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pndnj · 4 years ago

Text

Cathartic- Yellow Metal Lyrics

Heres where I am with the lyrics, I referenced @25Goldenn on twitter for some of it that I couldn’t comprehend.

*music*

0:23

Dark matter, like painted splatters, they fit better, the old saying, the way it goes, better the devil you do then you don’t know. I hit pedals and switch levers, my heart metal, I can't settle, im part trouble, they are not subtle. I fuck good so fuck cuddles, burst bubbles the thrist levels at new heights, i down doubles, and got baked til I felt high, my face puzzled, felt muddled, far strung and your floors woodent, the thought might but the fit wouldn’t. A fortnight

0:46 - 1:00

And I thought right, it’s all bark and no bite, I’m Tony Stark still embarking on a dream, took a bit of time to take darkness from the team. Seen what I saw. Heartless on the sleeve. Tried to burn my wings, so I put them in a piece on my chest , at peace no rest.

1:00-1:15

Flipped this on it’s head. Rip the script up now, flip it don’t pretend, slipping shit again, Fakers all around me, I’ve been living in pretense. Fake friends won’t make amends. There’s no need, these mean comments control the scenes. Attentionseekers, the spine is weakened

1:15-1:24

This family needs, what a family needs, and the planet bleeds, the damaged trees. It’s never leaving til we ascend so fuck the fence, and until they stop killing colour it’s fuck the feds.

1:22 - 1:44

You must be off it, I mean it, you know you ain’t never get with the judging and I used to dread growing my beard too long, never felt I belonged, but it's really long like a minute I ain’t looking to no mans for the limits, They’re feeling timid, I’m telling them who they mimic, why they don't look like a clinic …. Why they don't get no women, Still, we’re just fucking girls, Lost in the wrong world, Jurassic, now to this vermin

1:41- 1: 50

Kicking the game I’m serving, these losers are never learning, my fire is forever burning, adding it to my fuel, seems like I’m always focused on never becoming you, These locals that rob us feeling … was for a reason.

1:52-2:02

I’m seeing my new beginnings, watch out this loser’s winning, and no water is too deep to swim in Like I’m about to see a killing, I’m all the way that and living, flawless and feeling lawless, the prison now to the gimmicks, my vision is set to something,

2:03-:2:20

I’m watching you bitches plummet, no matches here for my cunning, you rappers are feeling done in, switching your genre, running and Running your jaw, stunting, pulling at straws, something I think you’re a poor effort, deaf and tone deaf and I ain’t treat you separate. Living, I’m in my element, riding it like a … never lose me to fentanyl, scared when I take a benadryl. Keeping it green in general

2:20- 2:46

Think that you remain irrelevant. Look at yourself with reverence, hoping to always elevate. Celibate of these thoughts, killing themselves with sedatives. In comparison to eminem, you’re feeling feminine. Impolitically correct, still dropping on my dick. And I never gave a fuck about what they say abt my shit, I’ve been moving things in my mind like it’s this mountain dew Memories have made me wonder if one day I’m after you. What’s the purpose that you do, is what you're hoping that they learn, i’d like to say i’m done but it’s getting up on my nerves

2:46 -2:55

I’m looking at my life, saying what do I deserve. It’s hard to say I know when I’m walking through the dirt. Talking while you’re nothing I can see for what it’s worth. I’m tired of feeling hurt and I’ve tried enough but nothing works.

2:55-3:40

I’m racking up excuses while I’m slacking off on work. Chit chatting is the usual, talking to this clerk, i beg you don’t include me. I might write it on my shirt so everytime they see me, the oldest know to swerve. SWERVE Life is potent, bits of fucked shit… till they took notice weren’t no hocus pocus, it was hard work that got me heard so i put in the graph like google maps but the whole earth

… around my door mat, taking over like the drones, rolling dirt up in miles like the water, and exploding like Annas hematoma. Don't need to see a slammer to know that I don't want to go man

I’m a showman. I’m just focused on the drama… like i’ve got my own insurance, show myself the pain, like i boxed it in the frame, if we’re about to talk greatness im great, the way you have to say my name like beyonce

“Say my name”

4:00-4:46

Just a bum with a cigarette, sun coming up, all my thoughts on the internet. Feeling deep, I’m just bored with the silhouette single sec, get fucked up for the thrill of it . killer streak playing Pacman. Like I came from the Philippines vanilla bean still a thing for the thrill of scene,

Theres a beam, UFO, Leave it well alone I aint moving, stood still on the peloton, telephone and its always on the dial tone, it's been a while since i’ve smiled at a milestone, seen a big pile in my mind stone, me against the world on my Jack Jones, Like I’m John Jones, With pictures in the condo, far from John Doe, in the ___, like I'm Johnny Bravo, got pravado, with a small dick sitting in golados, feeling far gone, cuz that last hit was the good shit, was that stay lit

4:48-5:02

You can never take my shit come and get me. On the top floor, cloud 9, fading, never bailing, felt amazing, inhaling, til my lungs two guns blazing. Overcome all the stunts that I pulled. A suit of just skin and then wool

5:02- 5:17

This life doesn’t give you no armour, a lot of myself can harm ya. I swear on what’s good, that I’m here till they take me. I pray that I’m wrinkled, at least over 80, and start moving like a ruler, ?damaged? Like a computer going fast, bars from the jeweler, bring the songs to the beach in hopes of finding tuna

5:18-5:36

…

5:36- 6:16

Grab a bat, lose my rag. Couple things got me mad, a couple people got me wrong and now I’m changing up the swag. Coming in and stealing it, I might take the whole bag. Feeling undefeated, I’m a beast with a reason, and imma lead the whole pack. Fearless like I’m Caesar, I’m just waiting for a chance to fill it up with diesel, and all I've been achieving is clocking miles in its region, moving like a legion.

Promise that I made to myself an allegiance. Do you still believe I’m a fool for ever leaving, staring at the ceiling, can never put a cap on achieving. I’m just here for the rap, then I’m leaving.

I’ve had about enough of being my own enemy, it’s time I grew up, a long way from 17. Always went against the grain, struggles in my life. Got some things to say when I stand up on a mike.

6:16-6:32

I ain’t dropping this for fame, I need this time, like therapy, it’s just to keep me sane. The truth is on my medicine, can’t put that on your plate.

Speeding into everything, bout time I fixed the brakes. Don’t say I can’t communicate , you know I conversate with you in several different ways. And I know you know it’s references, looking at your face.

6:33- 6:53

Can’t justify mistakes, like every man that made them, seems I ain't the one to blame. Lying to myself, only had so much to gain, so now I’m switching up the plate, see if that affects the place, im at on most days

I ain’t going with the usual so they looking at me strange. Confused, I can feel it all, I’m here to make a change. It’s cold at 3am outside, I’m walking with the dog, thanking god that you don’t talk at all, my mind is switching off

6:54-7:12

Driving down to find myself, cuz I’ve been getting lost, lived this selfless life and found I can give a toss. Lessons that I’ve learned I’ve tried teaching to myself. What I’ve learnt from certain people is that they’re better than myself.

So I surround myself with real ones, and you feel the plastic melt. Like burning toy soldiers that used to go up on the shelf. Recycle the ideas, conveying on the belt

7:14-7:29

.. circus, always hurting the way we felt? Embarrassed that we dreamt of bigger things and letting go of notions till we feel them in cement

Tired of only hoping, we feel broken men. Cuz the gravity is weight and has kept us to the ground, see the only people speaking with favors in their mouths

7:46-7:58

Got killer rhymes… no fillers, like godzilla, eating clouds cuz my smokes thicker, throat licker, my dope sicker, bringing people their hope like im the pope slicker, i hope you’re getting the point cuz i walk quicker

I thought my city was shit bcs I want bigger like my zipper couldn’t zip up fed up with the…my love is fickle.. Residual age has a primitive face

I see demise for your limited ways, Left it to simmer, simmer away…a fake glimmer in the haze

8:09-8:11

Feeling trapped this industry is a cage

8:34-8:50

Nobody’s speaking the truth, I’m offended by the State. Look at the state of the news, I’ve decided the argument, reciting my views, while they’ve been sat in their chairs, I’m feeling pressure to choose.

Standing here as one man, how can I do half when you’re half the person I am. If it wasn’t in your life, you didn’t choose it. It’s the funny thing about music. It’s the pain and beauty of it.

8:52-9:11

Don’t give a fuck what my suit is, it looks good so I wear it, better than the shoot that People’s wearing, changing the whole narrative for these basics and scarcity

Been facing the racists from back when i were a kiddie .born up in in 93’. been living in Bradford City..kicked me out of the schools, they had a problem with me hitting the kids that would call me p*** still sitting in the classroom chilling, and i'm angry now that I’m older I see they treat us different

9:12-9:25

got me thinking I’m the problem cuz they never dealt with those issues.

20 years later I’m still in the same boat, tryna treat me like my grandpa, say I came up off the boat. Came to tell you what I stand for, man I think you’re shit, a joke. How can I be civil, when they got me by the throat

9:25-9:35

Pushing my feelings down, you ain’t got it like them

‘Boy your skin is so light’, ok motherfucker take my name up on a flight. Try to convince immigration that your bloodline’s half white.

9:35-9:45

I don’t know how that’s acceptable, when life is more susceptible to perception, be the death of them. I’ve been looking at the sky saying where’s that day of reckoning, you had your prophets right when they say that you would speak to them.

9:45-9:55

I need justice in this life and I trust that it’s my fight, cuz when I’m writing it feels right to have them focused on the facts again. Focused on the rap again, hoping for the change, gunna put this on the map again

9:55-10:16

Writing in all caps again, the pain, it goes through me so I write the letter. All the shit that could have brought me but made me better.

I’m at home with a pain in my soul , yeh rap… cuz you know I was too real to contest it, my time was invested. Now I look at the industry, I see it infested, looking like kids who would write on nesquik.

10:17-10:29

My name ain’t on the list unless they label it ethnic.

I ain’t never gave a fuck about these jokers and jesters. Ain’t no answers for these things, so just save us the questions, man allowed of violence, cuz my silence is deafening, your opinion stinks, somebody get him a breath mint.

10:30- 10:42

Start to understand why they think that I’m threatening, I move in certain ways, couldn’t slow me with ketamine Now they all wanna hear me, got a table at letterman. Direction changed, like I changed up the lettering. Don’t believe the age ,bcs I move like a veteran.

10:42 - 10:47

Raised on the benefit for whose benefit, they’ll never learn shit, man, if the shoe fits.

…no words coming out when you open your mouth

And to be honest, it’s insulting, offensive to my wounds that have been salting. Tryna ask me questions that they know I never answer. I’d rather sit online and reply to the fan art

11:00-11:06

Fuck a sports car, coming through when i rapped

tell you what I like, farm life and the tractor

11:06- 11:17

Fake life, 'sup online, suck a fat one. You don’t wanna buy into that, none of that son. Sitting in the garden 98’ in the Datsun, seen some hot summers but I still remember that sun.

*music*

11:51- 12:34

I make millions off of my pain, cause I know a few millions still living that way

Dealing with the hurt, they should know cause they don’t deserve it, it hit deep cause i hit the nerve. Only way that the sheep learn if the street firm, in my ways I don’t wanna change, everything just stay the same

Who you tryna convince you understand, cant maintain, let the lights dim some, get the Chow Mein, flex, get the tape, right up at night

Why these men be nice to my face, be nice, i ain’t tryna be a gangsta ruins my vibe

Rather be low-key and on my phone. Never need the trophy or the show piece

Never show peace in a North Face fleece. Show kids this like i wrote my flip

Cause the sign might fit till the start i’m sick

12:37-13:05

Now you see where I come from, the world don’t. Only achievement in this life is the Jordans. Committing petty crimes out of boredom, we can’t afford them. So I stole it, need a rolex

Go make sense, get yourself a job, It’s a poor man’s game tryna sit and pray to god, he ain’t sorting out your problems, gotta sort them out yourself

Used to tell us fables, now I’m writing them myself, Cause we raw like animals we all just need some help

Cathartic, I’m an artist, trying to put my heart in

Felt double crossed like Leo in Departed

13:05- 13:27

For the knowledge i’m not charging see I got it all free

But my hunger kept me starving like i’m feening for the feed

I just Need a reason to see me bleeding for my creed. Trick you with the words like I keep em up my sleeve. Picking where I fit, I see me sitting with the queen

I ain’t doing it unless you’re used to saying please

Let me flow a bit, before I sting 'em with the bees, They tryna kill us with disease

(Music)

13:34- 14:12

Why does it feel like they had the same notebook and the same four looks

Like the rain won't touch on their face, so sus when they lie don’t trust not a minor

Please no fuss, I just move through the game like must

Something in the way i adjust till i stick, Free falling like the ship, free fall till i bust

Remember 21 brother gave no fucks. Trying to project when they give them looks

In the projects, in the objects us

In my own way, never gave me love, shoulda never started this, broken hearted kid

Dried up the feeling till I stole the lid

Don’t wanna relish in the fame but I can’t resist

14:46-14:58

I like the way we feel, I like the way, I like the way

Ain’t no mistake, i am a being

I ain’t tryna be a leader, been selling out since Jesus

All my rhymes are for the readers, between the lines, like Father time, I fuck Mother Nature

14:58-15:40

That’s what they get, the connotations. Tell 'em I lived a life, and then I lived a life of adjacent? like its…. and played it patient.

Alone on my own spaceship, always tryna find greatness, still defying lines, but I’m fighting in my prime.

Shining light like Kylo while imma kill it all the time. Aging like I’m wine

Asian in my face, but still my race you can’t define. Focused on defiance, imma fight it while it’s life.

Started something sick and on my mind is what’s next, just became a dad so now I’m taking all the cheques. Better know I’m staying and paying like it’s debt. Imma get it done, if it’s taking all my breath, sweat, and down I ain’t messing around til I’m the best

Speaking in full sentences, shoulda thought about a strategy before you went at the stratosphere about this… rings around Saturn, this ain’t a battle, I’m sat, I’m here

15:40-16:22

Catch me doing magic, hired and sounding tragic I think you could use practice and until that you get the blacklist and pull like a … actress? Fooling them like a catfish, schooling like a legend, happy to be the reference, fusing like iridescence, leaving them all guessing, leaking out of my brain like a pipe I aint fixing, shining like a star you can see it from a distance

Aint many of me around p*** I’m just different Certain stages to this level aint here because fame is to the devil fuck a label, imma do this from the ghetto, clean up like Im Dettol

I’m the man to put a bet on, sight smart like a weapon, this is my kind of setting, i write the world I’m sat in, while these others live on hype, i see them fight in how they type, the fruit is ripe for the taking, i think i might

16:22-16:57

Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here

16:58- 17:47

Eccentric things are mentioned like a kid stuck in detention tryna escape im just spitting what is written on the next page, spitting image of my dad in his young days

Born sinner when i’m livid i say fucks sake

Don’t worry i’m too cunning with no plumbing, the waterworks, i sung something that resonates, i thought it first like giving birth to the parrot perch

They see me do it and they know it works

Don’t know what’s worse: the way that you live your life or the way that you write a verse

You’ll be nervous, you don’t deserve it we’ll scratch the surface ill leave a crater, lift the dirt up to find the hurting

Can’t know for certain nothing is guaranteed, tryna be a better person than the world deserves to see cuz i see a lot of sharks still swimming in the sea

Cease and arrest what’s the reason.. And these the kinda kids we bringing up next

Distorted reality, all they needed was family, too hard to face, to see what the damage is

17:47

*i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, no, i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, *

18:04-18:38

Sometimes they ask the questions too deep to form a sentence, to disform, is this the norm, is this the sentence i feel defenseless i played the setlist, and all my sweat blood and tears, forgot to mention feeling lost, going off into different sections i feel like love wrecked it

If it’s not a drug why am i waiting for the next fix, affected, i cant believe that you left this

I guess I leave for the best wish, moving on like im fine for the lectures

We see it all from spectrums, cuz if we’re falling down we can fall down together

Staircase to heaven, mirror down the middle like 11, resentment on one side it won’t settle

18:38- 19:14

Mind fried but taking sense, they aint got a sense of themselves in the rich ends

Need to spell it out for them.. Made for them so witness

I know you feel afflicted but you always love it with me while im laughing at you, ya think you’re laughing with me

I try to (i love you) but im grown so they don’t fit me, my body thrown from the new to this old city so Im sick of sitting on my own, feeling so shitty, i’ve been on roads where its cold and the snow hitting

Its okay to be yourself, sit and talking to myself

I’ve been walking for the longest, just need a little rest, know i ain’t the strongest, I can feel it in my chest, talking about my feelings and of me, they get the best

19:14-19:59

They aint leaving, seeing breathing in my breath

Till death do us part is just seeded in my heart, like a work of art

Never winning,im just scared

Cant begin from the start, do i play a part in the rhythm of the night

I guess i’m onto something cuz the dark is feeling right

Every cloud got a lining, put my own miles in, like moralis, figured that they’re jealous, that they could just never tell us to change because the weather never made me question whether or not i’m not that level

Got rid of all the bullshit sitting in my way, most of them are full of shit i see it every day

I do hearing the same things that i do, maybe that shits hitting like haiku

How much do you pay for them to hype you

Recycle your flaws but they aint like new, leaving and conceded and full of diesel like engines that need a cleaning, the ending will be revealing. Even though we ain’t raising the facts, now we been facing.

20:01-20:52

The cactus with spikes, needing spaces. Different faces, the same story. A full body like straight body direct to your system.

Could never tell 'em we missed’ em. Not even with the thoughts, we gift them. Cuz they just take advantage, guess we are caught in a system.

My soul pouring out details of borrowed time, had enough of a fill, this is for sorrow time. I’m seeing visions of Heaven, I seen the severed line, between the gospel they speak and when theyre telling lies.

Remember telling a friend of mine, you’d sent of mine, identified like a 3rd eye. Got a habit of knowing now where the dirt lies. So benign. I ain’t sober after 9, so I fuck their minds. Why you flipping out, see another

Try to rep it from the city, fuck a chiller crew, repping for the nittys, trying to keep us down, raised on the social, don’t want to let us out of the system. Me, I insist we assist them, me alone putting shifts til I lift them

20:53-21:12

I know it’s hard, that’s why I like it, I’m fit to fight it, I’m from the North, I’m backing Tyson, it’s been decided, don’t see no light. They needing guiding, just redefining, realizing, I’m realigning, in full finance, they stay silenced.

Can’t be louder, I’m juiced up with no powder. I fix shit like a slick spanner. Gone green like Bruce Banner. So free Gaza on my banner

21:12-21:51

The real McCoy, I ain’t nothing to toy with, signifying peace like a Japanese Koi Fish. How did this happen, we’re moving backwards in our timeline, killing us with cyanide, Right up for the freedom 'til we transform like Ironhide

This is bout my feelings, the way that I move affects the fate that I’m sealing. Can’t say nothing, with that something being on the page, kept inside the pen like the bars that have been kept caged. See I always had a plan, since I was young, we had nothing man

Now it’s been a few years since I ain’t seen the fam, on foreign lands. Bout to climb Everest in the avalanche. Right into the riddles as soon as you were born. Never asking the question cuz it’s the norm. See I’m in a questionin’ session

21:52-22:03

Like the manner got a method to teaching a lesson, listen to MF Doom, he taught me like Ra’s Al Ghul. Felt like living in Gotham, the people were rotten. Still we play cartoons so it’s never forgotten.

22:03-22:15

Chilling at the top but we came from the bottom. Writing and jottin for them life by, spotting the difference

*Dreams, was growing out of me, sun promising that tomorrow it will rise, time playing games with my mind, I swear it will pass us by

Train goes on the tracks, smoke, I’m tired to hide my thoughts, so blinded in flames, Don’t know where we’re going, I have no way of knowing, only see what’s in my head

Can’t we wait a minute, so we can savour this, It’s on my brain again, these days, It on my brain again these days”

23:10-23:46

They’re hating on Palestine ways, The oh no Palace playing Prince on the Steinway, Sending out mind waves, stop them like crimewaves, Freedom fighter, Yellow Metal is my name

Like vipers, I see the sly ones, the snake that’s called Biden, none of them abiding what they might put in writing

We should be used to it by now, say whatever for the vote and then just choose another route, say they’d never kill another unless that brother’s skin is brown

I’m just telling you the facts, if you can’t take it, the truth naked, to bare bones and my thoughts lately, spitting politics.. Done ain’t it, Shit just gets me vexed, and now I’m sitting that I think of it

23:45-23:59

Feeling on the brink of it, whatever it is, Figure out some shit at least it feels that way

talk about my feelings and I don’t feel so strange, finding solace, that’s a promise, in Metropolis but being honest, can’t write a sonnet, without some pain

24:00-24:40

Can’t fade away, away so we can savour this, been on my brain again these days

Can't find a way to be so you can savour this, been on my brain these days

Singing the song for another, singing a song for another

#zayn #yellowmetal #cathartic #feel free to correct me pls #cathartic lyrics

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urlocalkpoptrash · 4 years ago

Text

Dig Your Own Grave | Prologue

Kim Taehyung x OC

Warning/TW: Violence, mention of blood and knives, swearing.

Word Count: 1.7K

Full time grave digger, part time serial killer. Kim Taehyung has spent most of his life trying to cleanse the earth of all the wicked and evil people, and in that process he has become a shut in. Loneliness wasn't something he minded, that is until he met Hana Kang. Just a girl looking for the person that killed her father, Hana never expected the help of a grave digger.

“God, please! I beg of you. It was a mistake, I never meant to hurt anyone!”

Taehyung sat in the corner of the room, twirling his hunting knife between his index finger and thigh, a trickle of his blood traveled down the blade. Pain was futile to Tae, he believed that only the weak and spineless needed pain, he said it was a landfill emotion and served him no purpose, so one day he decided that he’d no longer acknowledge it.

“Come on, man!” The man pleaded once again, tears streaming down in a uniform line, making a path of skin in the wake of blood that had started to stain his skin.

The pain in the mans voice was vexing, the closest thing to hurt that Tae felt was discomfort, and nothing made him more uncomfortable than an inept man. He sighed, pushing himself from the corner, the single light fixture swaying in the middle of the room only made Tae more terrifying than he looked in the dark. How could such a beautiful face be so grim.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tae suggested, kneeling in front of the broken man, “I’ll give five minutes to pray to God, or whoever you choose, ask them to set you free, and if you get out of your restrains, I’ll let you go. How does that sound?”

The man’s eyes grew ten times their normal size, was this the beacon of hope he’d been asking for? Could he actually make it out alive? There was a fire in him and he swore that he’d live to see the next day. However, Tae had other plans. He wasn’t going to go back on his word, if he was anything, it was a man of his word, but he knew his victim wouldn’t be able to get a singular strap off.

“Yes!” It wasn’t just an answer but it was a deceleration of strength. If he’d made it this far in life, he could surely come out of this alive, and live to tell the tale.

Tae grinned a joyless grin. Pleased that he’d finally got him to stop, and maybe just maybe, he’d found someone who would test his own skills and talent. It had been far too long since he had to actually try, and now he may be able to dust off some of his favorite techniques. He gently patted the mans leg, and stood without another glance, setting his watch for exactly five minutes.

“Now?!” His victim questioned, he was expecting at least a ‘go’ but then again, what do you expect with a serial killer?

Tae closed the door behind him, the metal lock latching to the wall. He didn’t bother to hang around, he’d give him the time he promised, but Tae was a full time grave keeper, before he was a part time killer. Tae sheathed the knife in the waistband of his pants, the tip of the blade making a small tear in the material.

“God damn it, these were my favorite pants,” he grumbled, at least now he wouldn’t have to be so damn neat since he was going to throw them out anyways.

He made his way up the steps towards the staff kitchen, the room was almost as scary as the basement. The dingy, once white paint was chipping off the walls, counter tops had to be from when this place first opened, at least thirty years ago, and the clock was permanently stuck on 11:32. His one and only employee always tried to change the time, but Tae shut it down. He was a particular guy, and he liked consistency, even if that meant that the time was consistently wrong.

His stomach gurgled, reminding Tae that he hadn’t eaten all day, an unfortunate side effect of giving all your spare time to the grim reaper. He ran his fingers through his hair, completely forgetting that his hand had been painted with blood from his own finger, reaching for an apple sitting on the pathetic excuse of a table. He was rather impressed that it was still standing, possibly on its last leg. He chuckled at his own pun, removing the knife from his pants, pressing the blade into the rind of the apple. The juice dribbled down, little drops hitting his shoes. He didn’t bother to throw away his trash, just leaving the peel on the table. His employee, Sam, would clean it up when she came in for her shift in a few hours. He sliced the apple with nothing but his knife and the pad of thumb, plopping the pieces of a sweet fruit into his mouth.

He had barely finished half the apple when his watch went off, a glint of excitement twinkled in his eyes. Tae didn’t experience emotions like the normal person, he only allowed himself to feel when he found it wasn’t a distraction. Every once and a while an emotion would bubble up on it’s own and he’d do everything in his power to suppress it. He found that nothing good came from giving to human nature, so he simply didn’t.

The steps gave no sound as he walked back down, eerily like a lion scouting it’s prey. Most people were afraid of what goes bump in the night, but there was nothing scarier than hearing nothing at all. He tapped the steel of his blade against the door, he could hear the man cry out in agony. He knew this wasn’t a cry of physical pain, this was a cry of defeat. He now knew that his time was up, and he’d have to meet his maker. Somewhere deep inside of him, he knew that his demise wouldn’t be peaceful, it would end in way that mimicked the torture he did to others.

Tae stepped in, leaning against the door frame. He gazed at the utter disgrace of a man. How disappointing, he was just like every fuckhead who found themselves in these restraints. Tae made his way over to the shelves that sat behind the chair of death, it was his ‘utility’ shelf.

“You know what I hate the most about this?” He asked, grabbing the tarp that was folded methodically, the dust around it only showed that it was never placed in any other place, in any other position.

“People like you spend your lives torturing and hurting other people. You make yourself feel better by belittling others, you get off on asserting your dominance over people who can’t fight you anyways,” he begins to lay the tarp down, placing rocks on each corner so the corners wouldn’t lift and cause him to trip, he’d only make that mistake once.

“And then when it comes down to really showing what you can do, to show off how strong and macho you are, you choke. You’re not powerful, you never were. I am happy to be the one to tell you this, I want to remind you that you are human and you are not indestructible,” he stops in the middle of the room, directly under the light that had finally stopped its dance.

“And you think this makes you indestructible?” The deplorable man spat, furious.

Tae cocked his head to the right, a smile stretching mischievously across his face. Of course this didn’t make him indestructible, but it made him infamous. He’d leave behind a better world when he was gone, and what would this scumbag leave behind? Just pain and misery.

“Absolutely not, and it gives me nothing but pure joy to think that one day I’ll meet you again in hell, and get to haunt and torture you for eternity,” he reached over to rack of what looked like butchers aprons.

It was time, and Tae was tired of talking. He reached back and made a sloppy farmers loop on the back of the neck with the apron strings, and the same with his back.

“God, I am so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused, mom and dad, I’m sorry for never being the son you wanted, and to my wife, I am so sorry that I wasn’t the husband you needed. I should’ve been a better man, I could’ve been. Please forgive me,” He weeped for all the people he loved.

He didn’t even realize that Tae had made his way behind him, the only thing he could think of was his life, and how much he had to do, how much of life he wanted to live. He was sitting in his pity like a sick animal sits in their own feces. Tae had woven his fingers in the mans hair, gripping roughly and with a sharp yank the mans head fell back, exposing his neck.

“There are plenty of bad people in this world, who do things worse than you, but do you want to know why you?” Tae asked, leaning down, his lips dangerously close to touching the mans ear.

Silence, not so much as a nod or a hiccup from over crying. He had accepted his fate, and he didn’t care to know why him, all he knew was it was him. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable end.

“Because when you asked for forgiveness, you didn’t ask it from the one person you destroyed.”

That was it. The reason, the end all be all of this life. His eyes flew open, as the realization hit him. Could he have saved himself if he wasn’t so selfish? Could he have undone all the bad he’d inflicted if he would have just apologized and meant it? He was about to speak, to beg for her forgiveness, but just as soon as he gasped, the knife broke his skin just like peeling an apple.

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awkwardnessandbaseball · 5 years ago

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IT’S HERE!!!!

So many thanks to: @cspupstravaganza, @sherlockianwhovian, @lassluna, and @kieravanrenvie.

AO3 if that’s your jam.

Today you get the prologue and the first chapter, so read away, my pretties!

I'd Pick You (and Your Little Dog, Too)

A Captain Swan Pupstravaganza Story

Summary: According to everyone in the known universe, Emma Swan's dog is supposed to lead her to her soulmate. But she's not even sure if she wants that. Soulmates are pretty idealistic, don't you think?

Prologue:

The pounding of Emma’s heart matched her footsteps as she ran through the woods on the edge of Storybrooke. She did her best to ignore the pain in her back that her bookbag was causing her, slamming against her tailbone. She forced all thoughts out of her head, pointedly ignoring the bruise clearly forming above her jeans..

She just ran.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She felt it faintly, but she ignored it. A nagging feeling in her belly threatened to stop her in her tracks: she hated to make her brother worry.

But he’d be better off without her.

David was the golden child, a straight-A student and a natural athlete. He’d been their parents’ pride and joy, while Emma had been a troublemaker and a disappointment. She’d done well as a child, her competitive nature causing her to pit herself against her twin brother in every conceivable way. They were equals in many ways, though Emma’s true strength was in literature while David had understood long division a full two years before she’d begun to grasp the concept. But somewhere along the way, she’d started losing their imaginary competitions. She suddenly had to try to ace all of her tests, while everything still seemed to come easily to David.

She’d been a sore loser.

So instead of trying and disappointing her parents - and herself - she’d given up. Stopped going to class and started hanging out with the stoners by the football field. She’d lost track of the days and weeks.

And then her parents had died.

It was a car accident, it could have happened to anyone. But while David flourished in his grief, planning the funeral and contacting family members and even arranging hotel stays, Emma had only fallen further down the hole she’d dug herself.

And then the funeral came. One week after the accident, Nolans and Swans, humans and canines, from near and far had descended upon their home and Emma had hidden in her room, while David remained the center of attention.

She ventured halfway down the stairs during the small gathering after the service when she heard someone talking to David. She sat, eavesdropping.

“Oh I just know your parents were so proud of you, David. Your mother told me just last week about how you were running for class president, right? I can’t imagine you’ll still run. Oh you are? Yes, it is what they would have wanted. Where’s your sister? Still skipping class every day? Your mother was very worried about her, you know.” Great Aunt Ingrid lowered her voice. “Is it true they were out looking for her when they got into the accident?”

It wasn’t. Emma heard David’s firm No from her spot on the stairs, but the damage had already been done.

She packed a bag, only the essentials, and ran out the back door.

She reached the docks and stood, staring out on the water, unsure of what to do next. Her stupid phone kept buzzing in her pocket and she finally ripped it out, staring at the screen.

32 New Text Messages 15 Missed Calls

8 Voice Messages

All from David.

Shit.

D: Emma, where did you go?

D: I heard you on the stairs when I was talking to Aunt Ingrid. D: Where’s your necklace from Mom? I saw it on the nightstand this morning.

D: Did you run away?

D: Emma, please answer me. D: Emma, I can’t do this alone.

The last one finally got her.

She sighed, upset with herself for getting so carried away, for being so selfish. She was so embarrassed now, with the adrenaline leaving her system, and so tired.

E: Let me know when everyone’s gone.

It took three hours before she finally got the text.

D: Come home, Emma. Please.

She’d expected David to yell at her, to tell her how much he’d worried and to blame her for causing him more stress.

He just hugged her, cradling the back of her head in his right hand.

It was the first time his armor had come down. The first time Emma had realized that maybe, just maybe, her brother wasn’t handling this as well as she’d suspected. She thought about all the planning he’d done for the funeral and realized, apparently too late, that he’d probably been trying to avoid thinking about what had happened; trying to avoid thinking about the fact that their parents were gone, and they weren’t coming back.

“You can’t leave me like that, Emma. It’s just you and me now.”

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Just you and me.”

-------------

Four Years Later

“You’re… you’re moving out?” Emma asked, hoping her brother wouldn’t notice the slight crack in her voice at the end of the question.

“Just down the street,” David assured her. “It’s just… Emma, it’s time. We’ve been together for a while, it’s the next logical step.”

Emma loved her brother, and she was so happy that he was in love, but she just really didn’t want things to change. They were barely eighteen, had just gotten their own place together (Granny’s Inn had been nice, if a bit cramped, and this was an actual adult apartment) a year ago, and now… it was already ending?

She sniffed once and nodded.

“Okay,” she said.

“Emma, we can talk about this. I know it’s a lot…” David tried to catch her eye but she looked away.

“Nothing to talk about. I’m sure you and Kathryn are meant to be.”

A week later, Emma was helping David move into his fancy new one-bedroom apartment with its in-unit laundry and brand new appliances. She didn’t want to help, didn’t want to move things along any more quickly than they were already moving. But David was still her brother, and she did want to spend as much time with him as possible.

So she was helping.

They were driving in David’s truck on their last trip of the day when a small brown and white pitbull suddenly ran into the middle of the road. David swerved and missed her, barely coming to a stop before hitting a tree.

“What the hell was that?” Emma checked herself for any injuries but she didn’t feel anything out of place. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” David answered, but he sounded far away, like he was only half listening. Emma turned towards him and found him staring directly at the pitbull, who was still standing directly in the middle of the street as though she hadn’t just been nearly run over by a pickup truck. The dog was staring right back at David.

And then she ran.

David scrambled out of the car to chase after her and Emma followed as soon as her brain caught up to what was going on: this was David’s dog.

Emma had long since given up on finding her own dog, and her brother claimed he had as well. They’d made it this far without them, and David had a perfectly fine love life, soulmate or otherwise, so what did it matter? But Emma knew, despite the fact that he’d stopped talking to her about it ages ago, that David still hoped for a dog one day. Was her brother a hopeless romantic or total sap? It depended on Emma’s mood.

Dogs appeared in your life as if they’d been there all along, and they essentially became a fifth limb, always attached to you, an extension of your arm. There were rumors that long ago, long before Emma was born, dogs were just pets like cats or lizards or birds, and that their lifespan was much shorter. There were some stories, even, about people who couldn’t own dogs because they’d developed an allergy, which had never even make sense to Emma, who happened to be allergic to cats.

At any rate, it was hard for Emma to believe that there had ever been a time when dogs weren’t commonplace, when you needed permission to bring them to restaurants or stores or coffee shops. Perhaps those were just stories that had been passed down for so long that they’d lost any element of the truth.

The fact of the matter was that humans depended on dogs so much, even back then, that evolution (or magic or fate or whatever explanation you chose to believe) took over. Emma had only known a life that included seeing dogs at every turn. Their lifespans matched their human’s, and they served a much more important purpose than other animals in the world.

Dogs appeared in someone’s life when it was time. There was no other explanation, and it wasn’t something easily researchable. So people just walked along, dog-less, until they finally came across a dog on a walk, or they appeared at the person’s door, or they just came together in some other way. Everyone’s story was different, but the end result was the same: the dog chose the human. There were no loose dogs running around, so if you came across one, it was meant to be yours.

Emma followed David as he chased the dog into the woods just beside the road. It wasn’t a long run, but it was confusing (all the trees looked the same) and sweaty (Maine in the middle of August will do that). But finally, David’s dog led them to… another dog.

The other dog was also a pitbull, but he was bigger than the female who’d led them here. He was all black, save for a small white stripe down the center of his chest.

He was beautiful.

He was also trapped.

He didn’t make any noise, clearly not wanting to draw any attention to the trouble he was in. His front left leg was stuck under a pile of rocks. It looked like maybe he’d been digging a hole and the rocks had fallen on him, but Emma couldn’t be sure.

“Emma,” David whispered, bringing her back to the situation at hand. “These dogs are… they have to be…”

“David, not now. He’s stuck. Help me get him loose.”

The two of them moved rock after rock until finally the dog’s limb was freed. But Emma could see it was too late. He tried to move it, but he couldn’t put any weight on the leg. He looked at Emma, and he finally let out one long, low whine.

“We’ve gotta get him to the vet,” Emma said, scooping him up in her arms. He was heavier than she’d anticipated, and the walk back out of the woods wasn’t easy, but they made it to the truck - all four of them - in one piece.

While there were certainly vets in town with more experience than Ruby Lucas, there was no one the Nolans trusted more than the Lucas women. Ruby’s grandmother had taken them in after their parents’ accident, allowing the twins to stay together in their hometown. Ruby was already grown up and out of the house by the time the Nolans had moved in at fourteen, but she’d still become a pseudo-sibling. She’d gotten David his first job, cleaning kennels at the clinic, and there was no doubt that she was the person they’d be taking their dogs to for the rest of their lives.

“It’s probably best to amputate. There’s not much we can do for it, and he’ll be much more comfortable without dragging it around.”

Emma was surprised at the pang she felt in her chest.

“He’ll um… he’ll be okay, though? After?” Emma asked, and David reached over and put a calming hand on her shoulder. The other dog sat at his feet, poised and beautiful. Ready for anything.

“Yes, Emma.” Ruby smiled gently. “Is he… he’s yours then?”

“I guess so,” Emma breathed. “I didn’t… I don’t… We just found them.” She motioned between both dogs.

“That’s how it goes,” Ruby said with a smile. Her own dog, Toto, lingered in the back of the room, calmly watching her owner care for Emma’s new charge. Emma watched Toto for a moment, wondering at the connection that must be present between canine and human, before her attention returned quickly to the dog in front of her, staring up at her meaningfully.

“Okay, then let’s do it.”

Emma brought Rascal home a week later. The missing limb didn’t seem to bother him, and he was absolutely incredible. He seemed to know her habits already, waking up with her (or jumping on her when she overslept, which was more often than not), waiting patiently for head scratches and treats instead of begging, and he even slept right on top of her freezing cold feet at night.

It helped having him around when she missed David, and Emma couldn’t help but wonder if the fates (or whoever controlled this whole dog thing) had put Rascal in her path right when she needed him most: right when she was about to be alone for the first time.

Of course, David’s dog was not a fan of Kathryn. He’d named the dog Princess, because of her graceful, even regal, way of entering a room, but the truth was that she was just as playful and messy as Rascal. And Kathryn kept a clean house, one that didn’t include dirty pawprints on the couch from playing outside.

It took a while for reality to set in. Kathryn had found a dog, too, and named him Dodger. And while Dodger was athletic and handsome like David believed himself to be, he was also either too dumb or too stubborn, refusing to listen to anyone but Kathryn. And even that was iffy. David and Kathryn tried to keep the romance alive, but soon they began fighting over small things, like David leaving dirty dishes in the sink or the proper way to hang the toilet paper roll. Princess didn’t seem to like Kathryn, which didn’t help matters, and Dodger was completely indifferent towards David.

Over time, the small fights evolved into larger ones, and they realized they simply weren’t happy together. It became obvious that soulmates were soulmates for a reason, and they just weren’t it.

In David’s absence, Emma had even ventured down the dark path of romance and come out the other side just a little more broken than she already was.

When it was all over and David was moved back in, he pulled Emma into a hug, and they promised each other again the same thing they had at fourteen.

“It’s just you and me, David.”

“Just you and me.”

A low whine and a short growl sounded by their feet.

Emma sighed.

“Okay, just all four of us, then. Sheesh.”

#captain swan #cspupstravaganza #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #cs fanfic #IT'S ABOUT DOGS #AND SOULMATES #READ IT PLEASE

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doomonfilm · 5 years ago

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Memories : The Best Films of the 2010s

Only a few years into my tenure as a film blogger, and I’ve been tasked with a monumental undertaking : ranking the top films of the last decade. Reflecting year by year is a journey in its own right, and with things like recency bias to take into account, plus the dice roll of blessing and curse that perspective and time bring to older films, I knew that this would be memorable at best, and stressful at worst.

That being said, I don’t claim to have seen every movie, so I know that there are some ‘glaring’ omissions. I am always open to recommendations for films I should watch (for the purpose of blogging on them or otherwise), but DOOMonFILM has always been about my personal experience as a film fan, first and foremost. Discussion is welcome, and constructive criticism will always be considered, but this is one man’s opinion.

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THOUGHTS ON THE DECADE

The 2010s, despite moments of controversy in terms of diversity, turned out to be surprisingly forward-thinking in hindsight. On more than one occasion in the decade, the film of the year (in terms of awards or in terms of critical/public reception), as well as highlight films of each year, were made by foreign directors. Women and minorities also managed to be recognized in front of and behind the camera at what seemed like a higher rate. Newer technologies were embraced, such as pushes forward in new cameras or directors opting to shoot on devices as small as iPhones, leaps forward in special effects, and a multitude of movies given the iMax treatment. A handful of directors happened to put out multiple movies throughout the decade, and a few of those in that handful managed to make multiple award-winning and widely accepted films. Marvel left such an impact on Hollywood, and the worldwide movie industry, that DC was forced to try and follow suit, and mergers with Sony and Disney were top tier news for months on end. Actors like Scarlett Johanson, Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone and Leonardo DiCaprio, among others, solidified themselves as box-office legends, while actors on both sides of their career (first-timers and those in the twilight of their career) found success throughout the decade. All in all, it was a decade that continued to make me happy to be a movie fan, and as hard as it was to do, I managed to find 100 films throughout the decade to rank.

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100. It Comes at Night (dir. Trey Edward Shults, 2017) 99. Kick-Ass (dir. Matthew Vaughn, 2010) 98. The Peanuts Movie (dir. Steve Martino, Andy Beall and Frank Molieri, 2015) 97. Everybody Wants Some!! (dir. Richard Linklater, 2016) 96. Upstream Color (dir. Shane Carruth, 2013) 95. Avengers : Age of Ultron (dir. Joss Whedon, 2015) 94. John Dies at the End (dir. Don Coscarelli, 2013) 93. Doctor Strange (dir. Scott Derrickson, 2016) 92. Keanu (dir. Peter Atencio, 2016) 91. Free Fire (dir. Ben Wheatley, 2017) 90. Upgrade (dir. Leigh Whannell, 2018) 89. Chappie (dir. Neill Blomkamp, 2015) 88. American Ultra (dir. Nima Nourizadeh, 2015) 87. I, Tonya (dir. Craig Gillespie, 2017) 86. Boyhood (dir. Richard Linklater, 2014) 85. The Grand Budapest Hotel (dir. Wes Anderson, 2014) 84. La La Land (dir. Damien Chazelle, 2016) 83. Ex Machina (dir. Alex Garland, 2015) 82. Nightcrawler (dir. Dan Gilroy, 2014) 81. Sicario (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2015) 80. Looper (dir. Rian Johnson, 2012) 79. The Killer Inside Me (dir. Michal Winterbottom, 2010) 78. Hell or High Water (dir. David Mackenzie, 2016) 77. End of Watch (dir. David Ayer, 2012) 76. Django Unchained (dir. Quentin Tarantino, 2012) 75. Thoroughbreds (dir. Cory Finley, 2018) 74. Chronicle (dir. Josh Trank, 2012) 73. Melancholia (dir. Lars von Trier, 2011) 72. Black Mirror : Bandersnatch (dir. David Slade, 2018) 71. Detroit (dir. Kathryn Bigelow, 2017) 70. BlacKkKlansman (dir. Spike Lee, 2018) 69. Black Panther (dir. Ryan Coogler, 2018) 68. I Am Not Your Negro (dir. Raoul Peck, 2017) 67. Straight Outta Compton (dir. F. Gary Gray, 2015) 66. Kubo and the Two Strings (dir. Travis Knight, 2016) 65. It Follows (dir. David Robert Mitchell, 2014) 64. Logan Lucky (dir. Steven Soderbergh, 2017) 63. Get Out (dir. Jordan Peele, 2017) 62. Booksmart (dir. Olivia Wilde, 2019) 61. Beats, Rhymes & Life : The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest (dir. Michael Rapaport, 2011) 60. Lady Bird (dir. Greta Gerwig, 2017) 59. Moonrise Kingdom (dir. Wes Anderson, 2012) 58. The Cabin in the Woods (dir. Drew Goddard, 2012) 57. Black Swan (dir. Darren Aronofsky, 2010) 56. Captain America : The Winter Soldier (dir. Joe Russo, 2014) 55. If Beale Street Could Talk (dir. Barry Jenkins, 2018) 54. Avengers : Infinity War (dir. Anthony Russo, 2018) 53. True Grit (dir. Ethan and Joel Cohen, 2010) 52. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (dir. Martin McDonagh, 2017) 51. Whiplash (dir. Damien Chazelle, 2014) 50. Midsommar (dir. Ari Aster, 2019) 49. Journey to the West : Conquering the Demons (dir. Stephen Chow and Derek Kwok, 2013) 48. Sorry To Bother You (dir. Boots Riley, 2018) 47. Mid90s (dir. Jonah Hill, 2018) 46. Logan (dir. James Mangold, 2017) 45. The Killing of a Sacred Deer (dir. Yorgos Lanthimos, 2017) 44. Phantom Thread (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2017) 43. The Hateful Eight (dir. Quentin Tarantino, 2015) 42. Exit Through the Gift Shop (dir. Banksy, 2010) 41. The Irishman (dir. Martin Scorsese, 2019) 40. Suspiria (dir. Luca Guadagnino, 2018) 39. The VVitch (dir. Robert Eggers, 2016) 38. Dogtooth (dir. Yorgos Lanthimos, 2010) 37. The Lighthouse (dir. Robert Eggers, 2019) 36. Annihilation (dir. Alex Garland, 2018) 35. Drive (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011) 34. Beyond the Black Rainbow (dir. Panos Cosmatos, 2012) 33. The Favourite (dir. Yorgos Lanthimos, 2018) 32. Searching (dir. Aneesh Chaganty, 2018) 31. Tangerine (dir. Sean Baker, 2015) 30. Snowpiercer (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2014) 29. Under the Skin (dir. Jonathan Glazer, 2013) 28. Dunkirk (dir. Christopher Nolan, 2017) 27. Blade Runner 2049 (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2017) 26. Baby Driver (dir. Edgar Wright, 2017) 25. Joker (dir. Todd Phillips, 2019) 24. The Neon Demon (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016) 23. Spider-Man : Into the Spider-Verse (dir. Peter Ramsey, Bob Persichetti and Rodney Rothman, 2018) 22. The Shape of Water (dir. Guillermo del Toro, 2017) 21. The Social Network (dir. David Fincher, 2010) 20. Frances Ha (dir. Noah Baumbach, 2013) 19. Under the Silver Lake (dir. David Robert Mitchell, 2019) 18. Mad Max : Fury Road (dir. George Miller, 2015) 17. Good Time (dir. Josh and Benny Safdie, 2017) 16. Mandy (dir. Panos Cosmatos, 2018) 15. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (dir. Quentin Tarantino, 2019) 14. Her (dir. Spike Jonze, 2013) 13. The Lobster (dir. Yorgos Lanthimos, 2015) 12. Inherent Vice (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014) 11. The Master (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2012)

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10. The Last Black Man in San Francisco (dir. Joe Talbot, 2019)

I saw this film as the decade was winding to a close, but it made easily one of the starkest impressions on me of any film-going experience I can recall. The movie looks amazing, the score and soundtrack are powerful, the acting is rich and dynamic, San Francisco is as beautiful on film as it is in real life, and the thoughts that arise from the narrative presented are the kind that hang around and result in personal changes that matter. A shining achievement from a stellar year of film.

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9. Inception (dir. Christopher Nolan, 2010)

If Christopher Nolan wasn’t already considered top tier prior to Inception, any doubters were left floored at the close of this masterpiece. For a story that could have easily been way too convoluted for standard audiences, the visuals, direction and pacing guide us through the madness perfectly. For anyone interested in dream depictions on cinema, for fans of stellar action, and for the smart people who know the quality that comes with the Nolan name, this one was a no-brainer.

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8. mother! (dir. Darren Aronofsky, 2017)

After being a bit on the nose with Noah, in terms of a film on religion, most directors would take that as a sign to move on from the topic. For a director like Darren Aronofsky, however, the next step was to seemingly go back to your mind-scrambling roots, dig deeper symbolically, narratively and metaphorically, and come back to the table with one of the most divisive and controversial films of the decade. mother! will clearly be a film ripe for analysis for years to come, and for as subjective and deep an experience as the film is, this reflection is welcome, as it serves to enrich future viewing experiences.

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7. Uncut Gems (dir. Josh and Benny Safdie, 2019)

How long does a film have to be out to be considered one of the best of the decade? In the case of Uncut Gems, I will allow recency bias, as it is clearly evident at the beginning of the closing credits that the film is special and will resonate for years to come. The Safdie brothers already had a classic under their belt with Good Time, and throwing that Sandler magic into the mix only amplifies their heightened and immersive style.

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6. The Florida Project (dir. Sean Baker, 2017)

There are a small fraternity of directors that put out their first films and follow-up films in the 2010s, and while examples of possible award snubs can be found for these directors, there was one clear-cut case of oversight : the 2017 lack of recognition for Sean Baker’s immaculate, beautiful and moving The Florida Project. While Tangerine was certainly the loudest of warning shots a first time director could provide, the amount of growth, nuance and confidence found in this follow-up deserved multiple awards, not just an acting nod for Willem Dafoe. Perhaps Baker’s next film will bring him the recognition he deserves in terms of awards, but he’s already made a clear cut name for himself.

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5. Hereditary (dir. Ari Aster, 2018)

I rediscovered a love for horror films in the 2010s, and a key reason would be the emergence of director Ari Aster. Upon seeing trailers for Hereditary, I knew that it would probably scare the life out of me, but the taste of the story given was so gripping I had to see it. The fact that the trailer was so powerful, only for the movie to unfold in ways that I never would have imagined or discerned from the trailer, was one of the most rewarding film experiences of the decade. Toni Collette also gave a performance for the ages.

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4. You Were Never Really Here (dir. Lynne Ramsay, 2018)

It’s arguable that Joaquin Phoenix may have had the strongest decade of any actor, and for my money’s worth, he was at his best in You Were Never Really Here. Much of the angst presented was previously explored in The Master, and as great as Joker is, it’s essentially the DCEU version of You Were Never Really Here, tonally and in terms of specific elements. Nobody short of the Safdie brothers are making movies that look, sound and feel like this one, and the unfortunate practice of human trafficking hitting the news forefront makes this film as timely as it is sad.

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3. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (dir. Edgar Wright, 2010)

Hands down the coolest film of the decade. Not since Who Framed Roger Rabbit? had so many elements that I loved from other properties managed to find their way into the same movie, and the way that the gumbo was prepared and served was pitch perfect. As my friend Erin stated after we viewed the film, ‘If you watch this movie and don’t like it, I don’t think we can be friends’. Some of my favorite sequences of any film are in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and this is the EXACT kind of film I look forward to one day sharing with my children.

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2. Parasite (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2019)

Another recent film that made an instant impact. In terms of topics like honesty, entitlement, and family dynamics, nothing I can think of in recent memory is touching Parasite. The parallels between the two families presented are perfect both visually and in the performances, and with each new bit of information presented, much of what you were previously presented is immediately recontextualized and put into question. This film, from front to back, is one of the most gripping journeys a filmgoer can take.

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1. Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (dir. Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2014)

Easily my favorite film of the decade. This is the closest thing to a song-poem that I’ve ever seen presented on film, and it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. Nothing else released in the decade looked or sounded like this film, and the way it meta-reflects on Hollywood, Broadway, superhero films and the importance of actors is equal parts hilarious, thought-provoking and wonderfully frustrating. The film answers enough questions it posits so as to not completely confound the viewer, but it leaves enough open-ended so that repeat viewings are rewarding. A true achievement of film, regardless of decade.

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theuniversitychallengereview · 5 years ago

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UC 49.28-32, QF Mega-Blog

What better thing to do, when forced to stay at home during the outbreak of a global virus that threatens not only millions of peoples lives but the very fabric of society as we know it, than catch up on watching and writing about the quiz show whose previous four episodes you had missed for various reasons, all of which seem frivolous following the outbreak of a global virus that threatens not only millions of peoples lives but the very fabric of society as we know it. Also, I kept seeing that Twitter meme about Shakespeare having written King Lear during the plague quarantine and fancied getting involved.

Its also the only sport of any kind that can be found on TV for love nor money (apart from the Turkish Superlig, which for some reason thinks itself immune). Maybe the Premier League should try out pre-recording like the Challenge, for precisely this kind of situation. Just get Salah, De Bruyne and all the boys together for a few kick-abouts, film a few goals and slide tackles and all that, and keep the footage for a rainy day. Or send a camera round Serena Williams’ gaff, log a couple of serves and forehands, cut it together - BOOM, there’s your Wimbledon final if Greta decides tennis is too carbon-heavy.

All I’m saying is, you’ve never seen University Challenge postponed due to a global virus that threatens not only millions of peoples lives but the very fabric of society as we know it (although, as I write this I’m realising that the recordings of next years show will probably be delayed. Shit)

Episode 28 - Courtauld vs Imperial

Whenever I’ve not written one of these for a while it takes me a while to figure out what the heck it is I’m doing. Like, what do I usually write about? How have I managed to put out 118 of these? Do you reckon Shakespeare felt the same way when he was between plays - would he sit down with his quill and parchment and wonder aloud, ‘What the fuck is an iambic pentameter and how do I find one?’ (If I 1: knew the answer to that question; and 2: could be bothered, then I would have written that question in iambic pentameter, but you should know by now you’re dealing with one lazy blogger).

Anyway, Imperial had blazed aside all before them in the opening two rounds, thanks in no small part to the efforts of mercurial star Brandon, whose laconic style has drawn unfair criticism as arrogance. Thats how it always goes with the social media juries though - if a contestant displays any level of confidence above the bare minimum then they’re too big for their boots. But then if they grin and seem really happy when they get an answer that’ll probably annoy some people too. Almost as if they can’t win and there’s no point playing this game to appease the kind of people who get annoyed at kids on quiz shows.

The Courtauld side fall into the grinning category. They all four of them seem genuinely delighted to be on the show, and even more delighted that they managed to win two matches and make it to the quarter finals - their second round defeat of Glasgow a particularly impressive performance.

Glasgow were a good side, but Imperial are a different gravy, and Courtauld, after a neg on the opening question, seem like rabbits in the headlights (when they should have been at home, the whole country’s on lockdown, dammit Peter!) as Brandon sycthes down question after question, fearful to fall further below zero in case they can’t make it back up again.

For a while it looked as though that might end up being the case, as Imperial pranced into a hundred point lead within six questions, but Haigh finally stopped the rot, and Courtauld would add some respectability over the rest of the episode. In truth, it was clear from that point onwards that the race had been run, and Brandon seemed to relax from thereon out, and his teammates picked up the slack, though that seems like doing them a disservice, as they all seem very accomplished in their own right.

Final Score: Courtauld 75 - 240 Imperial

Episode 29 - Trinity, Cam vs Corpus Christi, Cam

Right, on to the next, and for Ep 29 we had our first Cam-Cam slugfest of the series. There had already been plenty of Ox-Cam derbies of course, you can’t move for them half the time, but no inter-collegiate battles thus far. Whoever won would become the first side to reach the semi-finals, with Trinity having beaten Manchester and Corpus Wolfson in their respective opening quarter final clashes.

Stewart, who doesn’t look like he would be out of place in the Byzantine Empire, gets Corpus off the mark with ‘Byzantine’ (I have basically no idea what this comparison would actually mean, or if it is in fact a sick burn, but I feel like he has an old-timey medieval look about him and felt like this should not go unaddressed. Like, he wouldn’t look strange wearing a tunic, would he?).

Russell and Wang increased the lead before Hughes got Trinity into the game with what looked like a semi-guess on a maths-y starter. Paxman, who clearly enjoys toying with the Corpus captain, then gets Wang for the second match in a row with a double serving of Boomer sarcasm. When Wang rather dejectedly says, ‘Its not Isaac Asimov, is it? No’, the quizmaster further interrogates him as to whether he was giving a question or an answer, much in the way an irritating geography teacher would parrot ‘Of course you can go to the toilet, the question is whether or not you may’. He’s right though, and Corpus gobble up two more bonuses on sci-fi writers.

Another starter went to Stewart, and a first for Gunasekera. Corpus were starting to look comfortable, but a brief flurry from Trinity around the music round looks like it might bring them into contention. But that’s all it was, the briefest of flurries, like that random day in April or October where someone says ‘is it snowing?, and you all look out of the window, but before you can actually work out if it really was snowing or if it was some sort of white rain, its stopped.

Corpus stretch their legs now, and find themselves beyond two hundred points before Trinity turn themselves back on, which they eventually do, building up to a not-disgraceful 80 before the gong.

Final Score: Trinity 80 - 245 Corpus

Episode 30 - Manchester vs Wolfson, Ox

Because I do this on Tumblr, one of the most annoying things about doing this (and I know its dumb), and something that I think might subconsciously play into me not doing these more regularly, is that when I try and add the pictures of the teams to the post it quite often takes ages and sometimes causes the page to freeze so that I can’t save/post it. This problem is exacerbated when there are multiple episodes to get through, which makes it one of those snowballing problems that only gets worse the longer you leave it - like when you put off repying to an email until it becomes almost a monolithic entitiy in your mind.

It only takes a few minutes to fix this - you copy and paste the text and then add the images in a different window (though there is another annoying thing where the hashtags don’t save anyway, so you have to retype the hashtags - and for some reason I always add loads of hashtags, including #JeremyPaxman - which also feels like it takes an epoch) - but its one of those few minute periods that feel like fifteen minutes. So basically, what I’m saying is that I can’t be assed adding the pictures to the post at this point. I might add them later, but for now you’re just getting words, so, so many rambling words.

Manchester are back in the last eight for the first time in donkeys, but they stand on the precipice following a trouncing by Trinity in their QF-opener (I’ve already mentioned this in the last review, which normally wouldn’t matter, but since its directly above this one then it might seem a bit repetitive, but I don’t know if I can rely on your having remembered). Wolfson were likewise (likewise were? Are both okay) baeten by Corpus Christi (which is also referenced above, sorry) so this one was an ELIMINATOR!

Neither side seemed to realise this from the off though (I say though too much don’t I? If I had more time I’d probably edit a few down. But I’m doing a 5-episode mega-post so I don’t, though. Shit. Actually, that one was on purpose winky face) and sort of stumble through the first few questions with some atrocious work on the bonuses.

Green thought he’d pulled a great answer out of the bag to kick start the match, but Fanny Burney Fanny Burnett is not, and Paxo decries the crowd for being amused at how close Green had come (they having let out a collective ‘oooh’, much in the same way their footballing equivalent may have done at a smashed crossbar).

Even Jones, so electric in her previous appearances, was a bit slow off the mark tonight. On one occasion she even overruled her teammates conferred and agreed upon answer at the last moment, giving her own guess which they had dismissed, but fortunately for her they had both been wrong, so she did not look a fool.

Manchester were ahead, but couldn’t get far ahead. Wolfson were within touching distance, but couldn’t touch. Not until the very end that is. Caple took the final starter to draw them level and the gong sounded before th first bonus could be asked. DEADLOCK.

A #DEADLOCKELIMINATOR no less.

Paxman explains that a Neg on this question would hand victory to the other team without them lifting a buzzer-finger. He starts reading, no one buzzes. He continues to read. Everyone continues to not buzz. He carries on r- BUZZ.

Manchester Rogers. Three words left on Paxo’s lips. He better be right. Kaiser Wilhelm. He isn’t. Otto Von Bismarck. An easy mistake to make, says Paxo.

I reckon Wolfson would have picked up the drop anyway, but you can’t be sure.

My fellow UC blog, jacksonlinewritings, says that its the first time a neg has lost a tiebreak since 2002/03.

Final Score: Manchester 125 - 130 Wolfson.

Episode 31 - Durham vs Imperial.

I don’t know if this is the first time I’ve written about the same team twice in one post before, but it may well be. Either way, you can (and probably already have) read everything I had to say about Imperial Brandon, my favourite contestant this series, further up this very page, so I don’t need to reiterate.

Durham’s Tams beats him to what I thought was a relatively easy starter on the Magna Carta (just spent a few minutes trying to come up with another word to rhyme with carta, thought it would be easy, but it was a bit harda). He gets the next one though (though) and his Captain Rich the third to give them the lead. Their opponents proved a tougher nut to crack than Courtauld though (though, and I’m not doing this on purpose. I’m just not removing them when I probably should be. They’re all coming up naturally. This is just how much I apparently use the word. If there are any others then please let me know) and cling on whenever Brandon threatens to zoom away.

Please forgive me for going on about Brandon, by the way. He’s just (I think ‘just’ is probably one, and probably ‘probably’ too) so captivating to watch. There were several times in this episode when I stopped watching the whole screen during a starter and focussed on him, expecting him to buzz in, which he duly did. Especially on the starters which are that bit more important, when Durham were (I need to do something about my tenses too, they’re all over the shop) threatening to make a comeback, you could feel certain that he was going to get it.

When the game has been won, he relaxes, so his personal scores haven’t been as high as those of others in past series, but he hasn’t needed to get more than he has done, so why would he bother? I expect if a team were to push Imperial close over a whole match then he’d easily post double figures.

Imperial join Corpus Christi in the semis. Durham live to fight another day.

Final Score: Durham 115 - 185 Imperial

Episode 32 - Jesus, Ox vs Courtauld

Phew! I’ve never written four in a night before. That was quite something. Wait, whats that, I have another one to go? Okay, lets do this - an advance warning, this one will probably (probably! Why do I feel the need to never be absolute about anything. I know for certain that this will be very short, so why must I try and placate some imaginary reader who might scold me for its being so?) be very short.

So, another ELIMINATOR. Courtauld were my favourite team of the series, but I harboured little hope for them, after such a crushing defeat by Imperial last time out, and Jesus were quick to crush what little I had left. Lucy Clarke, who absolutely relishes a buzz on the opening starter of a match, came in with an early buzz, as is her wont, and fortunately for the Oxonians she was right this time. She got the next one too, and Jesus were 45 up.

Three in a row for Courtauld captain Prance, who looks shocked every time he gets a starter correct, despite the fact that when he got the third of this hat-trick, he had quite clearly proved to himself that he knows how to answer starter questions by the fact that (the fact that Ducks, Newburyport) he had got the previous two. They were ahead now. Dare I dream?

No, I daren’t. Jesus quickly stole it back, and did not let it go. Courtauld stayed fairly close, but could never again broach the gap, struggling on the bonus questions whenever they got in. Perhaps on another night they might have stood a better chance (with a bonus set on collage art, which Paxman reckoned they would have knocked out of the park, going to Jesus), but tonight (its not tonight at all is it, not for me and not for you) was not their night.

And breathe...

Final Score: Jesus, Ox 135 - 90 Courtauld

If you’ve stuck with me through all of this, I’m frankly amazed. Thank you, and if you need something to do during self-isolation, there are like 6 whole series of the Challenge on YouTube. I haven’t reviewed them all, but thats probably for the best though.

#university challenge #bbc2 #manchester #jesus #oxford #wolfson #cambridge #corpus christi #durham #imperial #london #trinity #Courtauld #Jeremy Paxman

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naopao · 7 years ago

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Hanakotoba 花言葉

My entry for @genyattazine, featuring art by @heronfoot! Pre-orders are still available, so please consider purchasing! All proceeds go to charity. :)

He laughs as he cradles the flower in his hands. He cups it to his power core, several degrees hotter than his system’s recommended temperature.

Before the weight of the tiny, fragile bloom colors everything that is to come, Zenyatta’s heart soars.

Or, a Genyatta hanahaki fic.

99 percent.

Zenyatta has never seen the ocean before. The others follow Winston through the huge, salt-worn door into the watch point, but Zenyatta excuses himself to walk the cliffs.

His sensors register the mild chill (13.2 degrees Celsius) and gentle breeze (16.7 kilometers an hour), a data set, one of an endless sea that fails to account for the experience of them. The humidity (73.5 percent), dampness along his chassis, the salt in the air from the waves below (33 parts per thousand) against the sensors of his intake chamber.

“It’s so beautiful here.”

Deep, modulated, tinny from his respirator. The sound soothes Zenyatta, and the awe, the appreciation in each word, makes him fond.

“Truly.” Zenyatta replies. “You have not been here in many years. How do you feel?”

Genji falls in step next to him. Known variables: the shape of his shadow, the hues he casts, the gentle hum of his machinery, many times more advanced than Zenyatta’s own. Between one journey and the next, in the minutiae of lessons and koan and sparring matches, Zenyatta has come to find comfort in them.

“I am not sure nostalgia is the word. Being at this watch point again…” The silence between Genji’s thoughts, his mindfulness, Zenyatta also cherishes. “...is bittersweet. I was not in the right place to appreciate its beauty before.”

“What is most important is that you have a chance to experience it now.” Zenyatta hums.

“You are right as always, Master.”

The cheekiness of his tone is not lost on the omnic, who laughs.

“Not always.”

Genji steps closer to the edge of the cliff. Zenyatta turns to him as a quiet hiss muffles the distant crash of waves. Genji’s eyes are closed, his posture loose, comfortable; his chest expands as he takes in the cool, salted air, free of his respirator.

He has seen Genji many times without his helmet. It is the first time he sees him in the glow of the late afternoon sun, wind fluttering his matted hair, black with a tinge of gray. The first time he exists for a precious few seconds in the moment, without the weight of his burdens balanced on his soul.

It is a whisper. A hiccup. A gentle, blooming twist, so deep within Zenyatta he cannot identify its cause. It is not the golden warmth of the Iris, though it is warm: small, but powerful, concentrated in a drop of pure energy. It pulses like a tiny overload, one too many data sets, one too many amperes.

Only later, in the privacy of his own room, does he notice it in the mirror.

Just above his power core, nestled between the top two pistons, is a hint of bright pink. Zenyatta shifts with great care, curiosity overriding what should be fear, unease, trepidation. With gentle maneuvering, he works the obstruction from his chassis. His orbs, which had been rotating in a smooth circle around his head, still.

Grasped carefully between servos and smaller than the circle on his palm is a lotus bloom, mostly closed, petals tinged green with youth.

Zenyatta stares for several cycles. Its composition, its measurement, its fragrance, reveal nothing of its purpose. Then, as if he has skipped forward in time, he returns to himself, orbs resuming their slow orbit before settling around his throat.

He laughs as he cradles the flower in his hands. He cups it to his power core, several degrees hotter than his system’s recommended temperature.

Before the weight of the tiny, fragile bloom colors everything that is to come, Zenyatta’s heart soars.

87 percent.

Be it luck or fate, Zenyatta’s room has a balcony. It is modestly sized, outfitted with a small table and two rust-flecked chairs.

The blooms within his body are rooted deep, and even with dexterous hands, he cannot remove them from their source. Each time they are different species of flora, and Zenyatta finds a gentle, curious joy in identifying them. Lotus. Bluebells. Gardenias when Genji had fallen asleep next to him, his gentle snores rousing Zenyatta from meditation. Cactus blossoms after a morning of sparring, when Genji had removed his helmet and sweat glistened down the skin of his throat. His fans still quicken when Zenyatta remembers it, the deep-seated pulse of warmth that had no outlet—alien, terrifying, and desperately coveted. Jesse hailed to Genji right as it happened, and Zenyatta had never been more grateful for the man’s boisterous salutations than when it allowed him a quiet escape.

Each flower after the first, which he had pressed flat and preserved in the pages of his oldest and fondest book, he transplants. They should languish, struggle in the climate, some out of season, other rooted in improper soil. Yet, each prospers in whatever environment Zenyatta gives it, sustained, perhaps, on something that cannot be measured. First in cans and old crates, whatever he could find, then in terracotta pots, brought back from missions when his companions had discovered his hobby.

It should terrify him when the plants multiply, each overgrown leaf and petal warm with fragrance, and maybe it does, somewhere far off, ripples that finally kiss the shore. Closer to his heart is amusement, the pleasant grip of affection. His brother had been right, more so than he thought. Born. Created. Raised. Programmed. Both produced physical manifestations of their emotions. Suffering.

Love.

63 percent.

Dr. Ziegler requests his assistance in the med bay.

She had managed all support operations in the early days of the recall, but as her duties increased with each new member, Zenyatta helps however he can. He often catalogued her findings and corroborated medical treatments, and during extended shifts, when the doctor stared unseeing into the cold glow of her holopad, he brewed her coffee sweetened with ten milliliters of honey.

Today, however, his sensors record a second voice as the door slides open.

The conversation dies to the sound of Genji’s respirator reattaching. He sits next to Angela near her desk, empty besides a holopad and a tiny vial of muted orange. It shouldn’t surprise him; they are close now, appreciation replacing the old bitter, anger that had soured their relationship a decade prior.

Her hand, steadily balanced on his knee, tightens once before letting go.

Genji does not look at him.

“Zenyatta, thank you for coming. We were just finishing up,” she says.

“Of course.”

Zenyatta hovers in the doorway, uninvited in all but word. A tinge of discord as familiar as his own chassis brushes against him.

“Is something troubling you, my student?”

The tightness around his eyes says what Genji will not.

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Genji walks past him at 1.3 times his normal gait, hurrying with a vestige of calm. The door hisses shut. Angela sighs.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. He came in suddenly with an urgent matter.”

She pockets the vial while studying her holopad.

“My apologies as well. I did not mean to interrupt.”

Genji had not looked, had not felt like that in several months, not since before they had left the monastery. Had he been the cause? Interrupted a moment years in the making—

“Zenyatta.”

He meets her bright eyes. Only then does he notice what holds her attention.

Zenyatta tilts his head down, watching the steady crawl of vines, thorned and nicking delicate circuitry. From them, tiny buds of shocking yellow bloom against the tired gray of his chest. It hurts in a distant way, pinched like something caught between nodes, too deep to fix.

Her face is milk white, though her voice is steady.

“I have never seen an omnic with this before.”

Zenyatta nods. He lifts his servos, catching a finger beneath an unfurled rose. Small enough to rip away, to hide before anyone could see.

“It is still early in its progression,” he offers.

“Let me take a look at you.”

Zenyatta climbs onto the examination table.

She tells him what he already knows: potentially deadly, cured in one of two ways.

“I do not know omnic physiology well enough to perform the operation. Brigitte may.” Angela shakes her head. “Though I have the feeling that you will not be making an appointment regardless.”

“You know me well, Dr. Ziegler.”

“Well enough to make me worry.” She smiles though the pinch in her brow doesn’t ease. “What happens here is confidential. However, I would advise action. Whoever it is, they would not wish to watch you waste away.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

Her palm is warm on his shoulder, rougher than her unlined face suggests.

“Please take care of yourself.”

34 percent.

Zenyatta taps the last of the hibiscus into dark loam. The pot is large this time, proportional to the flower, a pleasing contrast to the more delicate plants in his collection. Soil clings to the joints of his fingers, but unlike the twist of roots within his body, it is easily removed.

“Wow. It is really coming along.”

A beat. A shudder.

“It is.”

32 percent.

Zenyatta stands with terracotta clutched in his hands, joints tight, slow. They are always such now. Mid morning sun brightens the garden into an ever-shifting kaleidoscope. Surrounded by the manifestation of his feelings while their cause stands scarcely a foot behind him serves as a surreal experience.

“I, uh, brought you something.”

The path of his orbs jumbles for a moment. It had been a several days since he had seen his student. Their last meeting reverberates silently between them, a topic not yet breached, not when Zenyatta struggles to protect the relationship they have.

Zenyatta steels himself, then turns to face Genji.

Clasped between the white and gray of his student’s hands is a potted, unbloomed tulip.

“Not as impressive as these exotic breeds, but it should thrive in this climate.”

“I did not know you were knowledgeable about gardening.” Zenyatta’s array brightens. Oh, how he forgets himself, unable to tamp down the swell of joy as Genji places it among the others.

“I’m afraid I’m not. I had to ask around the city.” Genji smiles softly as he glances back at him. “It should not surprise me that you are able to encourage the flowers themselves to try their hardest.”

29 percent.

There is no crawl. No twinge. The flowers burst from his chassis with near staggering force.

21 percent. He freezes only a moment, core trembling, but Genji is turned toward the balcony, admiring the blooms.

Zenyatta nearly trips as his hover module offlines. He knows there will be questions, but he cannot answer, not yet. He does not have the words. The time is wrong, wrong—

Genji calls after him, but Zenyatta doesn’t look back, cannot for fear of exposing himself. His feet clatter against the dark, metal hallways of the watch point, but luckily (unluckily), Genji does not pursue.

15 percent.

He does not avoid Genji. Not on purpose. Zenyatta does not eat, so he steers clear of the mess hall. Dr. Zeigler had banned him from active duty, watch point operations included, so Zenyatta spends most days in his garden. He tends it even as his power dwindles, mindful contemplation replaced with daydreams of half-baked confessions.

His gaze falls to the tulip that Genji had given him. It had struggled at first, a few cold nights throwing its health into uncertainty. Zenyatta had brought it inside, the added warmth giving it the chance it needed to bloom into a beautiful, glossy red that stands out among the rest.

The truth...

The truth is he is afraid. Could he really face Genji, soft eyes softer with pity for the old, scuffed omnic who had helped him when he was at his lowest? Genji would be kind. Maybe he would even humor him, and that would be the worst of all, a bandage over an infected wound that needed to be lanced and scraped clean.

But selfishness battles just as hotly. To look at Genji and feel nothing.

He would die from that too.

11 percent.

It has come time to talk.

Zenyatta expects hesitance, but as always, Genji surprises him. He arrives within minutes, wordlessly sits next to him on the tattered rug lining the center of the balcony. The flowers whisper, the garden bright and overflowing, gems, grand and small, glittering in the afternoon sun.

“I know you have been troubled these past weeks. My hesitance has caused you undue suffering.”

Genji doesn’t move.

“Often we assume that our feelings are known and cherished. A touch. A token. That action alone is sufficient.”

Zenyatta wants to laugh; of everything they have been through, this is where his resolve stumbles.

“We forget that it is necessary to voice these feelings aloud.”

The sea wind catches the flora, the heavy, overgrown leaves shuddering in the tepid air.

“Words are limited. They are fickle. An expression of them will never come close to articulating the feelings of the soul.”

Ten percent. The vines crawl and twist around his core. His synth glitches.

“Master—”

“Please, Genji.”

He clutches his chest, staggered by the not quite pain of energy rerouting. The scent of his garden revives him, each one catalogued, remembered, relived.

Nine percent.

Zenyatta looks at his orbs, deactivated and nestled within the nooks of the planters. He hasn’t possessed the power to control them in a fortnight.

“You have come far. Changed so much. You possess a strength that could save this world.” His core trembles as he speaks. “If something were to keep you from it...from finding happiness and purpose...I could not bear it.”

“I fear I may be such an obstacle.” Yet, he must press on, cling foolishly to hope.

Had he not been so close to shutdown, perhaps he would’ve known then. The shifting emotional energy from those nearby is lost to him in his final hours.

“It is impossible to describe how much I—”

Genji’s only give is his fingers sinking into his thighs. His student snaps forward, folding in on himself.

The sounds freeze Zenyatta’s words in his synth.

Loud, wet coughs rasp through Genji’s respirator, so painful it makes the vines around his core seize, makes Zenyatta ache.

He moves with what little energy he has left, hands flattening to Genji’s spasming back. A pathetic trickle of harmony warms his palms. His array powers off for a few, horrifying seconds. Not yet. Not now, with Genji injured—

Five percent.

The impulse strikes, the last, bent match in the book.

“I love you.”

His voice breaks hard over the word, doubling its syllables, mimicking an embarrassed stutter rather than an expulsion of the last of his power.

Everything is quiet. Still. Like being in the center of the monastery cloisters, where the howl of the wind and the sounds of life fade, the hum of his own systems muted within its immensity.

For a moment, he wonders if his audial receptors have failed.

Six percent.

The immobilizing tightness in his body eases, a fist slowly but surely unfurling. His servos slide off Genji’s back as he straightens. He registers a familiar hiss.

His array fizzles, then powers online in stages, monochromes to vivid color.

Genji’s looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. He wipes at his mouth, drawing Zenyatta’s attention.

The bright blue of petals smears over his lips.

“Zenyatta,” he breathes, awe warming into a smile that brightens his whole face. “The color suits you.”

Genji’s hand closes the distance between them, settling between his top two pistons.

The same petals coating Genji’s lips bloom along his metal. A swan song, it seems, as they wither and shrivel before his array.

“Forget-me-nots,” Genji says, then his smile grows mischievous. “You led me to believe you were a green thumb. Cheater.”

Zenyatta does not have the energy to laugh, but he cannot resist the cautious joy that manifests in his bugging synth.

“A lie of omission. No one had asked,” he murmurs.

Genji’s hand shifts higher, the lightest touch against the gold chrome of his faceplate. There is no teasing lilt, no sheepishness. Quiet but clear.

“I love you, too.”

Zenyatta settles his hand over Genji’s, squeezing, leaning into his touch. They draw close, the smooth whisper of the garden reduced to the dry rattling of fall.

Just before their faces touch, Zenyatta speaks.

“You may find my french kiss lacking.”

Genji laughs against his chrome, heat and softness settling over the seam of his mouth.

“Whatever will we do?” he whispers, kissing him once more.

In the following days, after Zenyatta recuperates under Brigitte’s care (and many stern lectures), Genji helps him clean the balcony. They compost the decomposing remnants of the flowers, and repurpose them as a base for a new garden.

It is meticulous work, but rewarding. With the sun just beneath the horizon, they survey their progress. Planters line the ancient railings, each filled with properly spaced seeds hidden just beneath the surface. Local flora that would survive readily above the sea.

The only mark of color within is the tulip, fully bloomed, a promise of what’s to come.

#genyatta #genyattazine #hanahaki #genji #zenyatta #nao fic #overwatch fic

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earlyandoftenpodcast · 6 years ago

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In this episode, we continue the story of the Massachusetts politician Thomas Hutchinson, and look at his involvement with two major instances of mob violence in the colony, one against the impressment of sailors by the British navy, and the other against Hutchinson himself.

>>>Direct audio link<<<

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Transcript and Sources:

Hello, and welcome to Early and Often: The History of Elections in America. Episode 32: Riot!

Last time, we introduced Thomas Hutchinson, the politician/historian who became one of the last governors of colonial Massachusetts as well as the author of one of the most important histories of Massachusetts.

Hutchinson had been born into a quite prominent family of merchants and he followed in his ancestors’ footsteps. Even as a young man, he proved to be very good at business and he began amassing a small fortune. He also entered politics when he was still young, joining the General Court at age just 26.

This was a time when coming from a prominent family was essential to your success. But despite his background, Hutchinson still faced some difficulties. He was respected by the colonists, but he took a hardline stance against paper money, which was unpopular with his constituents. He was voted out of office once in the early 1740s and again at the end of the decade, after he led a successful attempt to return the colony to gold and silver. Afterwards, he was appointed to the upper house of the Court to continue his political rise, and that’s pretty much where we left off.

This episode will continue his story, but from a slightly different angle, with a look at Hutchinson’s involvement in two major riots in Boston, one against attempts by the British navy to kidnap men to serve on their ships, and the other against British attempts to directly tax the colonies -- and against Hutchinson himself.

As we get closer to to the American Revolution, mobs and riots are going to become an increasingly important feature of American political life, so I want to introduce them early.

Anyway, to start this episode we have to go back in time just a few years, back to 1747, when Hutchinson was still in the lower house of the General Court. He was serving as speaker of the house, which made him one of the most important officials in the colony.

One of the big issues at this time was naval impressment. Impressment was basically when agents of the government would kidnap you and force you into joining the British navy. Life in the navy back then sucked big time and joining the navy was very hazardous to your health, to say the least. So there was always a big recruitment shortfall, which had to be made up through impressment. They would send out press gangs to capture unwary men, sometimes through trickery, sometimes at the barrel of a gun.

This happened both in Britain and in the colonies. There were rules about which Americans could be impressed and under what circumstances -- for instance the governor had to sign off on it beforehand -- but the rules were ambiguous and British officers often flouted them anyway.

Naturally, this was super unpopular in the colonies. Nobody likes being kidnapped, and the threat of impressment hurt the economies of local towns, as men would flee the area to avoid capture. And remember the economy of New England was already suffering at this time. And just a few years previously, a press gang had straight up murdered two New Englanders who refused to comply with their illegal impressment.

So across the 1700s there had been periodic resistance to impressment. Some of it was unofficial -- men would riot in order to get their friends freed -- but some of the resistance was official as well. Nobody in New England liked impressment, even elected officials. To some extent they had to live with it, but they did what they could to put checks on the practice. In fact in 1702 the Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts actually ordered cannons to fire on a ship that was impressing men without permission. Thomas Hutchinson too had been active in trying to get impressed men released and in trying to weaken the navy’s power to impress men in the first place.

So that brings us to 1747, the year of the Knowles Riot, the biggest anti-impressment riot in colonial America.

A British naval squadron had just spent two months in Boston Harbor, getting refitted and resupplied for a journey to the Caribbean. While in Boston, a good number of sailors deserted, often joining up with American merchants instead. The ships had to make up for the losses before they departed, and so Commodore Charles Knowles ordered some of his sailors to go out and capture as many men as they could.

Which they did. They captured some carpenters on the way to work. They boarded a civilian vessel and impressed almost all the sailors on it. All in all, they took 46 men.

The New Englanders immediately started to complain that this was a violation of their charter. The governor hadn’t given his permission for the navy to impress anyone, and some of the men who’d been taken were supposed to be exempt anyway. Commodore Knowles ignored the protests completely.

So the next day, a mob assembled in Boston. They began capturing whatever British officers and sailors they could get their hands on, as hostages to get the impressed men freed.

Now, I should talk about what mobs were like in colonial America, because they weren’t just a bunch of drunk rabble breaking windows and beating people up, like you might imagine. Riots were generally a lot more coordinated than that. They can be seen as a purposeful effort by the community at large to defend itself.

Back in England there was a long tradition of what you might call semi-peaceful rioting. That is, rioting which was controlled, and which targeted property rather than people. If your lord put up a fence and tried to claim some common land for himself, you and your fellow villagers might get together in a little mob to tear it down. That sort of thing. Of course, there was always a risk of things spiralling out of control and into a major revolt, but generally speaking these riots were minor affairs. This tradition was carried over to America, where rioting was seen as a somewhat legitimate way for the community to express its grievances, if the authorities weren’t paying enough attention.

Fighting impressment is an obvious example of this. Who wants a bunch of English naval officers coming to your town and kidnapping the menfolk? So the town would get together and stop it from happening.

But there were plenty of other instances as well. During several food shortages in Boston, mobs formed to stop food from being exported. In an early case of NIMBYism, another Boston mob burned down a nearby smallpox hospital which they suspected was responsible for an outbreak within the city. (Don’t worry, the hospital had been evacuated before they burned it down.) Or the mob might go after customs officials collecting an unjust tariff, or judges issuing an unpopular ruling, and try to intimidate them into compliance. Rioting could also enforce public morality, as when they shut down brothels or stopped dissenting religious movements from holding meetings.

You might disagree with some of those actions, but from the perspective of the colonists, they were done in communal self-defense. They may have been illegal, but they supported the purpose of the laws, which was the well-being of the community. Just as much as elections, the threat of violence kept officials in check and made sure that their enforcement of the laws was properly tempered by public opinion. Riots, at least these sorts of riots, supported the social order rather than challenging it.

And because these mobs were communal affairs, rather than just rabble run amok, they tended to stay within reasonable bounds. Leading members of the community were often involved, merchants and lawyers and so on, and they could put a stop to it if things ever got out of hand. In Boston, supposedly the mobs were so well disciplined that they refused to riot on the Sabbath.

Generally, these were more about threats of violence than actual violence. Property might be destroyed and maybe some officials would get roughed up, but that was usually the extent of it. I don’t want to say that there was never real violence, but it was atypical.

One of the reasons things rarely got out of hand is that colonial officials were surprisingly lenient towards these riots, partly because they simply didn’t have the manpower to suppress them. At this time, there was little in the way of professional law enforcement. Nor were there many soldiers in colonial America. At most you had some elected sheriffs. So the law was often enforced by the general populace. Instead of using police officers to get things done, you relied on the citizens. In other words, the same people who might also be forming a mob. So when a mob did form, there was no one you could call on. Your law enforcement officers were the mob.

Another reason officials were lenient is that if they were too harsh, they might just cause an even bigger backlash. It’s a lot like all of those little rebellions from the previous century I’ve talked about in past episodes. The Thrusting Out of Governor Harvey in Virginia, the various rebellions in Maryland and North Carolina, and so on.

If you look back on these various rebellions, you’ll notice that most of the time the rebels were never really punished with anything more than a slap on the wrist. In some cases, like with Culpeper’s Rebellion in North Carolina or with the overthrow of the Dominion, the rebellion was in fact more or less accepted as legitimate. The big exception was Bacon’s Rebellion, which ended with Governor Berkeley hanging a full 24 men. But like I said, that was an exception, and Berkeley was seen by his contemporaries as having acted far too harshly.

These sorts of rebellions were, if not exactly accepted by the authorities, then at least acknowledged as the sort of thing that happens from time to time, a way for the people to make their grievances heard. You didn’t want to be too lenient, since sometimes small rebellions could in fact become big ones, but you didn’t want to be too harsh either, and risk alienating your subjects. And so small rebellions were tolerated, and sometimes the rebels were integrated into the system. At most you’d execute a few ringleaders to send a message to everyone else.

The same basic idea applied to these riots. You wanted to punish the riots, to make sure that the colonists couldn’t form mobs with impunity, but you didn’t want to punish them so much that you just made people angry.

But perhaps the main reason that officials were lenient is that very often their sympathies were with the rioters. I mean, probably some of them were leading the riots behind the scenes, although it’s hard to know for sure. Even a conservative like Thomas Hutchinson sympathized with the crowd and was willing to work with them -- up to a point. In his words, “mobs, a sort of them at least, are constitutional.” Thomas Jefferson called them “an evil… productive of good.” It was supposed to be a last resort, when legal means had failed, but it still had a place.

And certainly the Knowles riot was such a case. British officials were acting illegally and ignoring all of the complaints being leveled against them. What else was there to do but take some hostages?

This is an alien mindset to us today, but I think it made more sense at the time. Today, there are a lot of non-violent ways for citizens to make themselves heard, most especially voting. But back then, America was ruled by a bunch of unelected officials from 3000 miles away who were often very insensitive to local demands. In that environment, mobs were a somewhat acceptable part of maintaining public order. They were dangerous, but ultimately an acknowledged part of the colonies’ informal constitution.

So that’s the background for the anti-impressment riot that just broke out in Boston.

As it happened, Thomas Hutchinson was one of the first officials on the scene. Naturally, he was pretty sympathetic to the mob, and they were willing to hear what he had to say. He managed to talk them into releasing some of the officers they were holding, on the grounds that they hadn’t been the ones involved with the impressment.

Hutchinson then left and went to the home of Governor William Shirley to inform him of the situation. The mob soon followed.

They confronted the governor, and he denied having authorized the impressment -- which was true. While they were talking some of the hostages managed to escape into the governor’s house. The mob tried to follow, but they were prevented from going inside. To vent their frustration and to send a message, they beat one of their remaining captives right there in front of the governor’s mansion. But after that they withdrew for the moment.

Later in the day, the governor went to the General Court to decide what to do. Governor Shirley wanted to call out the militia and to issue a statement condemning the mob, but Hutchinson and the rest of the assembly were more cautious. They were much more sympathetic to the rioting than the unelected governor.

The discussion went on for a while. Too long, apparently. That evening, the mob returned. They surrounded the building in which the governor and General Court were conferring. They smashed in all the windows on the first floor and forced themselves inside. Again they confronted the governor. Shirley addressed the crowd, condemning the impressment and promising to do something about it, but also condemning the rioting. And again, the confrontation ended inconclusively, with the crowd withdrawing for the time being.

A new day dawned, but Boston was still in a state of unrest. Shirley had called out the militia the night before, but to his horror no one showed up. In fact, many of the militiamen were in the mob itself. Not only that, Commodore Knowles was now threatening to bombard the town with his cannons in order to restore order and get his men back, saying, “By God, I’ll now see if the King’s government is not as good as a Mob.”

Feeling isolated and worried, Shirley fled to a nearby fort. The governor was now obviously in a very difficult position. He had to both talk down the mob and talk down the Commodore before things really got out of hand. Thankfully he was a good politician. He met with Commodore Knowles and managed to get him to promise to release the impressed men. He then offered leniency for the rioters if they would go home and let the militia come out to restore order. He pretended that the rioters were merely “a great number of Seamen and other lewd and Profligate Persons”, rather than a bunch of normal citizens.

That was enough to finally get Hutchinson and the General Court to cooperate. They now issued a statement condemning the riot and calling for the militia. Now that it was the elected legislature telling them what to do, the mob stood down and the militia took to the streets. In short order, the impressed men were released, the hostages were released, the British fleet sailed away, and everything went back to normal.

The whole affair was over in just three days. Some property had been damaged, and a few officials had been roughed up, but otherwise there had been no deaths or anything. Nothing irreversible, though obviously there had been some risks. Well, realistically I don’t think that Knowles was ever going to fire on Boston, but you never know.

Anyway, a few years after the Knowles Riot, Hutchinson lost his seat in the lower house of the General Court. But soon afterwards he was appointed to the upper house instead. From there, he continued his rise, no longer encumbered by the need to appeal to voters.

He started amassing offices, often holding several important positions at once. He was named lieutenant governor in 1758 and chief justice in 1760, despite the fact that he had no legal training. He hadn’t actually sought the job, but he accepted it when offered. As a judge, he was actually pretty popular with the common people, since he tended to use common sense when making his rulings, rather than legal technicalities. However, it made him very unpopular with other lawyers and officials, who thought that an unqualified guy was taking their jobs for his own personal benefit at the expense of good government. And really, the mere fact that he was so successful was enough to make enemies.

It wasn’t unusual for a politician back then to hold several offices, but Hutchinson took it to an extreme. And not only that, he was pretty nepotistic as well. He made sure that his unqualified sons got jobs. And not only that, Hutchinson’s family had ties to other important families as well.

Take, for example, the Oliver family. When Hutchinson was serving as governor a few years later, a member of the Oliver family, Andrew Oliver, was serving as lieutenant governor. And Oliver’s brother was serving as chief justice. They were very closely related in numerous ways. Thomas Hutchinson’s sister in law was married to Andrew Oliver. And while Hutchinson was serving as governor, three of his children married into the Oliver family. A son married Andrew Oliver’s daughter. A daughter married his nephew. And another of Hutchinson’s sons married his grandniece.

So basically the same family controlled the governorship, the lieutenant governorship, and the chief justiceship. This sort of tight-knit power naturally aroused suspicion and envy among everyone else. For the first time, people were starting to argue that this sort of behavior was inappropriate, that one man shouldn’t be able to monopolize power that way.

So even as he became more and more successful, Hutchinson’s popularity was starting to erode. His enemies were attacking him in the press on a regular basis and there were legitimate concerns about his behavior. However, he was still a respected figure in Massachusetts. That would only change in the 1760s, as America’s relationship with Britain suddenly began to deteriorate.

That brings us to the Stamp Act of 1765. You remember the Stamp Act, right? It was that hated piece of legislation passed by the British Parliament which directly taxed the colonists in order to pay for the British troops stationed in America. Taxation without representation, the worst thing you could do to an American. In Connecticut it was the Stamp Act which helped the New Lights finally take the governorship away from the Old Lights, since the New Lights were much more enthusiastic about resisting the Act.

Well, the Stamp Act caused trouble in Massachusetts as well. When word first reached the colonies that Parliament was considering passing the Stamp Act, everyone was outraged. Many of the colonial legislatures decided to send petitions to London in protest, including in Massachusetts. The lower house of the General Court drafted a very strong statement, framed in the language of natural rights, stating that the Stamp Act was illegitimate. However Hutchinson, who as lieutenant governor was also head of the upper house, blocked that statement as “informal and incautiously expressed”.

Now, Hutchinson was himself opposed to the Stamp Act, just like everyone else. He thought that the British government was overstepping its bounds in a way that was likely to provoke a dangerous reaction. But although he thought it was a bad idea, he didn’t think that the Stamp Act was illegitimate. It may have violated English norms about self-taxation, but it wasn’t illegal. Parliament had the ultimate authority and they could do what they wanted, even if it violated the traditional rights of the colonies. If Parliament was to be sovereign, that meant it was fully sovereign, and no abstract notions of rights could challenge that. Otherwise they would soon cease to have a government at all, as everyone challenged laws they hated on the basis of natural rights.

This put him in opposition to most of his fellow New Englanders. They felt that the Stamp Act was illegitimate, and dangerously so. In modern terms, they felt like the Constitution was being flagrantly violated, while Hutchinson merely felt like an informal precedent had been broken. So unlike the lower house, Hutchinson was only willing to go so far in his opposition. He was willing to fight the law, but not to fight Parliament.

So the two houses of the General Court got together to draft a joint statement opposing the Stamp Act. The populists in the lower house kept trying to insert language about natural rights and theories of government, but Hutchinson kept blocking them each time until the populists were worn down and agreed to a compromise statement which sidestepped the issues they actually cared about. But as it turned out, a lot of the other colonial legislatures did send petitions with angry talk of natural rights, so Hutchinson’s maneuverings had accomplished nothing, it just made Massachusetts seem weak and the populists feel cheated. And Parliament passed the Stamp Act anyway.

So although Hutchinson clearly opposed the Act, his opposition didn’t go far enough for most people. He did try to stop the Act from being passed, and when it was passed he tried to get it repealed. He even sent a formal protest to London, arguing that the Stamp Act was both unjust and economically unwise, since it would wind up costing Britain more money than it brought in. But he wasn’t willing to say that the Stamp Act was in some sense illegal. He wasn’t willing to disobey.

You may have noticed a possible contradiction here. After all, Hutchinson had been willing to passively cooperate with the mob during the Knowles Riot. So why was this different? Why support illegal resistance against the British then, but not now? Well, I think that part of the reason was that the impressments Commodore Knowles had been carrying out were themselves illegal. He hadn’t gotten permission to impress anyone and he impressed the wrong men. So in the Knowles Riot, illegality was being used to fight illegality. The Stamp Act, on the other hand, was legal, and so illegal methods shouldn’t be used to fight it.

That’s a fairly fine distinction, and it didn’t matter much to anyone except Hutchinson himself. The average Puritan in the street saw impressment and the Stamp Act as both being examples of British tyranny which ought to be resisted. He didn’t care about the specifics of Parliamentary supremacy one bit. Not many people have ever been sticklers for legal formalities like that.

So Hutchinson felt duty-bound to enforce the Stamp Act, no matter how hated it was. But to everyone else, this didn’t seem like someone standing on principle, it seemed like someone who was secretly in league with the British pretending to oppose the Stamp Act while while actually doing everything in his power to enforce it. All of a sudden Hutchinson appeared to be an evil schemer, a double agent who was cooperating with the British in order to enrich himself and his family, and install himself as some sort of dictator. John Adams, for instance, came to loathe Hutchinson. According to him, “The liberties of this country [have] more to fear from one man, the present Governor Hutchinson, than from any other man, nay than from all the other men in the world.” All this after Hutchinson had been until recently one of the more respected men in the colonies.

Absurd rumors swirled not only that he supported the Stamp Act, but that he had come up with the idea in the first place. And these weren’t just anonymous rumors either. One of Hutchinson’s main rivals in the lower house was directly accusing him of all this. Basically, the colonies were were descending into a bout of paranoia. The Stamp Act had been unexpected, and now everyone in the colonies thought that the British were out to destroy their liberties and reduce them to a state of utter submission. That wasn’t really true, although the British were trying to weaken colonial independence. But in any case, from the Stamp Act onwards, the colonies would be blanketed with conspiracy theories like the one aimed at Hutchinson right now.

Hutchinson tried to fight back, but because he was unwilling to condemn the Stamp Act in the strong language demanded by the populists, all of his protests seemed hollow. And to be fair, it didn’t help matters that his brother in law, Andrew Oliver, had been appointed as the official who would collect the stamp tax.

And Hutchinson did favor close ties with Britain, and he did believe that Parliament had ultimate authority. But despite that, he was no mere British lackey. He was willing to stand up for the interests of his fellow colonists when he thought it appropriate. Nor did he want despotism, but to resist lawful authority was anarchy, which would be no better in the long run. What he wanted was for both sides to compromise. The colonists shouldn’t challenge Parliament’s authority, and Parliament shouldn’t push its authority to the breaking point.

He hoped that both sides would avoid fighting over principles and instead negotiate over actual policies. If both sides fought over principles, then there could be no agreement. Either Parliament would win and truly destroy whatever rights the colonists had, or the colonists would win and become de facto independent. But Hutchinson thought that independence “must prove the ruin of the colony”. An independent America would be be at the mercy of other European powers, most of whom would be less gentle than the British were. He had no confidence that an independent America would survive. So it was better, “to submit to some abridgment of our rights than to break off our connection.”

Unfortunately for him, almost no one in Britain or America felt the same way. Now they were both angling for a confrontation.

And that confrontation soon came. Over nine months there were at least 60 riots against the Stamp Act across America, and against the officials enforcing the Stamp Act. They weren’t yet particularly violent, but I think everyone sensed that something had changed, that these crowds were different from the ones that had come before, less controlled and more aggressive.

On the night of August 14, 1765 a mob went after Andrew Oliver, the brother-in-law/stamp tax collector. They trashed his office and attacked his home. That same night another mob assembled outside Hutchinson’s house , demanding that he come out and assure them that he did in fact oppose the Stamp Act. Hutchinson refused to be pressured and he stayed inside. Eventually the crowd moved along.

However, twelve nights later, on August 26, a large mob returned to his house. Hutchinson again refused to go out to talk to the mob, but this time they meant business. His panicking daughter had to plea with him to flee, which Hutchinson later thought may have saved his life. After he had fled, the mob moved into his house. According to historian Bernard Bailyn, “the rioters smashed in the doors with axes, swarmed through the rooms, ripped off wainscotting and hangings, splintered the furniture, beat down the inner walls, tore up the garden, and carried off into the night, besides £900 sterling in cash, all the plate, decorations, and clothes that had survived, and destroyed or scattered in the mud all of Hutchinson’s books and papers, including the manuscript of volume I of his History and the collection of historical papers that he had been gathering for years as the basis for a public archive.” A real shame about those papers, in my opinion.

Hutchinson appeared before the superior court the next day, and protested his innocence with tears in his eyes. “Sensible that I am innocent, that all the charges against me are false, I cannot help feeling--and though I am not obliged to give an answer to all the questions that may be put me by every lawless person, yet I call GOD to witness (and I would not for a thousand worlds call my Maker to witness to a falsehood)--I say, I call my Maker to witness that I have never in New England or in Old, in Great Britain or America, neither directly nor indirectly, was aiding, assisting, or in the least promoting or encouraging what is commonly called the Stamp Act.” He closed with a plea that New Englanders might follow the law instead of turning to violence. “I pray GOD give us better hearts!”

Fears of a more general turmoil swept through New England. Other officials, seeing what had happened to Hutchinson, quietly packed up their belongings and vanished for a little while, until things calmed down.

There had been mob violence before in the colonies, but this was at a new level and it was shocking to the colonists, especially given Hutchinson’s high status. No one had been physically harmed, but people could see that things were heading in that direction. And within a few years people were regularly attacked, beaten, and tarred and feathered. And if you got tarred and feathered, that meant that hot tar was poured all over your body, followed by feathers that would stick to you. It wasn’t fatal, but it was still a very unpleasant thing. Mob violence like this will be an important part of our story, even well after the Revolution itself.

This was by no means the end of Thomas Hutchinson’s career, although perhaps it was the beginning of the end. He remained in office and he refused to be intimidated by the mob. In his role as chief justice he made sure to enforce the Stamp Act and crack down on anti-British agitation. Behind the scenes, he tried to come up with a plan which might reinforce British authority in the colonies without provoking another backlash, a plan which might restore the old order that he loved so much. But as we’ll see when we get to the American Revolution, it was all for nothing. Nobody would listen to him on either side. Although he became governor in a few years’ time, he wouldn’t stay there for long. Soon enough the Revolution would force him into a permanent exile and he would spend his last few years in England, despised by both the British and his fellow colonists as the man most responsible for the crisis.

Some of the accusations against him were true. He was nepotistic and grasping and too powerful. But he certainly wasn’t the caricature his enemies made him out to be. That was more a product of anti-British paranoia and incipient war fever.

He was a man well-suited to his age. The only trouble was, his age was fast ending. Already, partisanship had eroded the old norms of hierarchy across New England. But beyond that, there were deeper problems. The British government was determined to prove that it had ultimate authority in the colonies, while the colonists were equally determined to prove that they didn’t. In such an environment, compromise was not only impossible, it was treasonous. And Hutchinson simply couldn’t bring himself to support rebellion. He was a moderate in a time of immoderation.

But now we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It’s time to leave New England for now. We’ve followed the decline of the old order for the last seven episodes, but the rise of the new order will be another topic altogether. New England had clearly entered a new, post-Puritan age, but no one knew what that meant yet. Partisanship and violent mobs, apparently. Liberty and natural rights and republicanism as well. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Next episode, we’ll move down south and back in time to New York, to see how that colony is faring in the wake of Leisler’s Rebellion, 70 years ago. So join me next time on Early and Often: The History of Elections in America.

The podcast is on twitter, at earlyoftenpod, or go to the blog at earlyandoftenpodcast.wordpress.com for transcripts of every single episode. And if you like the podcast, give it a good review on iTunes. That helps. Thanks for listening.

Sources:

The Ordeal of Thomas Hutchinson by Bernard Bailyn

The Varieties of Political Experience in Eighteenth Century America by Richard R. Beeman

From Puritan to Yankee: Character and the Social Order in Connecticut, 1690-1765 by Richard L. Bushman

Voting in Provincial America: A Study of Elections in the Thirteen Colonies 1689-1776 by Robert J. Dinkin

Popular Uprisings and Civil Authority in Eighteenth-Century America by Pauline Maier

America’s Burke: The Mind of Thomas Hutchinson by William Pencak

Boston Riots: Three Centuries of Social Violence by Jack Tager

A Note on Mobs in the American Revolution by Gordon S. Wood

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xtruss · 4 years ago

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A Fourth of July Symbol of Unity That May No Longer Unite

In a Long Island town, neighbors now make assumptions, true and sometimes false, about people who conspicuously display American flags.

Peter Treiber Jr., a farmer, said he was taken aback that a customer thought he was conservative because of the flag painted on his potato truck. Credit...Johnny Milano for The New York Times

By Sarah Maslin Nir

July 3, 2021

SOUTHOLD, N.Y. — The American flag flies in paint on the side of Peter Treiber Jr.’s potato truck, a local landmark parked permanently on County Route 48, doing little more, he thought, than drawing attention to his family’s farm.

Until he tried to sell his produce.

At a local greenmarket where he sells things like wild bergamot, honey and sunflowers, he had trouble striking a deal until, he said, he let his liberal leanings slip out in conversation with a customer.

“She said, ‘Oh, whew. You know, I wasn’t so sure about you, I thought you were some flag-waving something-or-other,’” Mr. Treiber, 32, recalled the woman saying and citing his potato truck display. “That’s why she was apprehensive of interacting with me.”

He paused: “It was a little sad to me. It shows the dichotomy of the country that a flag can mean that. That I had to think, ‘Do I need to reconsider having that out there?’”

Thirteen stripes, a dusting of stars, the American flag has had infinite meanings over the 244 years since the country began flying one. Raised at Iwo Jima, it was a symbol of victory. Lit on fire, it became a searing image of the protests against the Vietnam War. Ribboned around the twin towers on commemorative Sept. 11 lapel pins, it is a reminder of the threats against a delicate democracy.

Politicians of both parties have long sought to wrap themselves in the flag. But something may be changing: Today, flying the flag from the back of a pickup truck or over a lawn is increasingly seen as a clue, albeit an imperfect one, to a person’s political affiliation in a deeply divided nation.

Supporters of former President Donald J. Trump have embraced the flag so fervently — at his rallies, across conservative media and even during the Jan. 6 assault on the Capitol — that many liberals like Mr. Treiber worry that the left has all but ceded the national emblem to the right.

What was once a unifying symbol — there is a star on it for each state, after all — is now alienating to some, its stripes now fault lines between people who kneel while “The Star-Spangled Banner” plays and those for whom not pledging allegiance is an affront.

And it has made the celebration of the Fourth of July, of patriotic bunting and cakes with blueberries and strawberries arranged into Old Glory, into another cleft in a country that seems no longer quite so indivisible, under a flag threatening to fray.

Mr. Treiber’s farm is in the town of Southold, a string of hamlets and a village on the North Fork of Long Island’s Suffolk County. The county chose Mr. Trump for president in 2020 by just 232 votes out of more than 770,000 cast.

Southold is predominantly white, with a small, longstanding Black population — families who reside mostly in the village, Greenport, at the edge of the salty Peconic Bay. There is also a significant Latino population, many of them undocumented, their labor underpinning the vineyards, farms and landscaping businesses that line the peninsula.

The pressure to draw partisan lines is fierce.

David Surozenski, a Republican, refused to add Trump flags to his display. “That’s not the way I was brought up,” he said. “The American flag political? No.” Credit...Johnny Milano for The New York Times

Just across the street from Treiber Farms, David Surozenski, 66, was weeding around the flagpole in his front yard a few days before the Fourth of July. Bouquets of miniature American flags flapped among the marigolds at his feet. Above him flew the flags of the Marines and the Coast Guard — he has children in each service — and at the top, an American flag.

A Republican, Mr. Surozenski said friends constantly pressured him to add Trump banners to his flag-and-flower garden, to fly “Make America Great Again” signs between his red, white and blue pinwheels whirling in the grass. But Mr. Surozenski declined — some of his eight children are Democrats.

“They said, ‘Dave, you’ve got to put Trump’s flag up!’ and I said, ‘No, that’s not happening,’” Mr. Surozenski recalled. “That’s not the way I was brought up. The American flag political? No.”

About 70 percent of Americans say the flag makes them feel proud, according to a recent survey by YouGov, a global public opinion and data research firm, and NBCLX, a mobile information platform. The sentiment was shared by about 80 percent of white Americans, just under 70 percent of Hispanic Americans and slightly less than 60 percent of Black Americans.

The divisions were deeper when it came to politics. While 66 percent of Republicans surveyed said they associated the flag with their own party, only 34 percent of Democrats said the same.

At its 1777 inception, the flag’s very design signified unity, the joining of the 13 colonies, said John R. Vile, a professor of political science and a dean at Middle Tennessee State University.

Politicizing the American flag is thus a perversion of its original intent, according to Professor Vile, who is also the author of “The American Flag: An Encyclopedia of the Stars and Stripes In U.S. History, Culture and Law.” He added, “We can’t allow that to happen.”

“It’s E Pluribus Unum — from many, one,” he said, citing the Latin motto on the Great Seal of the United States. “If the pluribus overwhelms the unum, then what do we have left?”

The sentiment of some conservatives is that a line was drawn when Colin Kaepernick, the former National Football League quarterback, set off a national movement protesting the shootings of Black men by police by taking a knee during the anthem in 2016. His kneeling protest, Mr. Kaepernick has said, still demonstrated respect for the flag, but others saw him as hijacking the flag for political purposes.

Maryneily Rodriguez, 33, said she believed that Mr. Trump’s most fervent supporters had done the same. Ms. Rodriguez, who was visiting Greenport with her fiancé during the Fourth of July weekend, said that she once regularly flew the flag at her home in Freeport, about 80 miles west on Long Island, taking it down only in winter for safekeeping. But about three years ago when spring came, Ms. Rodriguez, who is Black and a Democrat, left the flag in storage. It hasn’t come out since.

“It felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore,” she said.

John Hocker, a Republican who said he sometimes votes Democratic, also said he felt the flag had lost its meaning of unity. Instead of saluting the same flag as one people, he said, too many Americans were modifying it to become emblems of their own identities or belief systems, for instance with rainbow stripes, a symbol of gay pride, or blue stripes to show solidarity with the police.

He flies the flag — the red, white and blue one — from a towering crane several stories above the gravel piles of Latham Sand & Gravel, where he is a co-owner.

“There is a lot of history with this country, some that maybe people don’t like today, and some that people are being judged for today for what they did 300 years ago,” he said.

“It’s still our country and every good and bad thing made it our country,” Mr. Hocker said, glancing upward. “And that’s what that represents.”

The culture war he was alluding to was on full display a few miles away, hanging from the eaves of an empty roadside stand: “SAVE AMERICA” was printed along the flag’s top border, and below: “FIGHT SOCIALISM.”

And on a notice tacked nearby: “If this offends you LEAVE.”

A flag, and a portion of the Pledge of Allegiance meant to convey unity, is displayed on the billboard for St. Peter’s Lutheran Church in Greenport. Credit...Johnny Milano for The New York Times

At Rinconcito Hispano in Greenport, Ana Perez, 33, served up pupusas, stuffed masa flour patties from her native El Salvador, to customers who ordered exclusively in Spanish. Many of them are the laborers who clean the pools at the beach houses and scare the crows off the grapes at the wineries.

In 2017, as Mr. Trump began his crackdown on illegal immigration, village trustees unanimously adopted a resolution to declare Greenport “a welcoming community.” One resident opposing the measure at the meeting urged the public to call and report anyone who employed undocumented immigrants. Wearing an American flag on his chest, he held up a sign with a phone number.

Ms. Perez said she has an American flag T-shirt, too, and she intended to wear it on the holiday. “This symbolizes this country, and I live in this country,” she said, speaking in Spanish because she is not fluent in English. “This flag is for all.”

Maryneily Rodriguez and Anthony Dipolito, who are engaged, walked through a forest of American flags in Greenport while on vacation. Credit...Johnny Milano for The New York Times

Strolling with her fiancé, Anthony Dipolito, Ms. Rodriguez took in the 1920 wooden carousel beside the marina in Greenport.

As she crossed through Mitchell Park, she was struck by the sight of a forest of American flags. It was not a prop for a political rally, but rather a peaceful “field of honor” installed by the Greenport Rotary Club.

Each flag represented not an ideological belief, according to the club, but a veteran or other citizen who had inspired or helped the community.

“I’ve always loved the American flag so much, and now seeing it by the carousel I felt happy again,” Ms. Rodriguez said, as all around her red, white, and blue cloth still waved. “And I haven’t felt that way about the flag in such a long time.”

Correction: July 3, 2021

Because of an editing error, an earlier version of this article referred incorrectly to an organization that had installed a flag display. It was the Greenport Rotary Club, not the Greenpoint Rotary Club.

— Sarah Maslin Nir covers breaking news for the Metro section. She was a Pulitzer Prize finalist for her series “Unvarnished,” an investigation into New York City’s nail salon industry that documented the exploitative labor practices and health issues manicurists face. @SarahMaslinNir

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pomegranate-salad · 7 years ago

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Seeds of thought : Wicdiv #32 & #33

Work work work work work. I’ve never worked so much in my life. The college student easy life is a lie, kids. So I’m doing a 2-in-1 type of thing on the last two issues. I didn’t have much material on issue 32 alone anyway and I think these two issues make more sense as a two-parter finale, so I guess it works well. Thoughts and opinions under the cut, spoilers of course. And fuck Woden.

THE LAST LAUGH

“Well this looks ridiculous”

This was my - and I assume an unneglectable number of people’s – first reaction to the last page of issue #33 in which we see the severed heads of Lucifer, Inanna and Tara displayed on an altar. This scene was probably effective on some, but for me it immediately called back to Disney’s Haunted Mansion and Futurama, and I was effectively done for : there was no way I could take this visual seriously.

There’s no two ways around it : this scene is silly. First we have what should be one of the biggest reveal of the entire series casually thrown at us by a character who’s not even looking at the audience, Then the camera cuts to this grotesque display of living heads, and the scene is complete with a classic Luci one-liner that seems aware of how out-of-place this entire sequence is. Really, all that’s missing is the laugh track.

You could say anticlimactic ; but really should it be called that when it’s the creators themselves who intentionally destroy the dramatic potential of their own scene ? If you’re not convinced this was intentional, try a little thought experiment and imagine rewriting this scene to amplify its dramatic intensity. By doing so, my conclusion is that this ending had every chance of being a huge finisher like the ones we saw in Fandemonium and Rising Action, but every writing and artistic decision was deliberately made to be as wrong as possible, to ruin every emotional weight this scene could have had.

This is not an anomaly : in these last two issues, the creators seem to have engaged in the systematic destruction of every dramatic beat by way of grotesque and ridicule. It’s an undercurrent that ran through the entire second part of Imperial Phase, but only reached its full potential toward the end.

It started on the very first page of issue #32, trivializing Amaterasu’s death when the issue before that still gave it all the gravity fitting to the first death of a Wicdiv arc. Then Dio’s last moments of bravery reveal themselves to be a total waste, on top of ruining One More Time forever. Even Woden’s bad guy monologue is sort of too shitty to really muster the kind of epic hatred you’d want to direct at this character. Then we have Sakhmet’s death, caused not by her lover or her sort-of-nemesis Baal, but by a thirteen year old on her first kill. And that’s not even touching on the awful reminder of her fate we get at the end of issue #33. Then there’s of course the beep machine, and issue #32’s hilarious finish, which I think call for no commentary. Issue #33 is divided in two big reveals, the first one forcing on the us the awful visual of David Blake’s head on Woden’s suit and one of the most fist-curling yet somehow pathetic bad guy monologues in history, and the second one being that ridiculous finish scene. The two are even separated by an intimate scene between Cass and Laura that literally gets cut because there’s a stranger tied up two feet from them.

So if these issues somewhat feel like they’re played all wrong, we know where it comes from. They feel like a multipart climax that got flipped on its head, so not a punch would land or beat would work. That’s not to say there aren’t some really impressive character moments in there ; but for each of them, there’s an inversely proportionally bad joke or ironic twist sweeping right in to undercut the whole thing.

And that’s something worth examining, not as a mistake but as a creative direction. Humour used to be a respite in Wicdiv, a welcome break from all the bleakness and emotional scorching of the characters. Each of them had their own wit, from Luci’s cool girl referencing to Baphomet’s failed swagger, to even Cass’ dry deliveries. But now, humour is just another weapon to hurt us. It prevents us from caring about our characters, from connecting with their emotions, from taking the story seriously. As I was reading through what I knew were Dio’s last moments, all I could focus on was Woden’s villain’s speech and the fact that he was right, and that Dio’s death was probably going to be a complete waste, because that’s how Wicdiv works now. Just compare the weight of Amaterasu’s and Dio’s respective death scenes : they’re not even separated by a full issue, yet the light that’s shone on them is completely different. No matter how much dignity went into crafting Dio’s last scene, it doesn’t matter when it’s put back to back with the textual affirmation of its uselessness, the fact that we don’t even get to give him a proper goodbye, and even after that, Laura’s awful line about his life support. In 2017, I don’t think I need to explain anyone the power of humour in trivializing the most terrible situations and undercutting people’s empathy for each other. This is what Wicdiv has been doing to us these past two issues, against our will. Stopping us from caring. Keeping us at bay even when we’re trying to connect and get involved in the story and characters.

What does this change in the use of humour mean ? Personally, I link it to the change of our purported hopes as an audience. At the beginning of the comic and up until Imperial phase, we were still allowed to believe, like Luci, that a solution could be found, that the 2-year sentence wasn’t real, nor was the great Darkness. That it was going to be okay. But right at the moment when the characters allowed themselves to think that there could indeed be a solution, we, as an audience, started to know better : there was no loophole, no escape, no way to prevent the inevitable, whatever that was. We could no longer hope that things were going to be okay. So what do you hope for when things cannot be okay ? You hope that they’ll be worth it. If you have to die, let it be a worthy death. A beautiful one. If you have to go, go in a blaze of glory. If you have to fail, let it be at the hand of a worthy foe. Let it be worth it.

But it isn’t. And that’s what humour’s there to prove. When our hopes were that things would be okay, the comic responded with tragedy ; now that we simply want them to be worth it, its weapon of choice is ridicule. As such, it’s definitely not a coincidence that the 455AD special preceded Imperial Phase part II, as it sets the tone for the entire arc, up to its back quote : when it’s clear Lucifer won’t be able to outlive his death sentence, all he want is to be allowed to burn. But he won’t be. He will bleed out and his body will be dragged across and city and cut to pieces by an old lady then fed to the river. Such is the fate that awaits our character. Pathetic and grotesque in equal parts, useless unless it serves someone else’s purpose, following rules you do not understand.

If Imperial Phase is the arc in which the gods are allowed to think themselves kings and queens, then the creators are the King’s fools, the ones allowed to tell them their real value because they do it through jokes and flip-overs.

This arc is a constant battle between the story the characters wish they were in and the one they’re actually in. That’s why it would be wrong, for example, to think of the beep machine as a McGuffin : its thematic utility goes beyond a plot device. When just last arc, it was the subject of a joke to relieve the tension between two characters, now it knocks them back to their actual scope. Something so small and silly is the kind of device they deserve. The big, ugly, scary machine ? It does nothing. Did you think you’d be handed a huge plot revelation as the crowning achievement of this arc ? Of course not. Instead, what we get is a sad, banal story of parental abuse from a man who’s not over leaving his youth behind.

Yes, even the David/Jon Blake storyline, arguably the one preserving most of its dramatic intensity over these two issues, cannot help but feel like a sad joke when you consider that David Blake’s motivations are basically the evil queen from Snow White’s. This is what caused all this. This, an old wrinkled lady, and a thirteen year old on a mission from God. Those are our villains, everybody. As for dying a worthy death, our heroes’ options are a pool of blood or a mounted head on an altar.

None of this is worth it. At this point, it’s even hard remember why “this” sounded so appealing in the first place. And all this goes to contextualize even more Laura’s breakdown speech halfway through issue #33 : she wanted everything they had, and she’d have given anything for it. For power, for glamour, for this. For this joke of a fate that’s not even that funny. That’s what cost her the death of her family, multiple friends, and the rest of her life.

It’s also fitting that Jon finally voices something that has been on my mind for a long time : just how little do you have to think of yourself to think two years of superpowers would be worthier than a fully-lived life ? Through this character who, just like the other gods, is too good for this deal, but unlike them, seems to realize it, it’s yet again the sheer impossibility to make this deal worth it that’s shown to us. Because what becomes clear after this reveal is that if Ananke allowed you to become a god, it’s so she could see that you’d waste away your potential. House always wins, and when you burn the House down, another opens up next door.

So this is where we are : our hopes of seeing any of it be worth it have been ridiculed, and all that’s left to uncover is precisely which joke our heroes have been the butt of. Cruel ? Maybe. But if fiction so often serves as a way to quench our thirst for grand emotions and epic stories, it’s precisely because outside of it, it feels much more often like one big joke than a sweeping tragedy. After all, Henri Bergson said it best : comedy is much truer to real life than drama.

WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE ISSUES

I KNEW IT IT WAS ME I FIGURED IT OUT I KNEW IT WAS DAVID BLAKE I AM THE GODDESS OF FATE BOW TO ME MERE MORTALS !

Alright, I’ll stop.

But while seeing yourself being right is immensely satisfying, it cannot help but damage your read a little ; like I said many times before, I want writers to be smarter than me, to be able to take me by surprise. So if I’ve managed to guess something, that’s great for my ego, but it also makes me a bit sad : that’s just another plotpoint that won’t reach full impact with me because I had so much time interiorizing its potential.

And that’s sort of my problem with these two issues : they revolve around two kinds of plotpoints, some that didn’t surprise me (Dio and Sakhmet’s death, Woden’s identity, the reason for Laura’s attitude) and other that were impossible to guess (the beep machine, Minerva’s “identity”, the talking heads). Meaning that while reading those, I was pretty much letting the plot carry me without being able to pause and care. As I’ve said above, part of it is intentional, but it also means that there aren’t many punches in these issues that landed for me. I’ll definitely count Laura and Sakhmet’s last conversation as well as Cass and Laura’s fight as a success, but the “big” intimate moment of issue #33, the conversation between Cass and Laura, didn’t do much for me, probably because it seems to me that anyone with a functioning brain and ears knew exactly why Laura wasn’t her best self since she had become Persephone. I understand why Cass didn’t see it – as we’re discussed before, she is a factual thinker, meaning she can’t grasp with Laura’s guilt when it is so obviously unfounded – but I still don’t understand the decision to make this a big character moment when literally every sentence Laura had pronounced since the beginning of Imperial Phase revealed what she was going through. There’s nothing more infuriating that being fed information you already think of as canon. If you ask me, this moment is much more important and interesting for what it isn’t, that’s to say a romantic scene, than for what it is. Seeing Laura being rejected by Cass, and therefore breaking the pattern of dragging people in her self-destroying orbit, is much more defining than her whole speech on guilt.

The problem is that most of the work these issues do is retrospective : if the Jon/David scene on its own has limited impact, the new depth it gives to all the Woden scenes we’ve already been through is vertiginous. Like I said, I did consider what the meaning of David Blake being Woden would be, but that’s another thing to be confronted with the actual fact. When you consider that David is talking to his decapitated, imprisoned son when he’s pouring out his thoughts make issue #14 go from merely quite repulsive to one of the most skin-crawlingly nauseating pieces of media ever written. I can’t imagine what the creators went through crafting this issue while knowing the entire story.

As for the rest of the reveals, it’s a little hard to weigh on them without devolving into hardcore theorizing. We’re basically at the last stop before the comic has to lay out its hand ; it already managed to delay it through two entire arcs whose very point was to see how long they could get this blind game going. But for me as a reader, it also means I’m at the point in the story that’s the least interesting to me : the one where I have no choice than to follow the train as it’s well on its tracks, without any possibility to pause or jump ahead. I have to wait for the full story to know whether any of these twists paid out or not ; at this stage, I have both too much and too little to really be able to do something with it emotionally or intellectually.

So as a final verdict because I have to go back to cramming for administrative litigation, I’d say these are two issues I’ll have to revisit once the comic is over, because I suspect they’ll be a lot better with the full story in hand. Most of its impact is on the issues before them and in the groundwork they lay out for the final year. So as a stop point, they may not hold much interest, but I can definitely see them be one of the comic’s most astute cogs once it’s done and over. As a two-parter finale, I like it more than the Imperial Phase (part I) finale : it’s more coherent in its construction and doesn’t try to bite off more than it can chew. It’s mostly plotpoints and twists, meaning it’s my least favourite kind of read, but once I’m able to put that aside to see it instead as a character work thread in a bigger design, it’ll probably hold my interest much more. But as of right now, I can at least commend it for how much it makes me want to reread everything from the beginning. Which I definitely do not have the time for right now. Damn you. Damn you all.

#wicdiv #seeds of thought #suprise fellow fans i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

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dremorablog · 6 years ago

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May 30 - Sword Museum

I decided to spend our second free day on my own. Up until now, I’ve mostly stuck with groups, and I wanted to see if I could survive a day in Tokyo solo. Despite my incredibly limited arsenal of Japanese and general lack of experience with big city life, I felt confident and familiar enough with Tokyo to make it by myself. Oh, how wrong I was! It turns out the metro system can be really confusing when you don’t have a group to blindly follow through its chaotic crowds and dozens of terminals. Due to a complicated series of mishaps and errors I ended up spending nearly two hours in transit for a journey that should have only taken 15 minutes. To make matters worse, both my phone and portable wifi were on the precipice of death, which meant I would soon be wandering the streets without google maps (a terrifying proposition). I don’t know how I managed it, but eventually, I ended up at the sword museum.

For some reason, I was under the impression that the museum was free, but I was asked to “contribute” some money for a ticket. The price was only 1,000 yen, so it was no big deal. The exhibit itself was a little underwhelming. It was a single, small room with only about 20 swords on display, and none of the information was in English, so I couldn’t learn about any of them. Still, it was cool to see some real Japanese swords, and I received some informative pamphlets about sword smithing from the counter (those were in English, thankfully), so it wasn’t a total bust. I also enjoyed taking a walk through the garden outside the museum. It was a nice, aesthetically comforting area with lots of turtles and pigeons. There was a couple dressed in formal attire taking what I assumed were wedding photos with the central pond as a backdrop, which was neat.

I had planned to go to the Pokémon Megacenter next, but I didn’t want to end up lost in Tokyo with a dead phone, so I went back to touch base at the apartment first. On the way, I popped in to play (*waste money on) some UFO Catchers. After relieving my wallet of its 100-yen coins, I finally decided to cut my losses and leave empty-handed. Even though I didn’t win anything, I still had fun. I then nursed my devices back to full health and set off for the Pokémon store. It was further away – about a 40-minute journey – but I had considerably less trouble getting there this time. The megacenter was only slightly larger than the regular store I visited earlier, and it carried roughly the same stock. They didn’t have the full-size Gengar plush I wanted, so I settled on a few smaller ones and some assorted merch instead. When I got outside the sky was already beginning to darken, so I hurried and caught the next train to Yotsuya. There was one particular place I wanted to see and get a good picture of before It got too dark: the iconic Yotsuya Shrine steps. I watched Your Name a few months ago and was captivated its hyper-realistic depictions of Tokyo. The view from the top of the steps was almost identical to the scene from the film. There was a group of three people taking photos of the stairs as well, and I overheard them talking about seeing other locations from the movie. I was tempted to follow them, but I was also feeling hungry, so I looked up a nearby veggie ramen shop. I’ve had more than a few bowls of ramen in Japan, and every single one has been unique. This was no exception: the broth was foamy and yellow, and there were vegetables that I was unable to identify. They exhibited flavors wholly unlike anything else I’ve ever tasted before. It did share the one universally common characteristic of ramen, though: a tongue-scorching high temperature. Despite some setbacks and disappointments, I would still call my Tokyo solo expedition an overall success.

Academic Reflection

The article I chose for my independent excursion academic reflection is a paper discussing the development of the Japanese sword making the process and its metallurgical aspects. Japanese swords once served a dual purpose, being both weapons upon which Samurai depended their lives and beautiful pieces of art that carried spiritual connotations. Although the former function no longer applies in a modern context, appreciation of the art form of Japanese sword making has only increased, and now enjoys a healthy global following. The main principles of artistic appreciation concerning swords include the following: functionality, shape and pattern, hilt ornamentation, and spirit. These aspects have driven the creation and advancement of swords in Japan for centuries and are still used to evaluate blades.

The history of Japanese sword making is long and complex. The Japanese style first arose around 700 CE, a confluence of multiple cultural diffusion patterns from all over the Asian continent. The earliest sword type invented was the Tachi, a small blade used by warriors on horseback. Although swords were always used for combat, their role as weapons reached peak relevance during the implementation of the feudal system during the Heian Era. It was during this time that many of Japans first national treasure swords, some of which are on display at the Japanese Sword Museum, were created. The emperor during this time was a patron of the arts and encouraged the development of the sword making industry. A dividing line in sword history is drawn at the Edo Period, after which there was a decline in the quality of artisanship accompanying the abolishment of the feudal system. The art form of Japanese swordsmithing was nearly lost after Japan’s defeat in World War II, when many national treasures were confiscated by the Allied Powers. As a response, the Society for Preservation of Japanese Swords was founded in 1948, and successfully preserved the appreciation of swords as culturally significant works of art. This society is responsible for running the Japanese Sword Museum and is considered the utmost authority on the subject.

Just like its history, the process of creating Japanese swords is highly complex. First, the raw base material known as Tamahagane is formed by smelting sand iron and charcoal together in a furnace. This process, which is called Tatara smelting, results in high-quality low carbon steel. Next, the Tamhagane is heated and hammered repeatedly, until impurities are removed for the metal. There are two main parts which are forged individually: shingane (soft) and kawagane (hard). These two pieces are then folded and oxidized with water. Next, the smith begins molding the shape of the blade with chisels and coats the entire surface with clay. This crucial step is integral to the legendary quality of Japanese swords. As the sword is heated and quenched, the hardened clay resists temperament, resulting in intricate patterns on the blade surface called hamon. The sword is then given to a professional polisher who sharpens and draws out the inner beauty of the sword. Finally, the blade is signed by the smith. This laborious process has been performed for hundreds of years by Japanese swordsmiths and is responsible for the unique and unparalleled quality of sword such as the katana.

I was able to experience all of this in the blades that were on display at the sword museum. One thing that interested me was how many types of swords there are besides the famous katana. The kozuka, for instance, is a small knife used for daily tasks, and wakizashi must be within the specified range of 30 to 60 centimeters. Japanese swordmaking is stunningly complex, and still maintains relevance today.

Works Cited:

Tanimura, H. JOM (1980) 32: 63. https://doi.org/10.1007/BF03354549

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missionreligiousharmony-blog · 6 years ago

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The Best of Rabbi Eckstein’s Daily Devotionals

Every Sunday through Friday, President and Founder of the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews (IFCJ or The Fellowship), Rabbi Yechiel Eckstein, sends out daily devotionals along with a scripture verse and the Hebrew Word of the Day to increase understanding of Israel, the Jewish faith and Jewish roots of Christianity. These devotionals have been a blessing to thousands of people over the years. Here are the summaries of Rabbi Eckstein’s top 10 devotionals of 2018:

Holy Land Moments Daily Devotionals

1. The Kindness Boomerang

So Miriam was confined outside the camp for seven days, and the people did not move on till she was brought back. — Numbers 12:15

Rabbi Eckstein tells an incredible story of kindness and encourages us all to go the extra mile when it comes to being kind. He writes, “Kindness is like a boomerang; eventually, it will make its way back to you when you are in need.”

2. Through the Door of Hope

There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will respond as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt. — Hosea 2:15

Rabbi Eckstein concludes that fleeing from our situation isn’t the best solution to our problems. Rather, we are called on to transform our situation into something better than we might have ever imagined. He writes, “It is in the darkest places that God will show us light. It is through our most difficult trials that we learn some of life’s greatest lessons. And often what seemed like the worst thing to happen to us turns out to be the best thing to happen to us. This is the door of hope, and we can walk through it anytime by having faith that everything that happens to us, happens for our very best.”

3. God Wants to Give

When a calf, a lamb or a goat is born, it is to remain with its mother for seven days. From the eighth day on, it will be acceptable as a food offering presented to the LORD.” — Leviticus 22:27

Rabbi Eckstein reflects on a seemingly “senseless cruel practice” he witnessed on a farm in northern Israel and connects it to the people of Israel’s relationship with God. He writes, “if we pray, and our prayers are not answered in the way that we like, we must understand that it’s not because God doesn’t love us; it’s because He loves us so much that He won’t give us something that is not good for us. God wants to give even more than our desire to receive. As we pray with that perspective, knowing that God is on our side and wanting to help us out, when the answer is “no,” we can take comfort knowing it’s because God has something even better in mind.”

4. Everything Has a Purpose

Their venom is like the venom of a snake, like that of a cobra that has stopped its ears, that will not heed the tune of the charmer, however skillful the enchanter may be. — Psalm 58:4–5

As King David wonders why God has created seemingly pointless creatures on earth, Rabbi Eckstein reminds us that even when we may not understand God’s purpose - the things that we don’t deem very valuable and the people who we think we could do without - God shows David how every detail of His world has significance and is essential in His overall plan. According to Rabbi Eckstein, “Each of us is an indispensable piece of His puzzle, and we must do our part to contribute to the perfection of His world.”

5. From the Beginning

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” – Genesis 1:1

Considering that the Bible is not a history book nor a storybook - it is an instruction manual for living - Jewish sages have asked why the Bible begins with “in the beginning” instead of the first commandment given to man or a story with a moral. Rabbi Eckstein maintains, “The sages explain that God begins the Bible with Creation so that we would know that He created the world and has all authority over the universe. The land on this earth is His to give and His to take away. Only He has the right to do so. He states very clearly in the Bible that He gave the land of Israel, a small portion of the entire earth, to the children of Israel. No one, not even the United Nations, has the right to take that land away.”

6. Simple Acts of Kindness

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. — Micah 6:8

Rabbi Eckstein recalls a story that aired on the news about a little boy who invites a homeless man to eat with him at a restaurant. He writes, “Simple loving acts that bring glory to the Lord – that’s all God asks,” and encourages readers to do a simple act of kindness. He urges, “It doesn’t take much to serve God and bring glory to His name. Help a stranger, be extra kind to someone who is down, provide some words of encouragement, or even buy a stranger a meal. God doesn’t ask much from us, yet He does everything for us. The least we can do is contribute what we can.”

7. Confession is Good for the Soul

“Say to the Israelites: ‘Any man or woman who wrongs another in any way and so is unfaithful to the LORD is guilty and must confess the sin they have committed. They must make full restitution for the wrong they have done, add a fifth of the value to it and give it all to the person they have wronged.’” — Numbers 5:6–7

“Confession is a doorway to freedom and forgiveness,” writes Rabbi Eckstein, noting that Judaism requires confession of our sins only in the presence of one being — the presence of God. Nevertheless, we confess aloud not so that God can hear our confessions (after all, God knows our thoughts!). We confess so we can hear them. He writes, “ Speaking is more powerful than thinking. God didn’t think the world into existence; He spoke it into existence. So, too, our words have power. When we confess our sins, we break down barriers that block our soul. We let go of toxins that poison our spirit. Most importantly, we engage God in our cleansing process, and it is only He Who can truly purify our souls.”

8. Hidden Blessings

“‘I myself will lay waste the land, so that your enemies who live there will be appalled.’” — Leviticus 26:32

Even when God punishes us, we can find His everlasting love shining through. Everything that He causes to happen in our lives – even the hard stuff – is ultimately a blessing. Even the fact that Israel was not a desirable land for over 2,000 years has allowed the Jewish people to return as they have. Notes Rabbi Eckstein, “The lesson for us is that God is always on our side. Even when it seems like our circumstances in life are less than desirable, there is always a hidden blessing. As the psalmist put it: ‘your rod and your staff, they comfort me’ (Psalm 23:4).”

9. Keep Moving Up

And they spread among the Israelites a bad report about the land they had explored. They said, “The land we explored devours those living in it. All the people we saw there are of great size.” — Numbers 13:32

Rabbi Eckstein makes sense of a contradiction in the story of the 12 spies, coming to the understanding that it is trying to tell us that “if you aren’t moving upward, you are automatically falling backward.” He poses, “We have to actively ascend spiritually every day. Can we trust God a little more today? Can we be a better person today than we were yesterday? We must not make the mistake of getting so busy with the material life that we stop living and growing spiritually.”

10. Give to Live

“The priest who is anointed and ordained to succeed his father as high priest is to make atonement. He is to put on the sacred linen garments and make atonement for the Most Holy Place, for the tent of meeting and the altar, and for the priests and all the members of the community.” — Leviticus 16:32–33

On Yom Kippur, why is charity singled out as one of the three components that can undo our wrongdoings and change things for the better? The Jewish sages teach that charity is so powerful that it can save a person from death. Rabbi Eckstein asks, “What is so extraordinary about giving charity?” He explains, “How we treat others is how God will treat us,” urging readers to give life and joy to others. If we do so, perhaps God will bless us with another year of life and joy as well.

#international fellowship of christians and jews #IFCJ #ifcjreviews #Religion

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lastexodusrp-blog · 8 years ago

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WYATT ATLAS · 32 · MERCENARY · THE STRAY · TAKEN

"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red." ― KAIT ROKOWSKI

ORIGIN:

Cleveland, Ohio

TRAITS:

+ Resourceful, impenetrable, strong - Violent, unpredictable, solitary

BIOGRAPHY:

tw: violence, drug use, drug addiction

THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS;

Wyatt understood what it meant to lose people. He’d been doing it in rapid succession his entire life. Foster agencies seemed to think he was blissfully unaware of the truth – that their efforts were simply an elaborate ruse fabricated to cover up one very important fact: his father had died and his mother never wanted him. His childhood consisted of at least a dozen spare bedrooms with blank walls and empty desks and a whole brood of well-intentioned strangers. (Some of them were too kind for their own good and those were the folks he took advantage of – stealing money from unattended wallets, taking cars for joy rides, breaking the lock on the liquor cabinet. He might have felt remorse for his actions if someone had bothered to forgive him, but his sins were always swiftly punished. It went like this: He fucked up, then was immediately disowned, and carted away to the next spare bedroom, complete with a new set of beaming, do-gooder parents. (“We know it’s hard.” Do you, fuckers? “But we’re here for you.” Until I make a mistake. “You can trust us.” Bullshit. “We’re your family now.” Liars.) By the time he was eighteen, losing people had become an art form. He was god damn good at it.

What these false families couldn’t offer, Wyatt found within a brotherhood of thieves and mercenaries, born from the salt of a new, dying world. Though he was a young man, he seemed to fit like a glove into this underground of savages who took what was necessary to survive, and fought those tooth and nail that stood in their way. Where he had never found a place of belonging before, suddenly his strength and his reckless behavior was glorified. Wyatt made a name for himself, leaving behind the husk of a dream society had packaged for him. He would never learn how to read and write, and he would never serve mankind in an stellar capacity. He was a monster, and his brand was destruction. He followed his dark brothers down that lonesome path, and never looked back.

This winding road he was on led to violence and chaos, and while Wyatt had never been the sort to lift a torch or champion a cause on his own, his brute strength and his loyalty landed him in a position to enforce the will of his betters without hesitation. The question of whether what he was doing was right or wrong was above him, and he accepted his place as a cog, as an instrument, and blindly followed those that clapped him on the back and offered him acceptance and a place at their table. This path ended where you might imagine: in loss of self, in soullessness, in addiction. Wyatt welcomed the coming apocalypse with Mother’s Milk in his veins, and never thought about the consequences of his actions. That wasn’t until he found himself cuffed in the back of a Valeris transport. It wasn’t that he’d never been in that exact position before, but it was on this particular occasion, when the planets aligned, and fate felt particularly playful, that he found himself in the presence of someone that would change his life.

NOT WITH A BANG, BUT A WHIMPER.

The two years that led up to this chance encounter had been harrowing. He had joined ranks with some of the most despicable people in order to ensure he got the drugs he needed. The supply was always dwindling, always just out of reach, but he kept pushing and, somehow, by the grace of a twisted god, always ended up with enough. He’d learned how to stretch it out for longer and longer periods, only taking a taste to get by. It dulled all of his senses, kept his demons from writhing, kept him safely shrink-wrapped inside his skin. But despite his crippling addiction, Wyatt continued to prove himself over and over in the fray. He had nothing left to lose, so throwing himself at a herd of raiders or hordes of the mindcooked masses didn’t bother him. It was one of the only reasons people allowed him to stick around: he could stomach getting his hands dirty. If it was his only redeeming quality, it was a useful one to have at the end of the world.

Zoe, however, proved to him that he was worth more than the power in his swing, and the blood he had spilled. She made him believe he was still a person, and deserved a chance. It wasn’t an easy task, but like most things, she overcame even the steepest uphill battles, and Wyatt found himself in undeniable love. Though they were from different worlds, they complimented one another, and challenged one another to see the world from a different perspective. She taught him to read and write, and he showed her the darkness that had bloomed outside of Valeris' high guard walls. It was with splintered halves of their separate worlds that the two found themselves on Torchlight’s doorstep, hand-in-hand, and wholly ready to defend. The rebellion’s growth was bolstered by their involvement, and Wyatt was surprised to find that he had it in him to fight for a purpose, even if it was borrowed. He had never had a problem fighting for someone else’s beliefs as he had none of his own, but doing it knowing there was nothing in it for him was difficult for him to swallow at first. Instead of swinging for Mother’s Milk or his own dinner, he realized he was fighting for mankind. As much as he wanted to believe he was worthy of such a cause, that drive in him was easily run off course in the thick of the darkest fray.

Two days before Valeris’ last shuttle left, black-suited agents cornered him and beat him within an inch of his life. Groggy and with a swimming skull, he lay in the hairpin alley and watched the blank sky overhead as he listened to their proposition. Maybe it was the taste of blood, so familiar, so much like home, or the splinters of fear churning in his stomach, but the deal they offered was in his language. It put him back on that familiar path he knew like the scuffs and scars on the back of his hand. It was a small price, measured into a short stint of work for Valeris to keep the rebels at bay for an invaluable price: Zoe’s life and safety among the stars. The monster in him that had evolved since her introduction into his life wanted to fight the pompous assholes for even suggesting he would give her up, but the part of him that had been groomed into a better man, if only by Zoe’s proximity alone, leapt at the potential to save her life in the wake of all of this destruction. She deserved a better end than what was waiting for the lot of them here. She deserved to see the stars, even if it meant getting there in the arms of villains. At least she would live.

In the end, he had to walk away from her, and believe he’d made the right decision. His service to Valeris would get her off of earth, and ensure she lived to throttle mankind into its next chapter. After all, Wyatt knew how to do one thing better than anything: he knew how to lose people. This was his chance to lose someone, and have it mean something. His change of heart came too late, mere hours before the order to drop Molotovs of Colorado Springs flooded his ear piece, and the thunderous roar of a devil’s victory shook the earth to its rotten core. He fought his way towards the city limits, an apology looming and inarticulate in his heart, and news of Valeris’ final move of treachery heavy on his shoulders. The sound of the explosion and the flare of a city in flames was imprinted forever into his mind. He could only hope Valeris kept their word, and pulled Zoe out of it. He could only hope she made it out alive. The last six months have been the same old, same old. Wyatt finds little comfort in Mother’s Milk once again, but it’s comfort all the same. His loyalties are to no man, and he swings his fists for the highest bidder.

FACECLAIM:

Ryan Gosling

#ryan gosling #ryan gosling fc #rp #roleplay #oc rp #takenm #the stray #wyatt atlas

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theairportau · 8 years ago

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the airport AU, part 116 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15

---

CHRISTINE

It isn’t fair, she thinks, her heart aching at the resigned honesty of his answer.

At that very moment, over seven hundred miles away, her former workmates would be wrapping up the final few transactions of the day, glancing longingly towards the ’Closed’ sign and trying to hide the glares they would shoot at any new customer who happened to wander in at the last minute. Impatient to finish their work and free themselves for the evening ahead, Fridays always found the other girls at their most efficient—and Christine at her most eager to avoid them. More than once, she’d been invited to join them, but had been subjected to enough of their gossip to know that she wouldn’t enjoy their raucous brand of drinking and dancing.

*They* had seemed *never* to be tired, possessed of an energy that Christine had yet to ever see exhausted; but even if it *were* truly endless, it would never be used to paint a single picture, to bring a single song into the world.

She finishes her tea, setting the mug aside as Erik passes her the tablet; as she reads the message, she wishes that the cup was still full, that she might have an excuse to stay longer. It *hasn’t* even been such a long day—and how has it been spent: sitting on the couch?; drinking tea and reading stories? *She* isn’t in need of rest.

But *he* is.

Another look towards the window confirms that the late-autumn sunset won’t be kept waiting for long if she doesn’t want to walk back to the hotel in the dark; she doesn’t have to look at Erik again to know that she’ll be walking alone. If she’s going to go, it needs to be very soon. And she *does* have to go. If she stays tonight instead of going back to her room at the hotel, she won’t be able to change before her day with Darius; if she stays, and Erik doesn’t feel better, she might not be able to convince herself to go out at all.

She forces herself to nod, overruling the argument between the half of her heart that wants to stay and help, and the other that knows she can only help *by* leaving him to rest; she fails to curb the part that has noticed his free hand, still resting on the cushion after handing her the tablet. As her fingers close around his thin, scarred ones, she tries to convince herself that the tea has done its job, that he doesn’t feel *quite* as cold as he had when she first noticed his fever.

“Innan jag lämnar, är du verkligen säker på att du inte—” she begins a bit too quickly; shaking her head apologetically, she tries again, speaking with simple words, their purposefulness mirrored in the gentle pressure of her hand around his own, “Någonting annat? Att hjälpa dig?”

---

ERIK

He doesn’t know if the feeling will ever go away- the way his heart seems to jump whenever she touches him, whether or not the touch is anticipated. He also isn’t certain whether he’ll ever lose the instinct to apologize for the roughness and the coldness of his skin. She always manages to stun his mind into a fraction of a moment of radio silence, and he wishes he could exist in that thoughtless moment forever, aware of nothing other than the gentle pressure of her hand on his. But it never lasts as long as he wishes it would. She is close to him now- but it’s to say goodbye, and even after years of preferring the isolation of his apartment, he wishes beyond anything that he could just ask her to stay here like this with him. It would make it all so much easier- he’d rather be like this than face the overwhelming task of sleep, but before she even asks whether there is anything that she can do, he already knows what he will tell her.

Even in the light, he’s reluctant to let her walk alone. After all, it hadn’t been long after sunset when that desk clerk harassed her outside the hotel- and he’d even been with her then. But with the end of their togetherness coming near for the day, he feels the aches in his body more acutely than he had a few minutes ago. Everything seems to be sore; it is a strain on his eyes to even stay open, and he would be no use to her out there. After all, she always walks alone in the morning. He squeezes her hand gently in return before he forces himself to let it go, and to look away from their hands, up to her face.

“Jag kommer att bli bra,” he says, after a moment. It’s the most honest thing he can think to say. He knows that he ultimately will make it through the next couple of days, no matter how difficult a struggle it is; he feels more purpose to do so now than he has in years. He will take care of himself tonight. He owes that to her- to actually feel better after taking a day away from her. He knows, on a practical level, what it is that his body needs. It’s just so damn hard to go through with doing those basic things sometimes- making himself eat, and sleep, and take his medication, and tend to his wounds. His hand feels empty now, without hers in it. He pulls it under the cover of his blanket, to keep himself from reaching for her again.

“Var försiktig,” he adds, fixing her with his dead serious stare, devoid of any humor when it comes to this particular topic. He would so rather walk her home. “Berätta för mig… din telefon. När du är tillbaka. Okej?”

He stumbles through the words a bit, taking a few moments to think through each, and still, he isn’t certain how clear he is. She doesn’t need to call him- it would put his mind at ease if he would text her when she’s back at the hotel. He certainly won’t get any sleep being uncertain of her absolute safety.

---

CHRISTINE

Maybe it’s the incongruity of his haltingly-phrased request and the adamant expression that accompanies it; or maybe a simple short-circuiting of her emotions, overloaded with worry for Erik and regret at leaving him. Whatever the case, Christine finds herself smiling—a flicker of silent laughter across her face, even as the disappointing emptiness of her hand feels suddenly that much sharper.

“Ja visst,” she says with a firm, reassuring nod, “Det ska jag gärna göra.”

It takes less time for Erik to break his gaze than it does for Christine to actually move from the couch. Glancing around, she hesitates, taking stock of the mugs on the coffee table, her purse, the book of folktales that served in place of her lesson today. Finally shifting her feet back to the floor, she leans awkwardly forward and reaches for her things; “Det var trevligt att läsa,” she says genuinely, fondly tucking the book into her bag; a gentle smirk makes her eyes sparkle as she swipes a quick gaze back at Erik, “Fast att sjunga är ju trevligare.”

Soon, their lessons will start again. He will rest, and heal, and get well. He’ll be okay. She has to believe that; has to *convince* herself of it, if only to get through tomorrow. As she stands, it’s a struggle to bite back one last offer of an extra blanket.

---

ERIK

Her smile is contagious. It isn’t often that he feels unconsciously compelled to smile, but the tone of her voice, and her backwards glance, is enough. Despite the ache in his eyes, they fill with unusual light.

“Alldeles strax, hirondelle,” he says, and though he doesn’t say as much, the words feel like a promise, with all of the weight of one behind them. “Ha roligt i morgon.”

There are specks of light that dance in his vision as he watches her turn to leave. There is no part of him that wants her to leave, but how could he ask her to stay here? He knows how much he is to deal with when he tries to sleep. He wouldn’t even have anything for her to do. It’s better for her to go to the hotel. She can rest- she’ll have fun tomorrow, seeing Paris at last. He’ll have to text Darius letting him know the plan. And Khan will come over tomorrow- if not Christine, at least somebody to keep him from self-destruction while faced with the overwhelmingly miserable task of relaxing. It’s ridiculous, but it can’t be helped. Things become so difficult without adequate distraction. He doesn’t want her to worry, though, so even as these things invade his momentary peace, he attempts to keep up the smile she had so unexpectedly caused.

“Godnatt, Christine,” he says warmly. There is no reason to make her think about him during her day off. With any luck, he’ll be able to think of her, too, rather than himself.

---

CHRISTINE

‘Soon, hirondelle.’

It’s the encouragement that she needed. Christine smiles again, more easily this time, fear and hope coalescing into genuine reassurance—Erik’s own rare smile touching her heart with a warmth that briefly drives the worrying chill of his hand from her thoughts.

“Jag ska försöka,” she promises, nodding.

She leaves the tablet on the coffee table; there’s no need to take it out with Darius.

There’s more that she wants to say, as she reluctantly pulls herself away across the living room—more that she *might* say, if she could speak as easily to Erik as she can Darius.

’Don’t worry about me, I’ll walk quickly.'

’I hope that you are able to get some rest.’

’Once you feel better, maybe we can all go somewhere *together*.'

As it is, though—with the ever-present risk of words being misconstrued, of upsetting him just as she leaves him on his own for the night—nothing that she might want to tell him seems quite as important as preserving his unsteady smile. And so, with a small, awkward wave, and a simple, bright, “Godnatt, Erik,” she turns and descends the stairs.

One last call of, “Vi ses!” rings upward into the living room after she has retrieved her coat and shoes, and then she is gone.

---

ERIK

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, it’s as if the breath leaves his body- as if she had been the energy source keeping him running for these past few hours. He tilts his head back and groans, hands sliding from his chin up his face, dislodging the mask and flipping it off onto the back of the couch. He sits like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before leaning forward, his movements slow, and pulling the cool washcloth out of the bowl that Christine had brought for him. It’s a pity she can’t see how he appreciates it now, wiping the grime and sweat off of his forehead. Pressing it to the stinging, infected flesh around the wound is a relief. Some scabbing peels off into the cloth, but it doesn’t bleed again. It has healed that much, at least.

His limbs feel like weights, and he is dazed by exhaustion, but he can’t sleep quite yet. It’s the only thing he can bring himself to think of, now that Christine is gone- getting the rest that he so sorely needs. With a limp hand, he scribbles, to the best of his ability, the activity that he missed in the little notepad provided by his doctor, with times as accurate as he can remember them. This, at least, he can do under the blanket, but he needs to eat something, as well. Nothing that requires preparation, but he promised her that he would be better soon. If nothing else, he has to do it for her- give his body some fighting chance. So begrudgingly, he throws the electric blanket to the side, with his mask, and forces his aching joints to push him up onto his feet. Mona approaches, seeing him standing, but he doesn’t pause to pick her up, and after a moment’s hesitation, she follows him into the kitchen. The orange, he thinks. Those are supposed to be good when one is sick. His clumsy fingers scrape at the rind, and though it gets stuck under his nails, it peels away, and he eats the fruit quickly, in large, messy bites, before he has time to think about it any more than he already has. His hands are sticky with orange juice, but he tosses the peel in the garbage on his way out of the kitchen without bothering to wash them.

He’s been looking forward to this now for too long; despite the cold, once he reaches his room, he nearly rips his sweatshirt off, and throws it on his bed along with the t shirt he had worn underneath it. He scratches around his collarbone, and on his ribs, where the electrodes are attached. Under normal circumstances, he would have to go in to get them taken off, but his doctor has acknowledged that strictly necessary procedures should take place in the office, having seen his reaction to being out in public. Ripping them off of his skin feels similar to ripping off a bandage. He can feel where one rests over a rib that never quite healed correctly after being cracked. After everything, it’s a wonder that his body is still together- everything feels somehow broken about it; he can hardly move his hands without encountering some sort of break, or scar, or the portions of skin on his back that are too smooth to be natural. A wave of nausea comes over him, and he pulls his t shirt back on once the monitor is off and tossed on the bed. His eyes narrow as his resolve hardens.

Why should he care whether his body is repulsive? Who would he ever want to see it?

A quiet anger simmers in the back of his mind as he steps into his bathroom. He keeps his back turned to the mirror as much as he can, gathering a towel with unnecessary ferocity, kicking shut the cabinet it had been kept in, and setting it down on the ledge of the tub, next to the shower. It had been glass when he moved in- it had been one of the first renovations he did, making the walls and door around the shower stall solid. And then shrinking the mirror behind the double vanity. He has done plenty of work to ensure that even he doesn’t have to look at himself on a regular basis. As long as he keeps that work up, none of it should even matter.

---

CHRISTINE

True to her unspoken word, Christine wastes no time in getting back to the hotel. Not that there’s anything about the damp, chilled air that would encourage her to dawdle. Even the Christmas lights that have sprung up in the window of the bakery seem dulled by the wash of greyness. Pulling the thick wool of her collar closer around her neck, she thinks of Erik’s promise of brighter weather for her and Darius’ day out. She hopes he’s right: another such bleak day might see her sacrificing her clothing budget for a supply of raincoats and waterproof boots.

She reaches the hotel on the heels of a small family, just checking in. Towing suitcases and a child in a stroller, they monopolize the attention of the desk clerk—for which Christine is grateful as she thinks of the puddles of grimy rainwater that she’d tracked through the lobby a couple of nights ago, and her awkward attempt at apologizing to the older woman now once more sitting behind the front desk. As the contents of an upturned cup suddenly spill from the stroller, scattering bits of dry cereal across the spotless tile floor, Christine and her dingy sneakers are able to slip past virtually unnoticed.

Back in her room, after draping her coat over the chair—but before turning her attention to the disarray of *the rest* of the clothes piled around her suitcase—she digs her phone out of her purse.

’Tillbaka säkert :)’

A text seems like the best idea—less likely to distract Erik from his rest, and less complicated than the prospect of the two of them trying to actually *speak* over the phone.

---

ERIK

Christine’s text manages to pull him out of his own mind a bit. It’s good to know that she is back at the hotel, and safe. He hopes that she, at least, is having a relaxing evening, enjoying her room service and looking forward to seeing the city tomorrow.

It reminds him- he hasn’t contacted Darius. He hastily sends a text- will you take Christine out shopping tomorrow?

True to form, Darius is attached to his phone, and it is only about thirty tense seconds before his own phone buzzes with a response.

Okay! I can meet her in the lobby at 10 if that works?

It’s refreshing to see Darius willing to loosen his control of the restaurant enough to go out with a friend for a day. He is too young to be consumed by a business. There are too many opportunities for him. Too tired to relay the message in Swedish himself, he steps back out of his room for a moment to get the tablet, and precisely copies the translation that it provides for him.

Thank you. I asked Darius about tomorrow. If 10 is a suitable time, he can meet you in the lobby.

He wants to forget the phone and take his long-awaited shower, but figures he should make sure that they are set up to meet tomorrow before he leaves the picture. It would be a terrible let down for Christine if it somehow didn’t work out, and even though it seems simple enough, it is his job to ensure it. He would feel terrible if it fell through.

---

CHRISTINE

The sight of the clothing spilling from her suitcase taunts her as she turns to plug in her phone. It’s a visible mark of how the past week and a half has effected her—throwing her off balance, normal priorities supplanted by worries and ambitions much weightier than keeping a wardrobe in order. But a *mundane* responsibility is *still* a responsibility; she can’t allow such things to fall entirely to the way side. And how can she think of going out and buying *more* clothes tomorrow while taking such bad care of the ones she already *has*? Leaving her phone to charge on the desk beside her purse, Christine moves reluctantly towards the neglected chore.

No sooner has she begun sorting her clothes, though, than the phone gives a bright chirp; it takes less time for her to reply than it does for her to escape from the pile of laundry and retrieve her phone.

’Det blir bra, tack! :)‘

She keeps the phone at her side as she settles once more on the rug in front of her bags, but no more messages come; she hopes that means that he is resting.

Outside, a set of plastic wheels squeak softly against the polished wood floor of the hallway, and Christine recognises the voices of the couple who she’d seen checking in; they’d spoken in French to the clerk, but now she picks up on the distinctive tones of German. The man laughs gently, his words muffled and unintelligible as he replies to something his companion has said. A door opens and closes, and all is quiet again. As the dull grey beyond her window gives way to a dark but peaceful twilight, Christine lets her thoughts fade into the well-worn routine of sorting and folding, absently humming an old pop song that she was always told had been a favourite of her mother’s.

The job goes quickly, and soon enough everything is once again packed neatly into the bag that she has designated for laundry-to-be-washed. The only thing left in the suitcase is the skirt and blouse that the hotel staff had cleaned for her—the outfit that she’d worn the night of the altercation with the former desk clerk, and has avoided wearing since. She moves them to a drawer in the small bureau in the corner of her room, telling herself that she’ll wear them again…eventually.

She gets dinner from room service; has a shower; skims through her French book for anything that might be useful on a day out in the city. (She isn’t sure whether it will do her any good to be able to ask, ’Can you please tell me the way to the Métro?’ when she doesn’t yet know where any of the trains *go*, but maybe tomorrow she’ll at least make a start of it.) She spends a few minutes sorting the rest of the books again. She rearranges the other various items on the desk. She rinses the crumbs from her dinner plate in the bathroom sink. As she stands in front of the mirror, having decided to wash her face (despite having only just showered), the sight of the damp washcloth in her hands makes her realise what she’s doing.

As stressful as it might have been to spend the night in Erik’s house—to lay awake in the guestroom, listening worriedly for the slightest whisper of distress from down the hall—perhaps it was at least better than the uncertainty of *not knowing*.

But he might be just fine. He might be. Maybe he’s even already asleep; it’s not unlikely, given how tired he had looked when she left.

Driving herself to distraction won’t help him get better. If he knew that *she* was sitting up worrying, he *would* be upset.

She owes it to him to get her own rest; to go out tomorrow and with enthusiasm to learn the city that he has done so much to enable her to remain in. She owes it to *herself*, and the dreams that brought her here in the first place.

She switches off the lights; curls up in the crisp white hotel bedding; and though her thoughts remain restless, she finally falls into a peaceful sleep.

---

(Part 117)

#/airport AU

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