time again.

Which is fine, because Geoff is more than willing to do that for him, when Ryan will let him.

It’s taken some doing, getting through that thick skull of his, but Geoff’s learned the best things are worth the effort.

“So,” Ryan says, sliding a look at Geoff. “Anything interesting happen recently?”

Ryan’s been gone, you see.

Off on a photo shoot somewhere or other and out of town and far away from any goings on here in Los Santos.

Geoff slides a look right back at Ryan, sees that annoying little smirk of his.

One day, Geoff knows, trouble will come knocking at his door and it won’t be wearing a skull mask or sheepish little grin, but for now?

Well, he’s pretty good at handling what comes his way.

“Eh,” Geoff says, because this is a game they’ve been playing for a while now, stupid as it is. “About the usual.”

[siluscrow]

Life advice and shit

So it’s 3:30am and I’m waiting on a render to finish up so Imma drop some life advice on Tumblr ‘cause I’m bored as fuck. Well life advice and general life methodology.

Be excellent to each other.

Don’t judge people for shit they can’t control like race, gender, sexual preference, etc., judge people for their actions and words. They have a say in that shit after all.

Don’t hold people accountable for things they themselves have not done. An ancestor may have been a shit person but you shouldn’t have to pay for their crimes when they’re long dead.

Uphold standards evenly. Hold people to the same standards, don’t give people a pass for shitty behavior but then rip into someone for doing the exact same thing. Sometimes double standards are the only standards a person has. Don’t be that person.

If you HAVE to make arguments about/against demographics (based on sex, gender, etc.), switch said demographics up and take a look at it again. If it then seems racist, sexist, homophobic or what have you, you may wanna re-evaluate some things.

Also, don’t make arguments about/against demographics, make them about people. All [Demographic] people aren’t problematic, but that motherfucker there that’s shouting slurs sure as fuck is.

“Well the good [demographic] knows when I say ‘all [demographic] people are trash’ that I’m not talking about them.” No. Get better fucking wording you sack of shit. You’re assuming that people will pick that up and not read it like you’re throwing entire groups of people under the bus ‘cause you can’t be bothered to not blame entire demographics for the actions of a few people that just happen to be in said demographic.

If you start shit, don’t get pissy when someone tries to challenge you on said shit. This extends to both arguments/debates and physical violence. Don’t throw hands unless you’re ready to catch hands.

Personal attacks only serve to point out that your argument can’t stand on its own and you have to resort to tearing down the person as opposed to the point they are trying to make. Get a better fucking argument.

“I don’t have the time or patience to explain this to you” is a fucking lazy cop out, as is “just google it”. You’re making an argument? Fucking put in the leg work on it.

Don’t fuckin’ drag people that are just trying to learn or do better.

Do no harm but take no shit. Or, I would say, don’t hurt people, but be ready to break a motherfucker if you have to.

Don’t engage in cancel culture. Yes even against them. Them too. People seem to dig up shit from years ago and try to hold it over people’s heads like it matters now. I’m damn sure that you, dear reader, have done or said shit in the past that could be used to cancel you now. But you learned. You got better. You grew as a person and you’re not like that any more (I would hope). So yeah, fuck cancelling people, shit’s dumb and unhelpful.

The easiest way to get people to not give a shit about something is to preach at them and guilt them. Bring things to people’s attention, spread the word, etc., but don’t shame people for not knowing or caring about what you’re talking about. People got their own shit to deal with and some people just cannot or do not have more on their plate than they can deal with.

Stay hydrated. That means water ya ding dongs.

Make sure to get some Vitamin C in ya. Scurvy is a thing. Guy I had a class with a few years back got it and lost a tooth. So eat an orange or drink some citrus juice now and again or something.

Be sure to eat something. I know it’s hard for some people, but get some food in your belly if you’re having a bad time.

Be sure to get some good rest. Not even sleep (though that is important), just like...decompression time. Being constantly wound up isn’t good for you.

On a VERY specific note, Dramamine for anxiety/stress nausea, like holy shit guys.

If you’re gonna break up with a significant other, for the love of fuck don’t do it via text. Have the goddamn common curtesy to at least call them and tell them yourself. And actually tell them WHY you’re breaking up with them.

Relationship-wise, don’t fuckin’ play games and don’t be with anyone that plays games. You don’t need that kinda drama in your life.

For the love of fuck, communicate with your SO, and be receptive when your SO is trying to communicate with you. So much drama can be avoided if you actually TALK with your SO about what’s going on.

Hanlon’s Razor: “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.”

Let people enjoy things. If it’s not blatantly illegal at least, ya know?

Cut the holier than thou attitude and virtue signaling. Makes you seem like a bigger asshole than you probably are.

Try to hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. This applies both to people and situations.

Try to worry about yourself before you worry about others. If you’re struggling to put food on the table it’ll do you no good to kick funds to other people in need. YOU are people in need. Get yourself sorted out and then extend a hand to those you can.

....I think that’s all I got for now. I may return to this later jf I get bored again.

[antoine-roquentin]

It’s interesting to try to parse the precise political affiliates and character of the eight. The collection of MPs who have left might seem to come from notionally different strands of the Labour Right. Although he has flirted with a Blue Labour, anti-immigration position (as he has with many others), Chuka Umunna has had most success at convincing Blairite true believers that he is their natural leader: cosmopolitan, pro-business and rich. Mike Gapes, by contrast, belongs to that strand of the traditional, Gaitskellite Labour right that has never really got over its disappointment at the end of the cold war, and tries to compensate by hating pro-Palestinian campaigners and millennial Corbynites as much as they once hated the USSR. But they both nominated Blairite candidate Liz Kendall for the leadership: as did all of the eight apart from Luciana Berger and Chris Leslie.

In fact what seems apparent is that the notional difference between an ‘old right’ tradition represented by the Labour First organisation and the Blairite faction represented by Progress has now almost entirely broken down. Since the moment of Corbyn’s leadership election the two networks have been acting entirely in concert in their efforts to prevent Momentum from gaining influence in constituency parties and to undermine Corbyn and his supporters at every available opportunity. There is no longer any clear or stable ideological difference between them, and it seems evident that the clearest way of understanding their position is in basic Marxist terms. They are the section of the party that is ultimately allied to the interests of capital. Some may advocate for social reform and for some measure of redistribution, some may dislike the nationalism and endemic snobbery of the Tories more than others; but they will all ruthlessly oppose any attempt to limit or oppose the power of capital and those who hold it.

One reason for the erasure of difference between them is the changing composition of the British capitalist class itself. Going back to the 1940s, the old Labour Right was traditionally allied to industrial capital: manufacturers and the extraction industries. The Blairites have always been allied to the City and the Soho-based PR industry. But the long decline of British manufacturing, and the financialisation of the whole economy, has left a situation in which industrial capital is now an almost negligible fraction of that class. Today, in the UK, all capital is finance capital. So on the Labour Right, they’re all Blairites nowadays. A very similar process can be observed taking place in the centrist mainstream of US politics right now, as anti-Trump neocon Republicans and Clintonite, Third Way Democrats increasingly converge upon a common political agenda (this observation was made very persuasively by Lyle Jeremy Rubin on the latest episode of the Chapo Trap House podcast).

Whatever their political lineage, most MPs and their supporters on the Labour Right are therefore not just reluctant to engage in any radical project of social transformation. They are deeply and implacably opposed to any such project. This isn’t to say that they are bad people. It’s a perfectly reasonable position for anyone to take, in the Britain of 2019, that there is simply no point making vain efforts to limit or oppose the awesome power of the City and the institutions that it represents. In the era of globalisation, of China’s rise and the Trump presidency, anyone could conclude that it can only be counterproductive to try to work against it. Many of us take a different view, believing that without severely limiting the power of capital, and soon, the planet itself is probably doomed. But a difference of view is what it is. It shouldn’t lead to moral condemnation.

A good example of the latter is the model motion circulated earlier this week by the Campaign for Labour Party Democracy (a long-standing, small, Bennite factional organisation) for their supporters to take to their local party meetings. The motion begins with the line “This Constituency Labour Party is appalled and disgusted that seven MPs elected by Labour voters have rejected our party and crossed the floor to assist our opponents.”

I regard myself as sharing almost all of the politics, objectives and analysis of CLPD. But this is unhelpful. Apart from anything else, it is disingenuous. We all know that the Blairites simply have a completely different conception of politics, of the useful function of the Labour Party, and of the kind of role they want to play, than do we on the Labour Left. No supporter of Corbyn or CLPD wants to have these people representing us in parliament. To claim that we are disgusted is to imply that somehow, we naively imagined that we were all on the same side. This is, at best, to admit to profound naivety and stupidity. At worst, it is simply dishonest. Why pretend? Why not just accept, calmly and clearly, that these perspectives simply cannot be contained within the same party, and wish the splitters all the best in pursuing their own agendas?

By all means, we should be pointing out that the splitters, and the allies who have just joined them from the Tory Party, are clearly servants of a very particular set of class interests and a very narrow conception of what progressive politics looks like in the 21st century. But the language of outrage only makes us look like we don’t understand the situation.

As I’ve pointed out before most of the Blairite MPs became Labour MPs on the basis of a particular implicit understanding of what that role entailed. According to this understanding, the purpose of a Labour MP is to try to persuade the richest and most powerful individuals, groups and institutions to make minor concessions to the interests of the disadvantaged, while persuading the latter to accept that these minor concessions are the best that they can hope for. That job description might well entail some occasional grandstanding when corporate institutions are engaged in particularly egregious forms of behaviour (such as making loans to very poor people at clearly exorbitant rates), or when the political right is engaged in explicit displays of racism or misogyny. But it doesn’t entail any actual attempt to change the underlying distributions of power in British society; and in fact it does necessarily, and structurally, entail extreme hostility towards anybody who proposes to do that.

It is crucial to understand that what I’m describing here is not a moral or ethical disposition. It doesn’t make you a bad person to have taken up the role I’ve just described. It’s the simple logic of having a particular place in a system of social relationships, and being allied to a particular set of interests within it.

[realmwrites]

Homework

[ read on ao3 ]

GerAme Week - Work and Play

Alfred flops against the table, his pencil falling from his hand to the floor. He groans theatrically. “Ludwig, help me study. I don’t understand any of this shit.”

Ludwig rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand and dips to pick it up. “You’re actually better than me at math. If you would just apply yourself you could help us both out and explain this better than Ms. Iliopoulos did in class.” He slides him his pencil.

“Man, it’s so fucking funny that you call her that instead of Ms. I, but it’s also probably why you’re her favorite.” He flicks the pencil back towards Ludwig.

“Alfred, focus.” He hisses, pushing the pencil back again. “I call her that because it’s her name, and I’m not going to study with you anymore if you keep being a nuisance. I want to get some sleep tonight.”

“I can keep you up in more exciting ways if you want.” He wiggles his eyebrows, spinning the pencil with a hand.

“Shut up.” He flushes. “Do your homework.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re no fun.” Alfred sits up and runs a hand through his hair.

His glasses fall crooked across his nose, and despite his best efforts to tame it, a shock of golden blond springs back up. It makes him look like a comic book character, square jaw, bright eyes and all, and Ludwig’s heart stutters in his chest. He shakes it off and forces his gaze back to his paper.

Alfred continues. “Can’t we take a break? We’ve been doing homework for hours and hours and hours. I’m going to die if I don’t stand up and kick something.”

“Don’t kick something.” He grumbles under his breath and scratches down the next equation.

“Can we at least take a quick walk? It’s good to stand up and do shit between assignments. We finished history already, so I think we deserve at least one break. Or maybe we can raid the fridge and eat something. Like those bread things your mom bought? I’m fucking hungry.”

He stares at the singular x2 on his paper, his irritation spiking as his concentration dwindles. Maybe Alfred is right. Maybe he does need a break, but he knows that if they pause, he’ll never finish at a reasonable hour.

“No,” he says.

“Jeez, okay, I’m going to take a break if you aren’t. Come find me if I don’t come back in an hour or two, or when you decide you want a break, too.”

“You better not be gone for more than fifteen minutes.”

“That’s barely long enough to take a shit.”

“God, Alfred, you’re disgusting.”

“Whatever, dude, you know you love me.”

“Just go take your break. I’m trying to be productive here.”

Alfred snorts and pushes out from the table. “Okay, okay, sorry, Mr. Straight As. I’m leaving.”

“Good.” Ludwig rolls his eyes, no real bite to his tone. “Oh, and by the way, if you eat all the snacks, I’ll throttle you.”

“Then maybe you better come with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Alfred shrugs and saunters out of the room.

Ludwig gnaws at his lip, glancing at where he’d disappeared and back to his paper. Chips, chocolate, coke- it does sound awfully appealing, but he’d already said he wasn’t interested. Ludwig exhales in frustration, scribbling down the next step. Quadratic equations should be easy for him by now, but for some reason, his mind won’t let him factor. It’s only number twelve- less than half the assignment.

Alfred pops unbidden in his mind’s eye, grinning with all his perfect white teeth, and Ludwig throws down his pencil. He leans back in his chair and looks to the ceiling, praying to any higher power for his unhelpful problem to cease to exist. He’s stopped bothering with denial, but the more he accepts his hopeless dilemma, the more hopeless it seems to become. Alfred Jones is the most beautiful boy he’s ever met in his life, but it’s never changed the fact that he rarely focuses on his school work, eats all of Ludwig’s snacks and is, worst of all, unquestionably straight.

He erases number twelve. Five minus seven does not equal three.

By the time number twelve is completed, he's  surprised to have heard no shouting from the kitchen or exaggerated sounds of chocolate consumption. It seems that Alfred has genuinely decided to let him work in peace, and it’s almost disappointing.

He stares at number thirteen for all of five seconds before he starts towards the kitchen. Maybe Alfred is right. Maybe a few minutes of break won’t hurt after all.

When he pads onto the tiled floor, Alfred is nowhere to be found, but he’s clearly been present. New chocolate wrappers are crumpled in the trashcan, and someone’s left out a full cup of coke. He smiles despite himself. Alfred knew he’d come looking, but at least, he’d poured him a glass. He grabs it and sips, wandering towards the back door.

He pushes it open, and his eyes land on Alfred rocking back and forth in a chair on the porch. Alfred glances in his direction at the sound of the door, but he doesn’t greet him with anything more than a nod. Ludwig squints at his somber expression and walks towards him and the chocolates on his lap.

“Are you just sitting here and thinking?” Ludwig asks, reaching for a chocolate.

Alfred shrugs.

He sits in the rocking chair beside him and pops the chocolate in his mouth. Alfred stares off into the yard. Ludwig follows his gaze to the oak tree, its leaves swaying in the back and the birds chirping in its branches. The sun sends dappled shadows on the grass, and light filters onto Alfred’s face in oblong splashes. Serious doesn’t suit him, and Ludwig is quickly growing uncomfortable.

“Are you okay? Oh, and thank you for pouring me a drink.” He tries again. It’s odd to be the one initiating the conversation.

“Uh huh. Welcome.” Alfred nods, sliding the chocolates onto the table in front of them. “And I dunno. Sort of. I guess.”

“Did something bad happen?”

“No, but do you think I’m stupid?”

“What? No? You’re very smart. You only act ridiculous sometimes, but you’re smarter than me. I think school just might be difficult for you because it’s so monotonous. It’s boring for me, and I even like regimented predictability.”

“I’m not smarter than you, but thanks.” He stretches his arms above his head, rolling his ankles in little circles. “Sorry. I just got thinking, but hey, Lud, you know how you’re… gay?”

Ludwig’s heart stops for a dreadful second, his fingers going numb against his glass. Did Alfred know?

“Er, yeah. What… What about it?”

“I think I… Uh, I- How did you figure that out? This probably sounds really dumb, but how’d you know you weren’t into girls?”

“The same way you know you aren’t into men.” Ludwig shrugs, relieved to hear it’s this and not anything regarding his feelings towards Alfred. “I’m not attracted to them. I think some girls are cute. Eliza is beautiful, but it’s more of an observation than anything else.”

“But I don’t know that.”

“Of course-” Ludwig stops, his eyebrows raising. His heart flutters in his throat as hidden hopes and locked dreams rattle in their cages. He forces them down. It doesn’t mean a thing when this likely has nothing to do with him at all.

“No, I don’t know that I’m just into girls. Like I don’t know. It’s not like I want to bang when I see a good- a hot guy? But I don’t know. Does it count if it’s just one person? Being bisexual?”

He feels like he’s dying.

“It’s your identity, but what do you mean? Is this recent?”

“No. It’s- fuck, it’s, I don’t know, it’s been like this for a while now. I didn’t say anything because it was weird? Not that being… gay is weird. But it was- I don't really fucking know. I think this guy is really… hot I guess? But it's not just that. I thought for a while that maybe I just wanted to look like him or some shit, but it's like a crush? Like butterflies in your stomach whenever he smiles. I want to-” Alfred groans. “I don't know. What the fuck is happening to me?”

His throat constricts. The sun is too warm on his skin, and Alfred's blue eyes burn like sunspots through his heart. It could be him, but why when they knew so many better looking, kinder, more talented people? Why when it could be Kiku with his soft smile and witty jokes? Feliciano with his boundless energy and magnetic creativity? Ivan with his cooling presence and sharp tongue? Francis with his flamboyant confidence and effortless beauty? Too many better choices, too many easier friends. Besides, why would Alfred tell him anything if it was him?

“It sounds like a crush.” He barely registers his own voice. “Do you know if he's interested in men? Do you want to pursue him?”

“Yeah, he's not straight, and yeah, I think- No, yeah, I want to really fucking badly. I'm just scared it would ruin our friendship because I really care about him, and- I don't know, Lud. I'm so fucking confused. What would you do?”

Suppress all emotion and die, he thinks. “Is he open to dating?”

“I think so?”

Ludwig wants to take Alfred's hands in his own and look him straight in the eyes. He wants to tell him he's wanted to kiss him since freshman year, that he's never stopped wanting. He swallows down every sticky, choking feeling crawling up his throat. But he still feels sick to his stomach.

“You should ask him about his love life. If he seems open, it’s always better to tell them the truth. You can get it off your chest and move on, and if not, you can pursue it.”

“Okay.” Alfred's eyes bore into his soul. “You're single, right?”

“Yes.” And he will be until Alfred Jones exits his life.

He doesn't know which is worse: Alfred staying his closest friend and dating someone else or Alfred leaving his life forever. Both are too painful to consider.

Ludwig frowns. “This isn't relevant though.”

“Why not? Are you open to dating right now?”

Yes and no. Yes if your name is Alfred. No if you’re anyone else.

“Alfred, can we not talk about my love life?”

“Lud-”

“Who is it anyways? And why are you only telling me now?” Ludwig's heart thumps wildly in his chest, his words dropping like anvil strikes on hot iron. He can't stop. “I thought we were best friends.”

“I haven't-” His face crumples, hurt writing itself across his features. “And yeah, we are best friends! I only told Kiku, but that's because I didn't want to mess anything up with you.”

Ludwig bites his lip hard. “You told Kiku before me.”

It makes sense. Kiku is the better listener. Kiku is the better friend. Kiku gives better advice, and Kiku isn't disgustingly horrible with anything emotional.

“Lud, no, it's not like that-”

“Then what is it like? How come-”

Alfred stands from his chair and in a heartbeat, his lips are pressed against his. Ludwig's mind runs blank.

Alfred's lips are burning, his breath puffing against his mouth and his hands balled up in his shirt. Ludwig leans forward, craning his neck to meet him and slinging his arms around his neck. He tastes like coca cola and chocolate. His fingers thread through the soft locks of Alfred's hair, and he tugs him closer.

“Lud-” Alfred yelps, but before Ludwig can process what's occurring, Alfred tumbles into his lap.

He blushes bright red, his hands gripping the back of Alfred's shirt and Alfred's knee between his legs. They’re chest to chest, and Alfred is just a breath away.

“I'm sorry-” Ludwig starts.

But Alfred laughs and slides his knee up beside his other until he's kneeling on the chair between his legs. He cups his face with his hands, his careful fingers brushing against his cheekbones, and Ludwig inhales sharply.

“Wait, so do you like me, or do you just usually kiss back people who kiss you out of instinct or some shit?” His face is flushed a healthy pink, and he's grinning wide. He looks like a vision, and Ludwig's heart is threatening to beat out of his chest.

“I like you.” He admits.

“Good because you were the guy I was talking about, and it's why I didn't tell you sooner, and also, do you know how distracting you are when I'm trying to do my math homework, and you're here chewing on your lip with that cute little crease between your eyebrows, and how much it makes me want to kiss you?”

Ludwig gapes, his thoughts scrambled in an incoherent mess.

“Is this bad? Should I get off?”

“No, it's good.” He quickly amends. He runs his hands through Alfred's hair with reverent awe. He traces down his neck to his shoulders, marveling at his warmth and his weight against him, and Alfred shivers beneath his touch. He bites his lip. “It's good.”

And it is, and Alfred is staring at him like he's announced he's a real live superhero, or he's promised him a trip to the moon. He's warm and real and bright, his eyes sparkling behind his dark frames and his hair fluttering in the breeze across his face. Alfred smiles, their noses brushing for an instant, and Ludwig's stomach does somersaults in his middle.

“See. When you do that it makes me want to kiss you and never think about math again.”

“You can. Kiss me, I mean, if you want. Actually-” Ludwig sets his hands on his glasses and slides them off. Alfred blinks, and without them, his eyes go almost bluer. He’s beautiful, but he always is.

Ludwig sets them on the table to their front and smiles. “Okay. Now you can if you want.”

“Whatever you want, Lud.”

Alfred cups his jaw in his hands and kisses him tenderly. He sighs against his mouth, his thumb running along his cheeks and his chest pressed against his front. It feels like fairy dust soaking into his skin, burning at his lips and his skin and his chest wherever Alfred touches. His hands slip to his waist, and he squeezes his hips gently, the contact tingling like stars beneath his grip. It feels like stardust and promises fulfilled beneath the full moon, inexplicable joy washing over him like lapping waves on the seashore.

Alfred breaks away, his cheeks flushed and his hands settled in his hair. He laughs and turns until he's sitting in his lap.

“Can we do this more often?”

Ludwig grins, wrapping his arms around his middle and tucking his chin above his shoulder. “Only if you promise to teach me how to do that damn assignment.”

“Good. And now that we're dating, we can have more fun breaks than just stuffing our faces with junk food.”

“We're dating?”

Alfred reaches back, his hand finding Ludwig's cheek. “If you want.”

“We're dating.” He agrees.

Alfred laughs.

[believerindaydreams]

though I would like to write a story called “dreaming of oranges”

Upon quiet, thoughtful reflection, a whole “AU rewrite with Sheridan and Sinclair switched around” would require a rewatch of everything up to “Into the Fire” and at least twenty thousand words to do properly. And a lot more guff about Minbar than I can probably handle convincingly. And writing Sinclair, who strikes me as being one of those sneaky bastards who are great on the small screen but hell to write dialogue for. 

(cut for spoilers. Lots of spoilers)

Counterpoints: the fascination of dealing with this Minbari paradox, with the Grey Council struggling to grasp how their greatest icon could possibly also be Starkiller. How long it takes them to tell Sheridan why they asked him to be ambassador; around the end of Season Two or so, I think. In this version, Sheridan thinks he’s been posted to Minbar because new Clark wants him off-stage for some reason. In this version, he’s right; Clark’s heard just enough rumblings about a White Star fleet in the making to want a war hero on the spot to keep an eye on developments (Clark can always blame any unfortunate developments on Minbari War Syndrome, if necessary). Sheridan would, I think, have some genuine Earthforce concerns about helping Minbar build an entire flippin’ warfleet of White Stars, and want some very solid evidence about this whole Shadow War...so enter the Rangers, and Sheridan spends a year thinking they just wanted him to be Entil'zha. 

Probably some reluctant mutual admiration with Neroon, and Sheridan finding he gets on better with the warrior caste, ironically enough; there’s some common ground there and they agree that the religious caste’s five hour dinners are ridiculous. And Marcus shows up! With a lot of terrible jokes resulting, no doubt. 

Back on the station, everybody’s getting used to Sheridan’s replacement, the restrained and thoughtful Sinclair (and his on-and-off girlfriend Catherine). Garibaldi’s glad to have his old friend back; Susan takes somewhat longer warming up to him. Londo and G’Kar run into each other at the post office, one carrying a bag of oranges and the other parcelling up a set of Narn heating stones, and find themselves actually agreeing on something- namely, that landing up stuck on Minbar must be one of the worst possible fates for any hot-blooded sentient in the entire known galaxy. 

(Cut to: Lennier, holding a letter and pointedly not looking annoyed.)

So Sheridan starts deciphering the Shadow War, based partly on data gathered by the Rangers. Though some he’d be getting straight from Babylon 5, because Ivanova bullied the Epsilon III crew into providing them a reliable and secure communication system (you know she would). Gotta keep Sheridan in touch with the main crew somehow, especially if he’s going to fall in love with Delenn long distance...

who is aware that falling in love with Valen is an exceptionally terrible idea, but finds herself doing it anyway. Not that she intends to mention this to him; she’s already keeping far too many secrets from him, so what’s one more...until the end of Season Two (or thereabouts, anyway). When Sheridan calls her to say, well, this year on Minbar’s been fun, but now he’s going to pull every string he has in Earthforce to get back the Babylon 5 posting. Or anything that’s not planet-side, really...

so now she has to explain to him that he’s Valen, and destined to stay on Minbar. Sheridan’s reaction would be amazing to write- contradictory, frustrated energy, partly fascinated by the odd culture that he’s spent a year aiding, and partly completely exasperated by that culture and wanting out already. Anger with the very notion of being forced to do anything because of fate, and a very worried realisation that if he was to accept the truth of this duty, it’s not in him to say no. Not when the fate of billions might depend on it. 

But then, he argues with Delenn, if he’s going to be Valen then his destiny is to fight Shadows, and it might just be that he needs this experience to help save Minbar’s past. They settle on a temporary compromise; Sheridan’s given the first White Star to captain for as long as the war continues, on a top-secret basis. No longer. 

(Sheridan sleeps very hard, his first night back in space; and she spends it watching him.)

As for what’s been happening back on the station....Nightwatch is starting to make things nasty, Sinclair’s girlfriend has vanished under mysterious circumstances, and he’s starting to question why everybody leaves him out of the loop on things. Garibaldi notes that after all the hard work Sheridan went through on Babylon 5, a lot of people are gonna be cool on any replacement- and also that anybody taking lessons from Vorlons is going to sound a little touched after a while. 

As a way of asserting his authority, and also because he shares Delenn’s philosophy that all lives are precious, Sinclair forbids Lyta Alexander to search for a possible spy who can only be uncovered via murder. Talia gets to live; Lyta makes a break for it to Vorlon space. Susan decides that her instinct to keep some of the particulars of the anti-Clark, pro-Hague campaign away from Sinclair were probably wise, if he’s going to be such an idealistic with weird delusions of godhood and mutterings about Z’ha’dum- concerns that Garibaldi makes light of. Even after Sinclair falls out of a tube and gets saved by an angel in front of half the station. 

Season Three, Sheridan’s on the White Star and Sinclair’s on Babylon 5, with Delenn splitting her time between both (Lennier is concerned that Delenn is plunging through Minbar relationship rituals with accuracy but unseemly speed.) Sheridan offers Vir a few tips about life on Minbar. Sinclair concentrates on maintaining Babylon 5′s diplomatic status, trying to walk the line between keeping the station’s ideals and keeping in with Clark’s administration. All’s going well until some idiot blows up a ship at Ganymede, whereupon martial law is declared and everything goes haywire. Sinclair reluctantly declares that Babylon will secede, but emphasizes the unarmed, neutral nature of the station (he previously forbade the GROPOS crew from using the place as a base for combat operations, which is helpful in terms of propaganda and unhelpful in that the station still doesn’t have a decent defence grid).

“Is he seriously expecting God to reach out of the heavens to save us?“ Susan asks Garibaldi, in complete exasperation. 

“...when a guy like Jeff asks, it might just happen.“

Severed Dreams happens, with everything much the same as before except that Sheridan comes riding in with Delenn to save the day. ISN declares Sheridan a Minbari-tainted traitor, and the White Star attracts a good deal of fascination. Nobody cares about Sinclair, still. Franklin asks if they arranged it this way on purpose, with one dramatic hooligan drawing attention away from that station’s real work. Sinclair smiles and says nothing.

Some time later, Garibaldi spends an annoying day stuck in Grey Sector, and shoots a monster with some old-fashioned bullets. Nothing else happens that days. 

The campaign to fight the Shadows is progressing, slowly but surely, and the scope of Sinclair’s behind-the-scenes work is becoming slowly evident; he’s been quietly soothing small conflicts from breaking into worse conflicts, garnering favour with alien governments, and there’s a sturdy compact of ships to join up with the White Star fleet. All seems well, until Catherine comes back to Babylon 5 for the first time in months- and asks Sinclair to come with her to Z’ha’dum. 

Kosh says that this is not the time. Sinclair ignores the Vorlon and asks Sheridan for a White Star; Sheridan reluctantly agrees. 

Time passes. Sinclair doesn’t come back. But Shadow ships start coming out, attacking everywhere- many, many Shadow ships, far more than anyone had expected, or even thought possible. Despite a huge smoldering crater in their planet.) 

The Babylon 5 crew take council in the War Room, how to proceed next; and Sheridan gives a rousing speech to the Non-Aligned Worlds about honouring Sinclair’s memory, by putting up the best resistance they can. The appeal to martyrdom works; the anti-Shadow alliance vows that they will fight on whatever the cost. 

“You have forgotten something,” Kosh says to Sheridan. 

And Sheridan looks at the Vorlon, out at the planet below, and knows he can’t delay any longer, that the full fury of the Shadow forces must be lessened a thousand years earlier. Epsilon III is waiting for him. 

Delenn goes with him. So does Ivanova, who won’t let her old captain go without one last mission, so does Marcus, following the One. They ride the station backwards in time; Sheridan’s previous encounter with the rift causes him to age- but very strangely. Zathras clucks and tells him that he’ll probably only have twenty years more to live, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. 

Station prepared, there’s nothing left to be done but take leave of each other. Marcus offers to go back instead, and Sheridan sharply tells him not to play tempter; Susan salutes her old captain, and thanks him for giving them all a chance. Delenn stands before him, waiting, and can only say she has no ritual for this. 

All Sheridan can say, through his own tears, is that if his sacrifice shapes a world that’ll nurture her one day, it’ll be worth it- 

and Sinclair walks through the door, serene as none of them have ever seen him before. 

“When did you get here?“ Susan asks. 

“Before,” Sinclair says, in obliquely Vorlon fashion; and provides little more explanation when he’s pressed. Franklin was right, he explains; Catherine was a Shadow of her former self, quite literally, the Army of Light needs its martyr more than a figurehead, the universe needs him no longer- not here, that is. But it could use him elsewhere. A thousand years in the past...

“But who are you, to think yourself Valen?“ Delenn asks him, uncertain, unwilling to take hope too easily. 

“One who came back from Z’ha’dum alive.” Sinclair takes the triluminary, and it glows blue at his touch...

(Back on Babyon 5, Sheridan and Delenn talk the matter to pieces. How the triluminary must have reacted to shared ancestors in either direction, human or Minbari. Whether it requires Vorlon-inspired madness, to carry through the attempt at godhood. If she would have risked paradox, to follow him back; if he would have shirked duty, to stay.)

But that’s all for the future. 

For now?

Nothing more or less than a miracle. 

[life-resolutions]

Get Ahead Of Isolation Anxiety

A weekend at home can be refreshing. Taking some time out to relax in front of the TV or get some laundry done can be incredibly therapeutic. Although, after a few weeks of staying home, isolation begins to take its toll on the best of us. With no end in sight, the anxiety can start creeping in. To help you stay ahead of it, we’ve pulled together a list of useful tips on how to stay mentally fit in isolation.

Ten Tips To Stay Mentally Fit During Social Isolation

1.Stick To A Routine Change is a big part of what makes us feel anxious and stressed, so make an effort to minimise the impact of staying home all the time by sticking to your usual routine where possible. You may not be able to actually go to work, but you can get dressed, brush your teeth, have breakfast and do most of the other things that tell your brain that it’s time to start the day. You can even go so far as to sit quietly and listen to the podcast or radio for half an hour as you would on the way to work. During the week, make an effort to get up in the morning and go to bed at the same time every day, as you normally would.

2.Try Not To Snack More Than Usual When you’re at home all day, it’s too easy to pop to the kitchen and back for a biscuit here and there, or maybe a sandwich. There’s a big chance that the monotony of isolation will trick you into thinking you’re hungry. However, eating too much can affect both your productivity and your physical health. Carrying a water bottle around the house with you can help to stave off boredom masquerading as hunger. Try to restrict your snacks where possible and eat proper meals three times a day.

3.Limit Your Alcohol Consumption As much as we know you don’t want to hear it, alcohol can have a big effect on your mental health. It might seem tempting to have a few glasses of wine while you’re working from home, away from the judgemental eyes of co-workers, or start your afternoon drinks a few hours earlier than you normally would, but the fact is it’s just not good for you. Regular alcohol consumption, even at low to moderate levels, has been linked to all kinds of physical and mental health issues. Try to maintain a few alcohol-free days throughout the week.

4.Stay Active Despite the many restrictions on leaving the house these days, you’re still allowed outside, and exercise works wonders when it comes to anxiety. Staying at home could make you feel trapped, so try to leave its confines at least once a day, even if it’s just to walk around the block. Even better would be to jog around the neighbourhood or to the local park, as keeping up with physical exercise is extremely important while in isolation. Don’t want to leave the house entirely? That’s fine, too. Do some squats in the garden or on the balcony, just make sure you get moving and get outside.

5. Make Sure To Get Enough Sleep Sleep couldn’t be more critical to our health, as it’s during these precious hours that our body works to repair cells and support healthy brain function. Moreover, lack of sleep impairs our immune system, and even a couple of hours can make all the difference. Specifically, experts claim that individuals are four times more likely to contract a virus after five or six hours of sleep compared to seven. Anxiety can make it harder to get to sleep but exercising for at least 20 minutes earlier in the day and limiting the use of electronics in the evening should help you wind down.

6.Restrict Your News Intake Out of sight, out of mind. While it’s important to keep informed while in isolation, particularly about any new restrictions that may impact you, try to limit the amount of time you spend scrolling through news sites. There’s not much positive news around at the moment, and constantly reading about something stress and fear-inducing, like the pandemic, is unhelpful. Where possible, check news updates only once or twice per day.

  7.Spend Quality Time With People

Despite being continually under the same roof, it’s surprisingly easy to forget to actually spend time with your partner, children or housemates. As the people physically closest to you, the people you live with are best placed to support your mental health, and vice versa. Try to proactively carve out some time to eat dinner together or play a board game; connecting with other people is good for you. If you live alone, make an effort to call a friend or family member at least once per day. This way, you might find your relationships become even more meaningful during isolation.

8.Write A Bucket List The worst thing you could do while isolating is become a couch potato, so write yourself a list of things you want to accomplish over the next few months. Is there something you’ve always wanted to learn, or something you’ve been meaning to get around to doing, but haven’t had the time? Well, you have it now, so why not make the most of it? Write a list of everything you can think of and work your way through it slowly, from mundane things like cleaning out the pantry to something more exciting like starting a blog or trying out that new recipe you saw in a magazine.

9.Take Time To Reflect Feeling anxious during isolation is normal, and it’s important to acknowledge the feeling. While it seems easy to lose yourself in a TV show or good book, those things are only temporary distractions, and if not dealt with, feelings of anxiety will return in full force later on. Instead of trying to submerge them, take the time to think about your feelings and accept them. Remember that this situation is for now, not forever, and that you’re not the only one feeling this way. When you’ve done that, try thinking about things that you’re grateful for. If you find simply sitting quietly to think a bit awkward, try keeping a daily journal or even meditating.

10.Make Isolation Your Purpose Right now, it might feel like a lot of things are out of your control. So, try to focus on something you can control, like staying home and make this your purpose. Remember that by staying home, you’re protecting yourself, your family and your community. You’re doing something meaningful.

Seeking Professional Help If you find that your anxiety persists, try speaking to a professional. At Life Resolutions, our team of psychologists can help you to understand your anxiety and learn effective ways to minimise or eliminate it. We’ve recently launched a full telehealth service to our clients, meaning that you’ll be able to access our wide range of therapy services from the safety of your own home. Find out more.

Contact Mary Magalotti And Jodie Brenton Life Resolutions Today Our CEO and Founder, Jodie Brenton and our Principal Psychologist, Mary Magalotti, are both dedicated to providing the best mental health services to our valued Life Resolutions clients. So, if you have any question on our services, would like to book a session or are interested to hear more about the journeys of Jodie Brenton and Mary Magalotti Life Resolutions in their careers, do not hesitate to contact the team here. Otherwise, please visit the Life Resolutions website to discover more.

[redorblue]

The Terranauts, by T. C. Boyle

There’s this one thing that I always found incredibly annoying about English books, and that German books thankfully don’t have (yet). I hate the bunch of review snippets all over the cover so. much. It screws up the cover design, it can get pretty crowded if the publishing house was really proud of this book, and it tells you absolutely nothing. Same thing on the backside: I’ve seen books that have three lines of quote from inside the book, and six quotes from reviews gushing about it. How is that supposed to help me, or make me buy it? Last time I looked, most people still buy books because they think the story or the setup is intriguing, or because they like the author, not because Person X, Author of YZA, said it’s a “triumph of the imagination”. German books don’t do that. German books have the author and the name of the book on the cover, nicely integrated into the cover art, and a synopsis and maybe a short quote on the back. Orderly. Informative. Very German, probably.

But I digress. The reason I got into this was my most recent read, The Terranauts, and not only did I find it terrible, I also have no idea which book those reviewers from the Guardian, the Times etc. read - I find it hard to believe it was the same I did. So let’s try something else and use those incredibly unhelpful literary critics to structure what I did not like about this book.

1. “Excruciatingly funny” - Times Literary Supplement

This one is the easiest: I have no idea what they are talking about. If this book was so funny, it wouldn’t have been too much to expect to laugh at least once, right? Well, I didn’t. I also didn’t chuckle, snort, giggle, smile or even lift one corner of my mouth in amusement. Because in my not so humble opinion, this book is not funny. Unless I’m supposed to laugh about this one guy lusting after whichever woman has the longest legs in the room, about this woman who falls for him nonetheless and keeps lying to herself about his shittiness, or her so-called “best friend” who takes a trip to Mexico and promptly gets diarrhea. Yeah, very funny. Not everybody has the same sense of humour and all that, but I think someone who can laugh about such things has a rather questionable one.

2. “Lord of the Flies meets Hunger Games” -  The Times

With this one I at least get why they came to that conclusion. The story is the fictional continuation of a real-life experiment conducted some time in the 90s where eight people - four men, four women - were locked into a glass dome with a self-sustaining ecosystem inside, and basically told to see how many were still walking after two years. The first, real group broke closure (= was interrupted) after a few months because of a medical emergency, which is why the fictional second group is all the more fanatic determined to not open the airlock for the full two years, whatever happens. While they’re in there farming and supposedly conducting scientific experiments (although you never learn what it is exactly they’re testing, so if you want hard science, stay away), they get media coverage from all over the US (about what, one might ask... Must have been one hell of a silly season to send reports about people milking goats... Checking humidity... catching fish... Unheard of, right?).

So yeah, I can see where that one came from: a bunch of people locked in together at close quarters, becoming increasingly hateful towards each other = Lord of the Flies. Doing it all for the media coverage, completely with donations and the participants as celebrities and merchandise = The Hunger Games. Never mind that neither the characters from Lord of the Flies nor the candidates in the Hunger Games were there willingly, whereas in this book going under the glass with seven people you already can’t stand before you even go in, slowly starving yourself, slowly asphyxiating in the winter months, without pay or plan what to do afterwards, is somehow presented as being incredibly desirable (Really, the only lucid part this book has is when the characters call this enterprise a cult, or deny it being a cult - hey, at least they said the word, and self-denial is a serious Thing among all the characters). But okay, if you say so. The thing is, in my opinions it falls short in both comparisons.

I have to admit, I’ve never read Lord of the Flies, only watched the movie, and you shouldn’t judge a book by its adaptation. But I remember that (besides the survival part) it’s about group dynamics, how groups organize under pressure, how new leaders establish new orders, and the violence that ensues. Now I’m definitely not one of those people who need a body count to enjoy a book, but this one, I have to admit, was too... tame? for me to be credible. The highest tensions ever rose was a fistfight between two characters after almost two years of being locked in, when they were half starved already and there was barely any oxygen left in the air. Sure, the rest of the time they were constantly badmouthing each other, and venomous when they had to talk about something - but really, that’s your climax, your crisis? I already mentioned that most of the crew members didn’t like each other to begin with, and of course that didn’t get better over the course of the book, but it feels a bit lame to have your characters constantly emphasize how much they hate each other (and one even threatening to kill anyone who jeopardizes the mission! Talk about a Chekov’s gun that just... never went off I guess?), and then presenting a few punches as The Worst It Can Get. Let alone not resolving anything after they finally get out. Most of the crew just disappear into thin air, which is fitting because they weren’t much more than thin air with a name tag during the entire book, and the POVs just... get on with their lives I guess. The ending really feels a bit like the author just ran out of pages, and not in the good, open-ending kind of way. There is no resolution, no discernible character arc, no epiphany, nothing. It just ends. So take this as a vivid example of how structuring does NOT work.

As for the comparison with The Hunger Games... First of all, there’s the same problem of being too tame. The Hunger Games works partly (!!) because it’s suspenseful, what with fighting and hunting and figuring stuff out and action scenes in general. The Terranauts doesn’t have anything of the sort: no secret plots to unveil, no rivals to kill (and the moral dilemma that comes with it), very little, very drawn out struggle for survival... Again, I don’t need any of this to like a book, I can do without action, but it’s the Times that made the comparison, and I’m sorry but I think The Terranauts falls short. By a mile or so. Another thing that made The Hunger Games so interesting is the role the media plays: How the games are basically just entertainment for the rich, how public images are constructed and why, how public opinion and public sentiment is influenced etc. The Hunger Games were honest about how it’s all “just” for show. The Terranauts, however, tried to keep up its pretense of being oh so scientific, while the only thing that ever gets any screentime is not experiments or hard facts, but photo ops and interviews and presentations. Which would be fine if the book ever properly dealt with the fact that it was all just a huge media stunt. But it doesn’t, it never talks about the implications of the experiment being a big, expensive reality show, it never grants its characters a moment of epiphany or a personal crisis with regards to their sacrifices not being for science and the survival of the human race, but for money and money alone. The closest the characters ever get to realizing this and instrumentalizing it is when some of them threaten the CEO to talk to the press, but none of them ever go through with it (and there’s no reason why they wouldn’t besides this ominous cult mentality thing, because some of them have been treated really badly). Not even the crew member whose responsibility is PR management ever really tries to create a public image of himself that he can use to get what he wants and influence public opinion to the disadvantage of disliked crew mates or some such. It all feels very half-baked, and that from an author who’s famous for writing real adult novels. Talk about how naive and shallow YA novels are.

3. “Heartbreakingly human” - The Guardian

God... I hope not. I think not. If this set of characters is supposed to provide us with a sample of human experiences and emotions, then it’s really time to pack my bags and go be a hermit somewhere. Also, everyone is white, with the exception of one Asian person, who coincidentally is also the only woman who is consistently described as being fat and plain and kinky-haired (fat and kinky-haired being used as decidedly denigrating terms here - god this book has so many issues). And a terrible person, but that’s true for everyone. There are two minor characters who seem to be alright, the crew physician and the crew leader, but every non-POV character is basically just walking cardboard with maybe one or two traits each (for some reason I absolutely can’t fathom, bitchy, scheming and promiscuous come to mind for every single female character). Besides that there are three POVs: one man inside, one woman inside, and one woman outside (the Asian one). They all have some common character traits: they’re hateful, spiteful, lying, scheming, unreflected, self-serving, egocentric assholes. But besides those lovely common traits, they have some others that make them loathsome in their very own way, and I can’t shake the feeling that the author took a lot of inspiration from some nasty gender stereotypes. (warning: from here on it gets spoilery)

Let’s start with the guy, Ramsay. He’s sex-obsessed in a way that he can’t form any coherent thought as soon as a pair of shapely legs and boobs with a woman attached enters the room. He’s incapable of fidelity, love, loyalty and commitment, although he constantly claims otherwise. Let me give you a few examples of his awfulness: After he breaks up with one of his crewmates (after maybe forcing himself on her? It’s not made clear. How can that not be clear.), he constantly complains how ugly and old and generally repulsive she is. That’s the only thing he has to say about her. He then starts an affair with another crewmate, and when she becomes pregnant, he blames it all on her for deceiving him and being irrational because she didn’t want to screw up her body with artificial hormones every day which apparently is to be expected from every woman. He then pressures her to have an abortion. She refuses, and he constantly thinks about how gross she is the further the pregnancy progresses. After the baby is born, he doesn’t help her whatsoever, and first chance he gets, he takes off on her although he has promised her otherwise. To top it all off, he restarts his affair with a woman from the outside crew about whom we only learn that she’s a snake with nice legs, while he’s still married to the mother of his child. I don’t think I need to add anything to that. The amount of misogyny, sexism, and patriarchal stereotypes about men as mindless sex machines (plus the corresponding view on women) all compressed into one character is baffling.

For the women there’s a bit more variation, but it doesn’t get any less nasty. Woman No. 1, Dawn, is the long-legged, full-breasted redhead beauty who gets one of the few spots inside the experiment and takes over responsibility for growing food in the fields and tending to the farmyard animals. She then gets together with Ramsay, gets pregnant and decides to carry the child against all common sense, considering that the experiment can barely produce enough calories for eight people, let alone nine, and is definitely not able to provide for the special needs of a pregnant woman or a newborn child. After Dawn’s two years are officially over, she refuses to leave the glass dome and decides to stay inside because she feels so close to nature inside, or something like that. Notice the symbolism at work here? The stereotype presented here is that of Mother Earth, fertile, providing, one with nature itself. It’s quite fitting that Dawn’s nickname, chosen by her fellow participants, is Eos (which literally means dawn). Both her names fit very well into this whole mantra that the organizers of the experiment have: to start anew, create a better world, one that sustains itself and doesn’t exploit resources but is fertile enough to to live independently (which, I’m sorry, is just not true. They rely on the local power plant to keep their ideal environment stable, they receive knowledge from the outside world, and after the two years the dome is in need of a thorough restocking because the crew killed all the farm animals and ate all the seed stocks because they were hungry.) Dawn is the archetypal woman, the one who nourishes others and gives life, is loving, beautiful and monogamous, but she also displays some negative traits that have been historically associated with women: She’s naive to the point that she doesn’t notice any negative feelings Ramsay has towards her; she’s self absorbed, like when she decides to go through with the pregnancy at the risk of the others starving; and she’s emotional in a way that’s constantly pointed out to be annoying and exaggerated (they call it weepy).

The other female POV, Linda, is presented as her foil. She’s also the only PoC character, which makes her negative portrayal doubly problematic, especially since she seems to stand in for two ethnicities: Asian (because of her Korean ancestry) and black (because of her kinky hair). We keep being told that Linda and Dawn are best friends, but there’s really no evidence in the text to support that since they’re constantly bitter, false and patronizing towards the other, in their thoughts and in their actions. Also, they mainly seem to talk about the men in their lives with each other, with Dawn as the one who has a way with men and Linda as the jealous, Fat Ugly Friend^TM. So yeah, great portrayal of a friendship between two women, since obviously men is the only thing we ever talk and care about. But besides being presented as an overall terrible person - false, needy, deceiving, the archetypal snake to Dawn’s Eve* - Linda herself also constantly emphasizes that she’s overweight and not conventionally attractive, which in her interior monologue tied together with her lack of success with men - and her race. The only valid point this book makes is that it damages your career and possibly your romantic chances, especially as the only PoC in an all-white environment. But since this point is filtered through the perspective of a character whose interior monologue is filled with constant nagging and delusions, it’s incredibly easy not to take it seriously and dismiss it as another figment of Linda’s imagination. This may not be racist in and of itself, although it definitely comes across as mocking racial awareness, but it sure starts to look like the real thing once you take all the negative comments into account that Linda makes about all her physical features that make her distinctly non-white. It also ties neatly into yet another issue this book has: body-shaming. Surprisingly (or not), this also mainly concerns the female characters and is filtered almost exclusively through the way men react to them. I got so, so tired reading about how Linda, the fat and ugly one, tries to get men to sleep with her (unsuccessfully, unless they are old and gross), while the thin, pretty women like Dawn have an entire parade of admirers (and successful careers). Also notice how personality doesn’t play any role at all in both women’s romantic success? That’s because women’s personalities don’t matter, simple as that. And it’s probably better that way, since they’re all naive and clingy or dishonest and needy anyway - in addition to being mean, which is something all characters in this book share.

The thing is, with books like this one that are just horrible with regards to sexism, racism, body-shaming and a whole host of other things, I always wonder how that happened. I don’t want to condemn the authors for all those things without having read some of their other books (which I generally don’t, because I value my time) or doing a thorough check on them (which I generally don’t do either, because I’m lazy. But I can’t help but ask myself whether these are the author’s actual views. Other options would include a critique of these issues gone wrong, or a misguided attempt to induce some historical accuracy, or ignorance. The problem is that I’m pretty sure I can exclude said other options. Historical accuracy in this case is not necessary since the book is set in the 1990s, not in the middle ages. Ignorance is a pretty weak excuse by itself, and one issue may slip under your (and your editor’s) radar, but so many...? The author of this book is a white guy, so he’s probably wearing privilege lenses, but still. Lastly, a critique would necessitate at least some attempt to contradict the views you have your characters expressing, either through the narrative or - even better - through a character themselves. I know that, and I’m a twenty-something amateur reader who sometimes tries her hand at literary critique. An author (and editor) who has been in the business for so long should definitely know that, and also how to work said critique into the story so that a casual reader would catch it. Which leaves us with option No. 1. And the reason why I regret having spent money on one of TC Boyle’s books, and why his name is another entry on my list of authors never to be read again.

*An afterthought that I’m too lazy to work in somewhere else: There is so much religious imagery in this book. It starts with the nicknames many characters in this book get, like God the Creator, Jesus, Judas, Eos etc., and culminates with this whole Garden of Eden theme that surrounds the experiment. Like with the cult thing, the book isn’t even shy to call itself out on it, but if this is not a prime example of lampshading, then I don’t know what is.