#its often is a few sentences here and there taken out edited and most importantly added

[witharthurkirkland]

Hitsuzen

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Summary: Yuri Plisetsky has always seen strange things and odd spirits often follow him around. One day he stumbles into an odd shop that grants wishes run by a strange man named Victor Nikiforov. Will Victor grant his wish and what will be the price?

Pairings: Yuri/Otabek, Yuuri/Victor, with Yuri crushing on Yuuri

...Yes this is an xxxHolic AU where Yuri P is Watanuki, Victor is Yuuko, Yuuri K is Himawari and Otabek is Doumeki (yes, you read that right now go think about that; if you haven’t read the manga then it’s okay, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Probably)

Edit: you can now vote for this to be the next fic I write here!

The world is a large place full of wonderful and terrifying things. Humans walk proudly through it, arrogantly thinking they know all of its secrets when they haven’t even scratched the surface. Because even those who know some of Fate’s secrets know that they can’t change their own fate.

But most importantly, they know that there are no such things as coincidences. There is only Hitsuzen.

 It was a gloomy morning and it was made even worse by that thing. That thing, which, for some reason, no one could see but him. It followed him down the street, floating a few meters off the ground.

It probably had a name, but thing was all it was going to get from him.

Describing it required a good look and that probably meant going mad as well. And he wasn’t going to go mad. He was already really angry. Going mad would only make everything worse. So he could only describe it (if anyone ever forced him to) as a big disgusting, foul thing, as something unnatural in all meanings of the word.

And Yuri Plisetsky was well acquainted with the unnatural. Unfortunately, he was much better acquainted with it than he would have liked.

No one else could see it. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? Why was he the only one cursed to see it? Why couldn’t he also be oblivious to it? Seeing it didn’t exactly give him any special abilities.

“Aargh!” he screamed, the sound of his voice filling the street. “Why do you have to follow me?”

But shouting didn’t help either. He stumbled down the street, feeling his knees give out under him. He caught the gatepost of a house just as he thought he would pass out.

And the foul thing vanished.

He looked up and stared in amazement at the house before him.

Yuri was in a normal street, or, at least, up until that moment he thought he was in a normal street. Now he wasn’t so sure. There were regular-looking houses all down the street, mostly identical to each other. Nothing about any of them was exceptionally memorable.

Except this house.

It was an odd house and that was the biggest understatement imaginable. It was made of dark wood. There was a crescent moon on its roof. The gates, which were made from the same wood as the house, somehow contrived to look more solid and menacing than the stone gates of the other houses.

Whatever, he thought, I don’t care. I just want –

And even though he could’ve sworn he told his legs to go away, they marched on, completely without any input from him whatsoever down the path that led right to the front door of the house.

He tried to stop. He tried to fight this sudden impulse of walking into odd places, but all with no luck.

They carried him onwards to the house.

“Stop it!” he shouted at his legs (and knew deep inside that it was a sure sign of impending madness). “It’s rude to walk into people’s houses without their permission!”

It was a stupid thing to shout, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that it didn’t work.

His legs took him right up to the front door where three identical-looking girls stepped out to greet him.

“Welcome to the shop!” they exclaimed in unison with serious looks on their faces.

And then the serious looks vanished and they burst out into an excited chorus of “A customer! A customer!” They were almost tripping over themselves and each other in excitement.

They grabbed Yuri by the arms and, before he’d even had time to realize what they were doing, before he could turn and run from this mad place, they dragged him inside.

The inside of the house was just as odd as the outside, but the three girls didn’t give him a lot of time to study his surroundings, or even think about the recurring image of the crescent moon: they dragged him into one of the rooms, where his attention was captured fully by someone else.

There was a man in this room. He’d draped himself lazily (and way too dramatically, in Yuri’s opinion) over a red couch, a smile on his face and a pipe in his hand. He was in a red and yellow kimono that only added to how dramatic his pose was. His icy blue eyes regarded Yuri with disinterest, as if to say “oh, there you are at last; isn’t that nice?”

Yuri, who’d been close to his breaking point for the past ten minutes, snapped. “What the hell is this weird place?”

“It’s a shop!” the triplets exclaimed. “Yeah! A shop!”

The lazy figure on the couch watched him without a word.

The triplets went quiet and a complete silence settled over the room and its inhabitants. There was no ticking of a clock and no sounds came from the street.

The man got up and reached Yuri in several long strides. He tower over him. “This is a shop that grants wishes,” he said, taking Yuri’s chin in his hand. “If you’re here, it means you have a wish.”

Yuri pushed him away. “Don’t touch me! What the hell is the problem with you? Do you just lure people in here to sell them your crap?”

“No. I just told you: this shop grants wishes. You’re not a very clever young man, are you?”

“So anyone can march in here, demand anything and get it?” Yuri asked. As if I will believe that!

The strange man chuckled. “For a price. This is a shop, after all. For the right price, any wish can be granted.”

“Any wish?” Yuri repeated incredulously.

He nodded. “Yes, but some wishes come at a very high price and would cost you your soul.”

“Soul?” he backed away.

“Yes.” The strange man circled Yuri. “Your coming here was no coincidence, no accident. It was Hitsuzen!”

Yuri swallowed nervously, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face. “Hitsuzen?” he repeated.

“Hitsuzen - a naturally foreordained event. A state in which other outcomes are impossible. A result which can only be obtained by a single causality, and all other causalities would necessarily create different results. So reads the Kodansha Japanese desk dictionary, second edition.” The strange man paused with a smile.

Yuri stared at him with his mouth slightly open. “What the hell?” he demanded as the meaning of the last sentence sank in.

The man chuckled, no doubt pleased by this terrible joke.

“What is your name?” he asked, draping himself over the couch again.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” he answered.

“And your birthday?”

“M-March 1st,” Yuri answered.

The strange man burst out laughing. “What sort of person tells a stranger their real name and birthday?”

“What?” Yuri demanded, his fists clenching.

“My name is Victor Nikiforov,” the strange man said, wrapping his arms around the triplets as they circled him. “It’s a fake name, of course.” He kissed the forehead of one of the triplets. “And these are my assistants in the shop: Axel, Lutz and Loop. Aren’t they the cutest names you ever heard?”

“No! What the hell is the matter with you?” What’s the deal with him? And what do I say to that? I need to get the hell out of here! He turned to go, but Victor was there right in front of him.

“Like I said, you being here means that you have a wish and that I must grant it,” he said, taking Yuri’s chin in his hand again.

“Let go of me, you pervert!” Yuri exclaimed, pushing him away.

Victor stepped back. “Do you have a watch?”

“Hm? What?” He searched around in his pocket and pulled out an old watch. “It’s a family heirloom,” he said, handing it over to Victor. “My grandfather handed it down to me from his father.”

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Victor whispered and threw down a little circle that expanded in size. Yuri wasn’t sure where it came from. It looked like Victor had pulled it out of his sleeve. Victor stared into it as if hypnotized. “Yuri Plisetsky… birthday March first. You lost your parents when you were small. You live with your grandfather now. Your future is very uncertain, but you are hard-working and independent, which might help you deal with anything that comes your way. Or it might only make things worse. You have a big trouble, caused by your blood.”

Yuri stepped back. He hadn’t been prepared to hear his fortune read out like this.

Victor went on, as if in a trance. “Your blood lets you see creatures that few humans can see. Unfortunately, this means that they’re all attracted to you.”

The circle was gone and Victor pocketed Yuri’s watch. “I’ll grant your wish,” he said.

“Give me back my watch, you idiot!” Yuri demanded.

“It’s not your watch anymore,” Victor told him. “I’ve taken it as payment for reading your fortune.” He put an arm around Yuri’s shoulders. “You live only with your grandfather, which means…” He leaned in close to Yuri’s ear, as if about to whisper some great secret, “…that you’re very good at housework, right?”

“Yes,” Yuri agreed, confused at the speed at which they jumped from wishes and his fortune to housework.

“Excellent!” Victor exclaimed, stepping away and giving Yuri a big grin with a clap of his hands. “That will be your payment: from now on you will do all of the housework around here.”

“What?”

“You will work in this shop until I say it’s enough and then I will grant your wish!” Victor announced.

When the hell did I agree to this? Yuri demanded as the triplets danced happily around him, singing the word “housework” over and over again.

At some point during the evening he’d walked into hell itself and now he wondered if there was a way back to the land of the normal and the sane.

 He wondered the same thing the next afternoon as he stuffed his things into his school bag. It was the end of yet another uneventful school day. He only wished the afternoon could be equally uneventful.

“That man is insane,” he muttered to himself, “and that store of his is as mad as he is. How much junk can one person keep? And how long will I have to deal with this crap? Ughh! And now I have to go back there!”

“Go back where?” another voice asked.

“To that stupid store of his, of course!” he answered without thinking.

He froze, realizing that not only was he complaining aloud, but that there was another person joining in. He raised his head and met the eyes of the most perfect being in existence.

Yuuri Katsuki.

He felt his heart melt and all thoughts of creepy men in strange shops went out the window.

Yuuri Katsuki – the best person in all the world, his classmate and his crush. He was tall, dark-haired and handsome. He was the best at everything. He was kind and just being in his presence was enough to make the day better.

“Did you get a job in a shop?” Yuuri asked, giving him a smile brighter than the sun.

Yuri pulled himself together. He did what he always did and fell back on his hostile attitude. “Yeah and what’s it to you?” he asked.

“Y-you’re right,” Yuuri said. “It’s none of my business. It was wrong of me to listen in.” He turned away, looking as if someone had hit him.

Why do you have to be such a pushover? Yuri wondered. If anyone else had done it, it would’ve pissed him off to no end and it would’ve been enough for Yuri to consider them a loser and hate them for all eternity.

But this was Yuuri Katsuki. And everything he did was perfect.

“I… I just meant,” he racked his brains for a good excuse, “it’s awkward that I have to work in a shop.” What a lame excuse!

Yuuri turned around with a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with that! What kind of a shop is it? Maybe I can visit it sometime?”

He had a terrible image then of innocent Yuuri in the clutches of that strange Victor who would try to steal his soul in exchange for the promise of granting him some wish.

“No! It’s a horrible shop!” Yuri protested. “You won’t like it at all!”

And then he wondered if Yuuri had a wish. Not a small, silly wish, but a big wish that only Victor could grant.

[avatoh]

Happy Birthday to the Wonderful Scienceoftheidiot! <3<3<3

A birthday fic for @scienceoftheidiot , who wanted: "Something about Reid and Jackson geeking out over science."

You are the best and kindest person ever! I really admire your art and fics. I hope by the time i’m your age I’ll be as good as you are at things. I love our little chats. You are just so pure and caring, its adorable!

Sooooo: Edmund Reid and Homer Jackson have little chats about advancements in technology over the years. 

(A special thanks to @soot-and-snide for helping me edit this)

Read below:

Homer Jackson and Edmund Reid didn’t have much in common. One thing that they did have in common, however, was their love for new technology and science. Early on in their strange relationship, even before they were friends, they discovered their mutual interest by a small accident. That incident unknowingly helped their bond become stronger.

Most of his life, Reid had been attracted to all things innovative and scientific. As a young boy he would often read of the changing times and of the advancements clever men of science had made. He would get his nose into a good and informational book whenever he had the chance to do so. When he joined the police force, his love for science was renewed. Chemicals, poison, narcotics, and the occasional use of explosive were regular aspects of his job that he wished to know more about. Studying them, at least the basics of them, helped him with job and simply fascinated him at the same time.

While some of the scientific facts that he knew had been discovered due to the many years he worked his job; the other source of his knowledge was from reading. Reid read articles, papers, scholarly journals and scientific or forensic textbooks as a hobby in addition to his normal reading almost on a daily basis. Learning could do nothing but help him, he reasoned with himself every time he purchased new material. His expenses were justified. One such of these texts he regularly read was a periodical that contained within its pages the world’s newest scientific, engineering and the occasional new technology advancements. He usually kept his reading material at home or tucked safely away on his desk.

One evening, Homer Jackson, a man Reid personally employed on occasion, found his way to Reid’s office to ask him a question.

“Mr. Reid, I wanted to run this by you before I did it but... Hey, what is it you’ve got there?” A smirk crawled across Jackson’s face

“What?” Reid demanded, not quite catching on to what the American was talking about.

“That.” Jackson pointed to the periodical on Reid’s desk.

“Oh,” Reid furiously blinked. “That’s my magazine. Why?”

“Cause I got one, myself, that I left in that room I was working in. I thought you confiscated it or something, I dunno,” Jackson chuckled lightly. “I would have never figured you a man of science. Most of your kind are against it.”

“My kind?”

“Coppers. They only believe that a criminal is guilty if he is caught with the bloodied weapon or someone says they are guilty.”

“I think the fact that I employ you under the table, proves quite the contrary. There are certainly other methods to prove guilt, as you well know. You’ve been more than helpful than the other surgeons in our employ with your science.”

“But you're the only one who’s willing to try my methods.”

Reid paused. “I suppose so.”

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

Jackson came into the Stationhouse to help Reid two weeks later.

“Did you read the new issue yet?” Jackson asked as Reid was looking over his work.

“Of what? Ah the magazine! No, I haven’t the time. I’ve been busy with the case...”

“You mean-” Jackson started.

“Yes, that one,” Reid said, tensed and tired.

“I can tell you about the main articles if you want while we’re waiting for the results here. One thing first.” Jackson turned on one of the bunsen burners he had been working on and lit up a cigarette. He took one puff before handing it to Reid. “Here, I think you need this.”

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

“Really, guncotton?” Jackson coughed as they sat outside of the charred remains of the photographer’s darkroom they had just been trapped in with Drake.

“It was mentioned in one of the papers I read about two months ago,” Reid said.

“Have you ever made it before now?

“No.”

Jackson started chuckling. “You amaze me, Reid.”

“How come you didn’t think of that. You're supposed to be the scientific one,” Drake accused.

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

“I can’t believe you made me my own goddamned deadroom!”

“Just as you described,” Reid said repeated proudly for the second time that day. It was evening now and Jackson and he were breaking in the new room. Both were equally excited.

“How on God’s green earth did you remember.” Jackson was referring to that evening they had talked for hours about John Hopkins over drinks. They had chatted about science, experiments and their results. Jackson was more than happy to tell a listening ear about his findings but Reid was different, he listened attentively.

“You were quite passionate about the building,” Reid smiled softly. “It made me want to see it too. So, I brought it here to you. I hope you won’t disappoint.”

“I trust you've tested all the equipment yourself before you let me in.”

“I may have.”

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

“I need you to help me send a telegraph,” Reid commanded.

“Me?!”

“You're the only other one around at this hour who would be of any help.” It was about a quarter to two in the morning and everyone was gone, asleep. “It’s important.”

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t know Morse.”

“A learned man such as yourself doesn't know Morse code?” Jackson asked inquisitively.

“I have a book at home and know the basics but the message I need to send is important. I don’t have room for error and I was hoping that you may know how to use one since you were in the Army and worked as a Pinkerton.”

“I’ll be right up to the room. Five minutes.”

Reid walked up the staircase by himself and looked at the wired machine on the table. He really had meant to learn how to use it, but with Hobbs and the other constables working for him, he hadn’t the needed to.

Jackson came up the stairs to find Reid staring at the machine intenltly.

“It’s not going to bite you, you know.”

“I know,” Reid admitted. “But I have no idea how to work it and don’t want to break it.”

“I’ve never used one before either,” Jackson admitted.

“Then why are you up here?”

“An opportunity. Never had the chance to play around with one of these before.”

“Jackson, this is not a plaything or an experiment. It’s an expensive piece of equipment!”

“Fine. I won’t help you then.”

“No wait!”

“I thought so,” Jackson smirked. He loomed over Reid who was sitting in the only chair.

“Let's see now…” Jackson mumbled to himself. Suddenly, he crouched to the floor and looked underneath the table. Reid’s body tensed up as the other man on the floor for some reason. “Got it!” Jackson shouted as he hit his head.

“What is it you’ve got?” Reid’s voice crackled.

“His notes,” Jackson said as he emerged from underneath the table with his hair tousled. He slapped upon the flat surface a half-sheet of paper with telegraph basic, written ever so small by hand. Reid looked impressed. “I saw Hobbs under here once. He tacked this under the table when he was still learning.”

“This is most helpful, Captain.”

The two got to work.

“This machine is incredible,” Reid breathed as his large fingers danced on the small knob of the telegraph that allowed him to create letters.

“It really is.”

“To think, I’m communicating with someone miles away with just the tip of my finger.”

“Yes, but you must stop hogging the machine! I don’t know why you made me come up here if you won’t let me do anything.”

“You found the paper. And converted the message to the code.”

“You made me do all the work with no reward!”

“I’ll let you do the last sentence, but I have to wait here all night for the reply. You’ve got the better end of this partnership,” Reid smiled. It was now around 3 am. The smile on Jackson's smile sparkled in the moonlight.

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

“Have you taken a look at this month’s Science Journal yet?” Reid asked Jackson as he came into the dead room to check on a case’s progress.

“Nah. Haven’t had the time,” Jackson said poking at a lung with his scalpel. “Anything interesting this time around?”

“A few articles and dissertations. Edison put a new patient out again.”

“I’m not surprised. Bastard. But he is doing more than I’ll ever do with my life, I’ll give him that.”

“You do a lot, Jackson”

“I’m not as spectacular as him,” Jackson pointed out. “He’s making money.”

“He’s an inventor, you're a surgeon.”

“Exactly! He’s done more with this life than I have... and more importantly, is making money from it”

“Jackson, I say this in earnest: I don’t know what I would do without you here.”

“You’d figure something out.” Jackson's eyes flashed mysteriously, as if he had other plans and secrets that he neglected to tell Reid of.

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

The whole of H-division hadn’t slept in days. There had been three killings in the last week, and during that time, nobody got any sleep. Reid was currently pacing around the room in an agitated circle.

“Will you hurry it up, man!?”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Jackson stood with a pipette and a bunch of chemicals in all sorts of shaped containers. His eyes were sunken in and he was in desperate need of caffeine, nicotine, or anything that could help him focus and stay awake better.

“How much longer?”

“It’s done when it's done, goddammit!”

Reid’s pacing stopped. “I cannot stress enough how much I need this now, Jackson. Lives are at stake!”

Jackson stopped his work too.

“If you think you can do a better job, then you do it.” Jackson shoved his pipette and bottle of liquid he was working with into Reid’s hands. The liquid sloshed over the side and Jackson walked out, leaving Reid standing there with his hands full and his shirt soiled.

Jackson walked out of the station in a hurry and slipped off to fill his belly. Reid could be demanding sometimes, too demanding. He was sure when he returned he’d find Reid and his men rushing around the lab with their heads cut off, and he’d get an earful. A break to whet one’s whistle was always good.

When he returned, Reid was still in the room, leaning over Jackson's findings and work-space. He didn’t glance up as Jackson entered the room so Jackson decided to get back to work at his station. Reid, however, did seem to notice once Jackson was working next to him. He grabbed Jackson by his lapels and yanked him towards his own body.

“Just what do you think you’re doing!”

“I was taking a break,” Jackson said as coolly as possible. He felt his anger began to rise as Reid pushed him back towards the table to release him. Glass broke and spilt all over the work space. “What the hell, Reid!” Jackson howled, removing himself from the table and using his full strength to give a shove at Reid.

Reid nearly lost his footing, but when he regained it, he gave Jackson a poisonous look and rushed at Jackson, pushing him down upon the glass-shattered covered table. They were fighting now. Actual fighting. In the end, they gave up on the thing they were working on for the day.

The next day, a few shards remained on the floor that hadn’t been picked up from their previous fight. Jackson sat at his station watching a tinted liquid filter it’s way through a twisty tube. Today he felt a lot better. He had a full night sleep for the first time in awhile and food in his stomach. Reid probably felt the same way. They were both too damn tired from lack of sleep and it just got out of hand.

Reid lingered near the doorway.

“Come in,” Jackson allowed. This time he was the one not looking up from his work.

“Jackson-”

“What do you want, Reid? I've had to start this whole process over from scratch and with substitute and less than ideal methods.” Jackson gestured to the pile of smashed beakers. “I’m working as fast as I can.”

“I just wanted to say, Captain. About yesterday; what I mean to say is that I’m sorry.” Reid’s hand found itself on Jackson's’ shoulder, “You may take all the time you need to yields proper results.” Reid released Jackson's shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

Jackson finally turned around and nodded. “Thanks. See you around, Reid.”

[harrison-abbott]

ODE FOR THOMAS PYNCHON

  There is an episode in Season 6 of The Simpsons called Hommie the Clown. The story begins when Homer is driving down a motorway, and, seeing lines of billboards in front of him, exclaims, “It must be the first day of the month! New billboard day!” He drives closer and stops in front of the first billboard, an advert for English muffins, which perks his interest, and then onto the next, an advert for BBQ sauce, which makes him chuckle. He then spots a billboard with the bold letters ‘KRUSTY’S CLOWN COLLEGE’ with four dancing Krustys under it. Homer scoffs and remarks, “Clown College … You can’t eat that!” and drives off. Despite declaring himself uninterested in the Krusty billboard, it keeps popping into Homer’s mind. He begins to hallucinate at work, his colleagues turning into clowns, accompanied by jangly circus music. At the family dinner table that evening, he makes a circus tent with his pile of mashed potatoes. Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie turn into dancing clowns, prompting Homer to explode, “That’s it! You people have stood in my way long enough! I’m going to clown college!”

 This is an analogy for a discovery I made as a younger man in my University days. But, before going on, allow a brief introduction to the personal context within which that discovery was made.

 I was 22 and had just completed the 3rd Year of my Psychology undergraduate degree. It was summer, and I’d just moved in to a new flat. I’d also just been dumped by a girl – ha – which made me rather blue. The said girl had been inviting me out on dates for around two months. The first month went pretty well, or so I thought back then. The second month the girl began to repeatedly talk about her ex-boyfriend, who had been a half-friend of mine before and who I hadn’t known was her ex. Her talking of the ex grew more repetitive on our dates, until it became one of the main things she talked about. On the last date I had with the girl, she invited me out on a picnic, and talked about how impressed she was with the ex for getting a 1st in his Degree. He was graduating that same day, and she was sending him a surprise bottle of wine for his afterparty. We finished the picnic, which she had prepared, and she made to leave. I motioned to kiss her bye on the lips; she snatched her head away to the side and allowed me to kiss her on the cheek. I made some jokey remark, like, “Oh I was actually aiming for the lips …?” She laughed, turned, and walked away. A few hours later she called me up to break it off, insinuating that there was another man in her life. And kept asking me to guess who this other man was.

 But, blah blah, this story is so absurd I now just find it funny. The relevant thing was that it led me onto a horrific alcoholic binge after it ended. I got fucked out my brain on whisky, wine, beer for weeks on end – drank as much as I could, just to hurt myself. I became obsessed with Kurt Cobain, like some 14-year-old, and kept self-harming with Bic razor blades, determined to convince myself that I had Bi-Polar Disorder. Haha, it was pathetic. I drank a half bottle of cheap whisky before every shift at work: I don’t know how I didn’t get fired.

 My flatmate whom I’d just moved in with went off on a long summer holiday to Europe, meaning I had the space to myself for three months. My binge came to a moment of clarity, one lucky day, and I decided to halt the boozing for a night. I cleared all the bottles/cans out to the bins, and I went down to the University Library that evening.

 The Sir Duncan Rice Library at Aberdeen was terrific – probably the place which has most nurtured me intellectually. Whilst I studied a scientific degree, which was dependent on reading electronic science journals, I was far more interested in the physical literature section in the Library, which was huge. So I would raid the novels and poetry collections alongside doing Psychology, a healthy mix of art and science. The Library also had this little music room in an isolated corner of the building, with a keyboard and recording equipment. I’d go in there and make weird recordings, many of which became part of the Violent Birth of the Moon repertoire. The Library was thus an enchanting place where I could learn and be creative.

 It also stayed open into the a.m. hours each night, so that a handful of us insomniac-Travis-Bickle types could go there whenever we pleased. But that day when I sobered up was the most important day of my University era.

 I first saw it – the book – whilst roaming the American literature section. ‘Gravity’s Rainbow …’ I thought, ‘That’s a ballsy title …’ I picked it up – a huge, blue, hardbacked, clumpy thing, without any jacket or front cover image. Just those words and an author I’d never encountered before. I skimmed through it and the text was smaller and denser than any of the other books I had in my current haul. I’d come on it by chance, and why hadn’t I heard of it? And why was there no blurb, or author bio – nothing to explain it? Annoyed with curiosity, I hesitated, but then put it back on the shelve. And I went back home with the other books, and sat in my silent flat, trying to read them. I managed to avoid buying booze from the shop before 10 p.m., and I dosed off to sleep, unsatisfied with the books I’d tried. I had a dream about the enormous blue book I’d left behind in the Library. I woke up whilst it was still dark, got dressed, and cycled back to the campus and took Gravity’s Rainbow out.  

 I stopped drinking, ended the absurd binge, forgot about the silly girl-incident, and became completely obsessed with this new book.

 These are the two sentences which complete the first paragraph of Thomas Pynchon’s 760 page novel Gravity’s Rainbow:

“A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.”

After and during my obsession for the book, I kept telling other people about it. I kept trying to explain the answer when they asked “what’s it about?” I couldn’t do it, at least not very well. Wikipedia cites the basic setting and plot of the novel as thus:

“Lengthy, complex, and featuring a large cast of characters, the narrative is set primarily in Europe at the end of World War II, and centres on the design, production and dispatch of V-2 rockets by the German military. In particular, it features the quest undertaken by several characters to uncover the secret of a mysterious device named the "Schwarzgerät" ("black device"), slated to be installed in a rocket with the serial number "00000".”

Except, the above is not a revealing explanation. Not that I could do any better, but I’ll try.

 The main plot-premise involves the central character Slothrop and his adventures during the closing chapters of WWII. Slothrop travels across Europe a great deal and has sex with a great deal of women. Every time Slothrop has sex, a V-2 rocket strikes the exact same spot in which the sexual incident occurred, a few days later. All kinds of military craftsmen and rocket scientists begin to believe that Slothrop has some mystic ability to thus predict the powers of the V-2 rockets, which is in someway connected to this coveted secret called the Schwarzgerät with the special number 00000. These military craftsmen and scientists seek to capture Slothrop in order to understand a mystical element of warfare for self-benefit. Slothrop’s sexual exploits take him from London, to the French Riviera, Northern Germany … yet nowhere is specific, and Europe becomes a roaming magical place of setting. Alongside his women he meets MI5 agents, SS officers, sex slaves, Pavlovian psychologists, a militarily-engineered octopus with which he has a physical fight, Schwarzkommando cadres, a witch, a porn star … Slothrop slowly begins to lose his mind, and channels a variety of alter-egos, as a war reporter, a German actress, a Russian troop … It is too hard to explain, really.

 Because it is unlike any thing I have ever encountered artistically. Not even solely in a literary sense. There is no book like Gravity’s Rainbow, but no film, or symphony or spectacular work of art either. I love GR for its ability to blend the obscure, the offbeat and the irregular into something that can be read with a type of astonished relish. The book is narrated almost entirely in present-tense, which gives it a rollicking pace. Words and sentences constantly explode in chaotic directions, yet all seem to be linked together in perfect imperfection. Pynchon bends his syntax, elongates language, punches and drags the reader through wacky scenarios. There are rape scenes, murder scenes, which should be too horrific to read – and they are horrific, but are described so exquisitely that one’s eyes lap them up. A lot of the book is very funny, often crass, crude. And yet most importantly Pynchon clearly has morality behind his multivariate approach. For instance, here’s an example, taken from a single paragraph (from my edition pages 549-551):

“The nationalities are on the move. It is a great frontierless streaming out here … Poles fleeing the Lublin regime, others going back home, the eyes of both parties, when they do meet, hooded behind cheekbones, eyes much older than what’s forced them into moving … Estonians, Letts, and Lithuanians trekking north again, all in their wintry wool in dark bundles, shoes in tatters, songs too hard to sing, talk pointless … white wrists and ankles incredibly wasted poking from their striped prison camp pajamas, footsteps light as waterfowl’s in this inland dust … bobbing, drifting, at a certain hour of the dusk, like candleflames in religious procession – supposed to be heading today for Hannover, supposed to pick potatoes along the way … non-existent potato fields plundered by the SS, ja, every fucking potato field, and what for? Alcohol. No, not to drink, alcohol for the rockets. … Women in army trousers split at the knees … looted chickens alive and dead … harmoniums, grandfather clocks … paintings of pink daughters in white frocks, of saints bleeding, of salmon and purple sunsets over the sea, dolls smiling out of violently red lips … So the populations move, across the open meadow, limping, marching, shuffling, carried, hauling along the detritus of an order, a European and bourgeois order they don’t know yet is destroyed forever.”

What can we see here? Aside from wonderful wordplay and beautiful language we see how clever Pynchon is. He has a wide knowledge of the war, and a compassion for the masses of people it affected. The sense of setting is profound; the enormity of the war is emphasised. This is only a fragment of the quoted paragraph …

 Pynchon is thus a historian as well as a writer of fiction. As well as a mathematician, scientist, music fanatic, film buff; all seen in a glorious collection of references, stats, diagrams, quotes, you name it. I’m clearly a nerd of this book. And perhaps not everybody would feel the same about it. Indeed, the book received much negative backlash by the critics upon initial reception in 1973. Although nominated for the Pulitzer Fiction Award in 1974, it was described as ‘unreadable’ and ‘overwritten’ by the jury board. And directly rejected because of a sex scene involving coprophagia – the consumption of faeces, in this case for sexual gratification. This particular scene is only one of many erratic moments in the book, and definitely not the most ‘immoral’, if that is the correct word. This is a common example of how stupid the critics can be. And another example of how great works of art do not receive the attention they deserve by the critics of their time.

 Anyway. Thomas Pynchon is a writer who has influenced me vastly, in a way differently from other influences. I’m not saying he is the ‘best’ or ‘most important’ to me, his work simply has a unique power over me. That particular summer, when I cleared up and read GR was among the most exhilarating periods in my life. It set me new ambitions, not necessarily to emulate Pynchon’s work (because this is impossible) but to be confident that there are always new things to be expressed in literature, and art. How an artist can be playful, universal with his craft, not afraid to seep up all his influences and hurl them wherever he wishes. I’ve read Pynchon’s other works too, and love them as well. I’ll admit I have a personal attachment in Gravity’s Rainbow because it singlehandedly pulled me out of that deranged period of alcohol, yet more importantly extended my love for literature to even greater levels, which I would never have thought possible. It’s an obsession which I still have, lingering.

 I found a rare copy of Gravity’s Rainbow which I’d been looking for for ages. In a second hand bookstore – a neat, antique copy, for only £3. Thrilled, I took it into the woods by my home neighbourhood to read again. And I still can’t quite believe it, but I went and lost it somewhere in the woods. I was playing football with my dog at the same time, and somehow I must have left it on one of the park benches perhaps. Somebody found it, picked it up – and took it home? Or they threw it into the bushes? Either way, it feels like there’s a copy of it, waiting, hidden somewhere in the woods for me to find one day in the future. And hidden in my childhood play-arena, as it were, gives it a further sense of mysticism. When works of art can obsess a person so, they must have something special. As a developing writer myself, I hope I can make something that will affect people in such a way, one day. But I’ll need to put a lot of effort in before I can get anywhere near Gravity’s Rainbow.

  15/05/19

[teachanarchy]

“I do not know a Blackness that isn’t queer. I never have, never will, and never could separate the two even if I tried.”

I wrote the above in response to an article by a colleague in which he argued the merits of centering his Black identity before his gay identity. I understood where he was coming from then, and perhaps even more so now.

For him, gay identity was so often taken over by white gay men that he felt the need to reassert his Blackness, so forcefully, perhaps, that it pushed his sexuality to the back-burner.

But I believe it is vitally necessary to hold all of my identities in the same hand at all times, and remain convinced that they are each always affecting my lived experience. Though maybe less obviously depending on the context, all aspects of who I am play an equitably important role in bringing the whole picture together. In fact, they affect one another so much that none can really be understood on its own.

My Blackness, for example, is only understood as Black through how I have encountered it as a queer person in America.

Everything I know about Blackness has been interpreted through that lens.

This is what intersectionality really is – not parsing out separate identities and lining them beside or in front of each other, but knowing that all parts of us are always connected and informing one another.

Recently, though, it has become almost impossible to ignore the level at which white LGBTQIIA+ folks, white women and white gender non-conforming people have taken over gender/sexuality identities.

In their activism and in asserting their identity, marginalized white people continuously try to force people of color into their mold and then chastise us for not fitting — all the while demanding solidarity.

For example, both Madeline Albright and Gloria Steinem, widely considered (white) feminist icons, last week demonized (all) women who don’t support Hillary Clinton’s White House bid, with Albright proclaiming “there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women,” and Steinem suggesting that young women support Bernie Sanders simply to meet boys.

I can most certainly imagine even some white women have better reasons than boys to refuse to support a candidate simply because they are also a white woman.

More importantly, though, this insistence on unconditional solidarity from women of color, whose gendered struggles may not be represented by Clinton, is indicative of a far more sinister issue upon which my colleague touched.

In the minds of many white people, gender and sexuality belong to them alone — they get to define it, set its parameters and make themselves the default, then demand support for that default.

Black women, for instance, are supposed to not even consider how the Clintons’ policies have harmed them significantly in the past because of a shared “womanhood?”

But the issue is that “womanhood” isn’t shared cross-culturally any more than “motherhood” is shared across families. Yes, the relationships between you and your mother and me and mine have at least some similarities, but my relationship with my mother is unique from yours.

She still may be a mother and you still might deal with some of the same things that come up when dealing with a mother, but I will never be your mother’s child — though this doesn’t negate the importance of the fact that we are both someone’s child, or that motherhood means something different for an adopted child than for me, or that my relationship to my mother may be more positive or negative than even my siblings’ relationship even while we are all her children.

Though intersectionality is becoming more widely understood and the problems with white feminism are being increasingly deconstructed, we still haven’t gotten to the root of the problem.

White gender and sexuality aren’t even nearly the same thing as my gender and sexuality, and the differences can’t be glossed over any more than the “my” in “my mother” can.

White queer folks benefit from the “gay rights” movement focusing on “marriage equality” in ways that I do not.

White male-perceived folks benefit from their gender presentation in the workplace in ways that I do not.

White queer folks benefit from blaming Black communities when “gay rights” fail on the ballot, though that doesn’t even acknowledge my existence.

Gender operates vastly differently across race. Here are 4 reasons this should always be acknowledged.

1. Unless An Ethnicity Is Specified, Whiteness Is Always the Default — And That’s A Problem

A few days ago, I had a good laugh with a friend about something I noticed when writing about racial issues for a certain publication. In each of the edits sent back to me, whenever “person” or “people” was added to my language, they never specified “white,” though that was always to whom the sentence would sensibly refer if following my argument.

As evidenced by when Dan Savage spread the lie that the Black community was the reason Proposition 8 failed in 2008, making white the default means the humanity of many nonwhite people doesn’t even register. If “the Black community” can hate “queer people” with no nuance, what about Black queer people? It’s as if they don’t exist.

This is dangerous on so many levels.

For one, it means that the issues affecting nonwhite queer people specifically are never addressed, and if  queerantagonism only affects white people, who needs to care about queer people of color?

Secondly, it means the things that might honestly benefit white people while inversely affecting their counterparts of color go unanalyzed. Hillary Clinton becoming president might be a breakthrough for white women, but what about the harm her policies might do that are specific to women of color?

Bayna-Lehkiem El-Amin became the target of gay rights activists’ hatred, under the guise of “activism,” after being seen on video hitting a white gay man with a chair in New York City, even as his own queerness was noted and he claimed self-defense.

Eventually, full video of the incident proved he was attacked first, but the same “gay” media outlets that had so demonized him without considering a racial element never picked the story back up. In fact, many of them never remarked on his sexuality in the first place.

This is because “gay rights” basically means “white gay rights,” and when it came down to a choice between supporting a white gay man and Black one, “gay rights” had already picked at side.

If we always name race when discussing these issues, we can avoid the problem of white becoming the default and make its harm less easy to disguise.

2. White Concepts of Gender/Sexuality Categories Do Not Always Fit for POC

I’ve been doing a lot of public exploration of my gender and sexuality recently. It’s been a wonderfully beautiful and enlightening experience.

However, a few weeks back I was reprimanded by a white queer person for claiming “queer” when they thought I was only interested in men (untrue and irrelevant) and for claiming to be non-binary when (to them) I was perceived as a man.

Because of the previously mentioned problem of white being the default, many people assume that gender and sexuality are only determined when it matches what white people know it to be. If white never needs to be specified, it must be the most legitimate and everything else is an aberration.

Real women vote like white women. Real queer folk fuck like queer white folk. Real gender looks like what white people perceive it to be.

But gender is expressed differently across race and always has been.

Regardless of “shared” gender and sexuality, we are affected by different things, perceived differently and move through the world in different ways.

Cultures that existed before European colonization looked at questions of gender and sexuality through a lens unfamiliar to many now, and that means that ideas of gender and sexuality exist outside of the Eurocentric imagination. Allowing white to be the default limits gender and sexuality to a very incomplete imagination.

By always recognizing race with gender and sexuality, we are better able to expand those concepts to cover all of the different, beautiful and important ways we exist.

3. POC Are Blamed For Not Fitting Into These White-Centric Categories

What that white person said as he pushed back against my identity was that without ascribing to how they viewed gender and sexuality, I was “taking up space” in their community.

This was through no fault of my own, I am queer and non-binary even if this person couldn’t perceive it.

But not fitting into their perception of what that means was reason enough for them to attack me — and that is a violent appropriation of sexuality and gender justice.

Similarly, women of color with perfectly good reason not to automatically find solidarity with white women are told they are not “feminists” and that “there is a special place in hell” for them by the likes of Albright and Steinem.

This is part of the reason why Womanism was created, with Black women becoming fed up with being told their feminism must look exactly like white feminism for them to really care about gender based oppressions.

Along with intersectionality, all these ideas point to the same thing: gender is raced and race is gendered (and classed – this shouldn’t be forgotten either), and therefore we should always be aware that they exist simultaneously.

This person was correct, I do not fit into their idea of queerness, but that’s because my queerness is Black.

Queerness absolutely does show up in different ways across cultures, and acknowledging this is not only a recognition of simple reality, but also a necessary affirmation that this reality is okay.

4. Gender/Sexuality Solidarity Is Demanded from POC Without Reciprocation

As Twitter user Margi Nowak reminded us, Gloria Steinem and Madeline Albright never chastised women for not backing Shirley Chisholm, the first Black woman Presidential candidate in 1972. In fact, they never even campaigned with her.

Black queer people in California were called homophobes when Prop 8 failed without even being acknowledged by people like Dan Savage, what to speak of actually having him campaign for the issues that affected them most. Even while being blamed and ignored, they were supposed to unquestioningly support those blaming and ignoring them.

Trans women of color are supposed to cheer along with Caitlyn Jenner as she loudly supports conservative policies and organizations most fatal to them.

When gender and sexuality are default and default is white, Whiteness doesn’t even need to be mentioned in order to take precedence.

All our issues are tied in with theirs, but none of theirs need be tied in with ours.

This doesn’t mean that the issues affecting white people in marginalized communities based on their gender or sexuality aren’t important. In fact, those issues are tied in with ours. But it does mean that the centering of the multiply marginalized is most important. If anything should be default when talking oppression, it should be the most affected by it.

By naming race with gender and sexuality, we can better point to those whose issues have gone ignored and better support and amplify their voices.

***

Language is important. Too often when things aren’t mentioned we take them for granted, and taking the reality that gender is always raced and vice versa for granted has proven very dangerous.

I could make the case that all identities should be spoken together, and in many ways this is a case for that, barring impracticality. But at the very least, we should always be cognizant of the ways the different aspects of us exist simultaneously, and take great measure to prevent forgetting.