#its pronounced as May-Cell-Ya

[monochromatictoad]

Last post for the night.

This is Maycella, my Castlevania LoS self insert. They run a bookstore in Castlevania City, and provide information to both Trevor and Gabriel. She is an Arachne like Myrrh, however he dyes the fur on his spider limbs.

[writethelifeyouwant]

Paint It Black

Pairing: Sam x Dean 

Rating: 16+

Tags: wax play, unholy thoughts in church, incest, making out, angst

Word Count: 3.8k 

Created for: @spnkinkbingo - Wax Play Kink | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Locked In | @first-time-wincest-fest 10x16 Paint It Black 

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

The dreary grey of the Worcester sky matches the mood Sam is in as they trudge into the church on the main drag of the historic town centre. Dean is so convinced there is a case to be had here, but so far, Sam hasn’t seen any concrete proof. Just – as he had predicted – some unfortunately angled nude selfies on one of the deceased's confiscated cell phones. He had been less than pleased about that – to Dean’s endless amusement.

Sam leaves Dean with Sister Mathias to do what he does best, though Sam does have doubts about whether his brother’s charms will work on a woman sworn to celibacy in the service of Jesus Christ. Still, she wouldn’t be the most unlikely person to have succumbed to Dean’s flirting – Sam definitely holds that prize. Shaking himself from those thoughts – what a place to think about your weird incestuous crush, Jesus – fuck. Sorry, God – Sam follows the EMF meter in a circle around the perimeter of the congregational hall. The readings are consistent but low level, like a background energy of spiritual activity which, for a church, is not actually all that concerning to him. When a stronger surge registers at the entrance to a side chamber, Sam pushes at the door, happy to find it unlocked, and he ducks into the dark room after checking over his shoulder and seeing Dean standing quite a bit closer to the nun than strangers should be to each other.  

Inside, Sam can’t find the light switch, so he grabs his phone and turns on the flashlight, aiming it at the EMF metre to get a look at the readings. The spike that had registered outside the door a moment ago has died out, and only small blips are twitching the needle on its face. He shrugs to himself, but figures he may as well check out the rest of the room now he’s here. In the short beam of light from his phone, he can see stacks of bibles and hymnals, boxes of hosts, and piles of candlesticks – your typical Catholic accoutrements. A creak behind him makes Sam spin around, only to find Dean ducking into the room, looking furtive.

“Hey, man. Find anything?” Dean keeps his voice down.

“No,” Sam shakes head, holding up his EMF reader to demonstrate his lack of supernatural evidence.

“Yours broken?” Dean looks quizzically at Sam and reaches to retrieve his own from his pocket. “Mine was reading off the charts outside…” but he trails off when he sees his own metre is just as blank as Sam’s.

“Weird, right?” Sam shines his light towards Dean and makes his way back to his brother, when the light on his phone flickers and goes out.

“Dude, turn the light back on,” Dean demands in a hushed tone. Sam shakes his phone frustratedly, but he can’t get the light to reignite. His whole phone has gone dead.

“What the hell?” Sam mutters to himself, shoving it back in his jeans and carefully stepping the rest of the way to Dean. “Mine’s dead – try yours?”

“Mine’s in the car.”

“You didn’t bring your cell phone?” Sam asks, incredulous and exasperated. Dean is such a fucking idiot sometimes, it astounds him.

“Shut up,” Dean scoffs. “Let’s just get out of here.” He turns to open the door and step back into the church vestibule – but it’s stuck.

“Dude, open the door,” Sam shoves at Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m trying, dude. It’s locked.”

“You locked us in?” Sam hisses, resolving to smack Dean’s head against the door to get it open, if that’s what it takes.

“I didn’t lock us in, douchewad. I think this place is haunted – spook must’a blocked the door somehow.”

“Well, un-block it.”

“I’m trying, it won’t budge.” Dean hammers at the door, jangles the knob, kicks the baseboard – nothing. “Find some light, will ya? Can’t see a damn thing.”

Sam huffs, annoyed, but turns toward the table with the stack of candlesticks he’d seen earlier and grabs for a couple tapers. He passes one to Dean and pulls a packet of matches out of his wallet to light his, then taps the flame to Dean’s candle. Sam drops against the table, brooding, and not wild about being trapped in a small, dark room with his brother.

Things had been tense between them since Dean’s return to humanity. Sam isn’t precisely sure why, though. From his perspective, he’s relieved to have Dean back after spending so long separated and worried about whether the brother he had known had permanently dissolved into a demonic version of his former self. Dean, on the other hand, hasn’t been acting very relieved to see Sam. Sam isn’t sure what’s running through Dean’s brain these days, but whatever it is, it’s something he’s trying to keep off his brother’s radar, that much Sam’s sure of.

“So what’s your plan of action here, Rambo?”

“I don’t know, use some of your hair gel to grease the lock?” Dean snarks, crouching down to peer at the keyhole. Sam laughs reluctantly at the jibe, then hisses as a pearl of hot wax drops onto the back of his hand. Dean turns, concerned at Sam’s outburst, to see his little brother shaking his hand agitatedly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Sam flexes his fingers to break off the wax that’s drying there. “Just dripped some wax on my hand.”

“Kinky,” Dean grins and waggles his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Sam grimaces, hoping it’s too dark for Dean to see the blush creeping up his neck. Please, God, do not let him know about…

“Ooh, touchy subject?” Dean pouts, tauntingly. “What Sammy, got a wax kink?”

“Dean, shut up,” Sam realises too late that denying it is the wrong move. He absolutely just confirmed for Dean that he does have a wax kink.

“Well, well, little brother,” Dean grins, eyes glinting like a wolf’s in the dark of the small cupboard. “Someone is more adventurous than I gave him credit for – guess church is the place for confessions, heh?”

“Dean, I swear…” Sam grits his teeth, coming up blank on a decent threat to follow up with.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sammy.” Dean is stalking closer to Sam now, his resemblance to a predator more and more pronounced with each step towards his brother, who is inconveniently trapped against the table he’s sitting on. The candle in Dean’s hand is dripping down its body, the trails of wax building over themselves, the rivulets driving their way towards Dean’s skin. “S’just a little wax, nothing scary.”

“I’m not scared, Dean,” Sam scoffs, but his hackles are up. He’s not scared of the wax – he is scared of how his body will react if Dean drips wax onto him as he’s threatening to do right now.

“Hold out your hand.”

“What?” Sam is genuinely nonplussed.

“Hold out your hand.” Dean’s voice rumbles through the small space left between them, and Sam can’t explain it, but he obeys. Like Dean is a magnet and his body is no longer under his own control. His hand extends towards Dean, stilling in the pool of light flickering beneath the candlestick in the older man’s hand. Slowly – cautiously – Dean tips the candle, directing the flow of the wax to Sam’s outstretched fingertips. The first drops sizzle against Sam’s skin, his nerves burning from the heat of the wax and the heat of the arousal that’s blooming in his belly. Dean moves the tip of the candle to drizzle over the tender skin of Sam’s upturned wrist without needing his eyes to guide its path, because the green orbs glinting in the warm candlelight are focused solely on Sam’s hazel ones, which are watering with the effort of not flinching.

“So” –Sam can feel Dean’s words against his cheek– “do you confess?”  

Sam gulps. Looks down to the pearly splashes on his skin, outlined in blush. He looks back up to Dean, who’s standing taller than him for once because he’s still leaning against the table, and he takes a deep breath.

“Agents?” A knock sounds at the cupboard door and it creaks open, dousing the brothers in light. They fly apart, and Dean drops his candle, the flame going out against the stone floor.

“Father,” Dean squawks, brushing his hands against his trousers like he’s cleaning them off, and pushing them in his pockets. “What time do you hear confession today?”

Sam hovers to the side of the confessional, trying to look like he isn’t eavesdropping, which is difficult because he is listening to everything Dean is saying about ‘Gina’ to the surely perplexed priest. They’d agreed, after connecting the dots on the murder/suicide victims’ relationship preferences, that Dean confessing his womanising ways to Father Delaney would be decent bait for this spirit. Sam had helped Dean work out a brief ‘script’ based on the infidelities of the previous victims, and he was pleased to hear that so far, Dean had mostly stuck to plan. He surreptitiously sneaks his EMF metre out of his pocket to check if the readings had picked anything up. Small jumps are registering and disappearing so fast Sam isn’t sure he’s actually seeing them but that has to mean a spirit is listening in – right? – even if they aren’t nearby right now, maybe they can still hear Dean, who has been in there for a while now, it occurs to Sam.

Sam sidles closer to the wooden partition and listens. Dean’s voice is quieter now but he is still talking to the father.

“–there’s things, people... feelings, that I- I want to experience differently than I have before. Or, maybe even for the first time.”

What on Earth was he talking about? That was definitely not part of the script they’d agreed on, so those words must really be Dean’s. Dean’s actual confession.

“–just starting to think that … maybe there’s more to it all than I thought–”

Well, that could mean anything, Sam told himself. More to what? He jumps back to Dean’s first statement in his mind. People and feelings that he wants to experience differently. Sam can’t help but think – me. He wants to experience me differently. He wants to experience his feelings for me differently. He remembers all the times Dean has shown his utter devotion to Sam, to their bond, their family of two. How do you experience that depth of love differently? Sam can only think of one answer, and his heart jackrabbits against his ribs at the thought. Could Dean actually want him the way Sam wants Dean?

The confessional door squeaks open and Sam breaks out of his reverie and moves towards the doors of the church, but not before Dean clearly noticed that he had been standing close enough to the wooden booth to be listening in.

“How’d I do Samwise?” Dean asks under his breath, smirking as they make their way down the aisle of pews.

“Well, hopefully, jerks like you are just what our ghost is looking for,” Sam smiles tightly, distracted by his own thoughts racing around his mind, and follows Dean back to the car.

Ghost roasted to the recommended internal temperature, and promiscuous nun left permanently behind them, Sam steers the Impala onto the freeway exit and starts them on the long drive from Massachusetts back to the Bunker. Dean had opted for the passenger seat when they packed up their gear at the motel, which was Sam’s first indication that something was most definitely not right. His mind flashes back to the confession he overheard the day before. People��� feelings, that I want to experience differently… or maybe even for the first time. Sam hasn’t been able to keep his brain from playing the words on a loop since he’d heard them.

“So,” Sam hums, needing to fill the silence but not knowing how to keep himself from blurting out what he desperately wants to ask, “just back home, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, looking over at Sam. “You know, unless we find something else to do along the way back,” he shrugs. Sam’s brain unhelpfully supplies, I know something else we could do, before he shuts that back down again. He glances away from the road and towards his big brother, sitting sullenly beside him. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes scan downwards, coming to rest on the view of Dean’s hand in his lap, fiddling with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans next to his zipper. They go over a pothole and Sam’s eyes slam back on the dark highway in front of them.

“You know...” Sam tugs the corners of his lips into a tight smile, trying to inject a casual levity in his voice. He can’t just let this hang, he needs to know. “You were in that confessional a long time.” He looks back to Dean, trying to judge the stony face for a reaction. Dean’s mouth gives a half hearted twitch as if to say ‘yeah, so?’, so Sam tries again. “Look man, I’m just saying… I’m your brother. If you ever need to talk about anything, with anybody, you got somebody right here next to you.” If Sam could just make Dean see that it was okay to have emotions and feelings, and it was okay to need to talk to someone about them, maybe Dean would pick him to do that with. And even if talking is all it ever is, that’s fine with Sam. All he’s ever needed is as much as Dean is willing to give him.

Sam looks at Dean again, waiting for some kind of response, but all he gets is a short, dismissive, “Okay.” He doesn’t know why he expected more from Dean the Wordless Wonder, but he decides to try again from a different angle. Whatever these things are that Dean wants to ‘experience differently’ or ‘for the first time’, Sam knows why he’s worrying about that right now.

“I heard,” Sam starts again, “what Sister Mathias was saying about, you know, hiding pain by taking on a mission and, I- I know that’s what you’re doin’, a little bit, and it’s okay” –Sam’s rambling now– “I mean, it’s fine. I get it. I’ve done it before, too. But… I don’t buy for one second that the Mark is a terminal diagnosis. So, don’t go making peace with that idea.” Sam can’t have Dean make peace with that, he can’t have him sitting back waiting to die on him, that’s not gonna happen. “There has to be a way. There will be a way, and we will find it. That’s what we do. So believe that.”

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean looks at Sam forlornly, no doubt knowing he’s causing Sam some amount of pain, but not knowing how to fix it without giving up his own surly conviction that this Mark is gonna end him. Sam knows Dean isn’t ready for that, yet, but he can’t help pushing him.

“You wanna—” Sam scoffs, feeling like he knows the answer, but resolving to ask anyhow “— uh, try that again like you mean it.” I need you to mean it, he thinks to himself. He looks at Dean again, letting the puppy dog eyes surface in the vain hope Dean might give him what he wants. Dean blinks at him blankly, but then the crease around his eyes soften, just a touch.

“Okay,” he grunts, going back to staring at the road ahead.

It’s a twenty three hour drive from Massachusetts back to Kansas, so Sam pulls them over at a motel sometime in the middle of the night to get some shut eye and rest up for the next leg of the journey. Dean hasn’t said much since their last conversation – if you could even call it a conversation – so Sam has had a few hours to stew in the tense silence that swarmed the cab of the impala and think through all the possible permutations of meanings that could be behind Dean’s admission to Father Delaney.

As much as Sam doesn’t want to get his hopes up, and he really really doesn’t want to give his inner depravity even the slightest hit of open air – not after he’d spent so long burying it in the deepest recesses of his mind – he cannot come up with any explanation for Dean’s words than the one he so desperately wants to believe is true. That Dean wants him the same way that Sam has wanted Dean for so long, that Dean wants to know what it’s like to be more than brothers. And as soon as Sam let that thought form in his mind about a hundred miles back, he couldn’t shout himself down. And if it’s true… if Dean wants him… he has to know.

Sam watched Dean sling his bag onto the foot of the springy motel bed and slouch off to the bathroom to piss after their long drive. When he’s done Sam scurries into the bathroom, wondering how he’s going to do this. Because if he doesn’t ask, he knows he’ll never get to sleep. He splashes some water over his face and drags his hands through his hair, tugging hard, hoping the pain would help ground him. Then he takes a deep breath, and pushes back into their room.

“Dean,” Sam starts lamely, not knowing what he wants to say and floundering to the first thing he can land on, “are you sure you’re okay?” Fucking great, Sam, you know he’s not gonna answer that.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean grunts, tugging his t-shirt off and chucking it on the floor.

“Listen, Dean,” Sam sighs and steels himself, “what you said, in the confessional—”

“I knew it,” Dean points his finger at Sam accusingly. “I knew you were listening in.”

“Why shouldn’t I have been, it was supposed to be a fake confession,” Sam defends. Dean huffs, full of derision, and turns away from Sam. “Talk to me,” Sam pleads, moving closer to Dean. “Tell me what’s eating you. Because I know something is. You’ve been different with me since you got back, so just... tell me,” Sam reaches out for Dean’s shoulder. Dean spins and catches Sam’s arm in the air, the Mark shining against the skin of his forearm.

“You wanna know what I was talking about, Sammy?” Dean growls, grip tightening on Sam’s wrist. “You want me to tell you just how much this thing on my arm has messed me up? All the shit that’s been in my head since I was a demon? All the fucked up things that demon made me think? About my own brother?”

Sam’s breath catches in his chest. “Tell me,” he whispers, eyes locked on Dean’s face. On his lips.

Dean surges forward – man of action over words that he is – and kisses Sam violently. It’s not tender, or loving, like Sam had dreamt about since he’d been a boy. It’s hungry and desperate, and Sam doesn’t have a problem with that. If Dean wanted to eat him alive he would let him. They break apart, chests heaving, the last pieces of them touching are Dean’s teeth clawing at Sam’s lower lip. Sam’s eyes peel open slowly, as if this will all evaporate when he looks at Dean, as if this is all still in his head. The pain in Dean’s eyes is radiant, and Sam realises that Dean thinks he’s ruined things now. Dean thinks Sam will leave him for this.

Dean backs up slightly, putting even more space between him and Sam, waiting on tenterhooks for the outburst that he’s clearly expecting from his little brother. Sam approaches Dean cautiously, like he’s trying to calm a cornered animal. He raises his arm and Dean flinches, but he continues to reach forward and lays hand against Dean’s neck, his grip stopping the older man’s further retreat. When Sam kisses Dean it’s slow and measured. He tries to pour every ounce of reassurance he can muster into Dean’s body, tries to tell him it’s okay. Tries to tell himself this is okay. Because even if they both want this – does that really make it alright? But when Dean kisses him back, Sam decides he doesn’t care anymore.

Sam starts to back Dean towards the bed, pushes him down on the edge, straddles his lap, doing everything he can to be just that little bit closer to his brother, just a little more connected – together.

“Wait, Sam,” Dean pulls back, his hands on Sam’s chest. “Wait, don’t you wanna talk about this… or something?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head and ducks in for another kiss, scared that Dean will manage to talk himself out of this if they stop now.

Dean pulls back again to protest. “We aren’t moving kinda fast here?”

“No,” Sam insists, kissing down the side of Dean’s neck. He can feel Dean is hard beneath his own arousal and grinds them together, sending both brothers into shaking groans. “Want you, De,” Sam pants against Dean’s lips.

“Okay, little brother, okay,” Dean gives Sam another kiss, his hands running comfortingly up and down Sam’s back. “But you’re sure you don’t want me to make our first time a little more special? You know, I could take you out to dinner, get you a little tipsy, do this right.” Sam pulls back to look at Dean, thoroughly confused as to where this romantic side of his brother has come from. “I could even get some candles, huh? Really set the mood.” Dean raises his brows and grins at Sam as if to say ‘Huh? Yeah? My idea rocks, right?’, and when Sam realises Dean’s making fun of him he reaches for a pillow and whacks him over the face with it.

“Fuck you,” Sam tries to pointedly shut the teasing down, but he’s knows he’ll never be able to get Dean to let this one go.

“Oh, I plan to fuck you, don’t worry,” Dean grins, and in a flash he’s flipped them over and pinned Sam to the bed beneath him. He pulls Sam’s shirt off and begins to kiss down his brother’s body, keeping his eyes on Sam his whole descent. “We can keep our first time vanilla, but don’t for a second think I’m gonna forget about that wax kink, baby brother,” Dean winks and mouths over Sam’s erection through his jeans. Sam wants to protest, but the heat of Dean’s mouth feels so fucking good, his head is already starting to go fuzzy. He settles on trying to catch Dean off guard instead.

“Only let you do it to me, if I can do it to you too,” Sam’s voice is far breathier than he’d hoped it would be. Dean glances up at him through his lashes, not at all nervous or off-put like Sam had been aiming for.

“Oh, you have so got yourself a deal.”

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[soranihimawari]

Leyenda Local

Beach volleyball was an avid part of yn's life. Even after they take a hiatus from the scene for a year to see what else life has to offer aside the invitation to join the national beach team in the past, meeting one popular indoor player was enough to make them consider going back to the sport they love.

Pairing: oikawa tooru x reader (can be considered gn!reader for use of they/them pronouns might edit it to use 'xi' pronounced like "chi" greek letter)

tagging: @oikawaandkuroostan, @smolbludandelions, @ats4mu, @m0nstergeneration20xx, @prettyy-kawa

word count: 1.3K

notes: translations are done below!

Bumping the old volleyball on your forearms as a form of exercise while walking seemed like a good idea at the time. You've been doing this for a little over an hour, practicing your overhead receiving techniques along with the passes you've come to be known for. The waves crash around your usual jogging route on the beaches by the sand court. You watch with envious eyes as the young men practiced together, yelling at each other in both Spanish and Portuguese at their teammates. Their racket was enough to cause you to pause your self-practice and wander up to the court. Four tall men stood out to you, and while their accents seemed foreign to you, you realized you were in the presence of the one the national and local sports fans called "Ninja Sho" and "Grand King," thus making you swallow nervously. You too had a name which was recognized in the local league albeit a bit earlier than their arrival to your home country.

Several hours later, you were still at the beach, wandering tiredly as you sat on the stone fence facing the street behind you. The nightlife of the clubs and bars cast a ring around your frame. You seemed a bit disappointed about not joining the volleyball men from that afternoon, although one member of the party stayed behind with someone else. Their conversation in a different language you haven't heard either:

"They've been staring at us since the last set," Hinata states. The red orange haired one shuddered as a response.

"I saw them when we met up shrimpy-chan," Oikawa states.

"Perhaps they'd like to play?" Hinata says nodding his head as he heard you bumping the ball on your arms.

Yet, that was hours ago. Currently, you breathe evenly while you stretch your calves out before you were joined by the one you observed being called, "Grand King." Nervous though you were not intimated much by his presence, his mahogany orbs glance at your welts on your arms.

"Quieres jugar conmigo?"

In his hands, he extends a volleyball to you. You blink in surprise, explaining the time is late, but you instinctively do not turn down a chance to play the sport you loved. As you two walk toward one of the courts, you speak to one another trying to get a feel for the other. He arches an eyebrow at you skeptically when you mentioned you were an all-around player and have been nominated on more than one occasion to participate in competitive leagues.

"Me llamaban leyenda cuando jugaba. mi amor por el juego nunca vaciló, no hasta hace poco. Mis médicos dijeron que había agravado mi lesión de rodilla en más de una ocasión, así que, como todos los buenos jugadores, tuve que parar. hoy mi rodilla estaba mejor, así que vine aquí para practicar algunos de mis pases, pero ver cómo juegan tú y tus amigos me dio ganas de intentarlo de nuevo,” you explain this as you walk with him to the courts. Your eyes may have been focused on the stars above, but your words have captured Oikawa Tooru’s undivided attention. You don’t notice how he glances at you in a curious perplexed fashion as you continue.

“El voleibol forma parte de mi vida hasta el punto en que es tan fundamental como comer o respirar ... jaja. lo siento, parecía divagar cuando me hiciste una pregunta tan simple,” you end your answer with an exasperated sigh. The bag on your shoulder drops to the border of the sand court. Thus this game of ‘king of of the court’ began between you and the foreigner with bouncy hair.

It wasn’t until you received and returned his monster serve, after you stretched your arms and cracked your neck. The act alone caused Oikawa to become a firm believer in not questioning the things you said. You just proved truth in the subtlest of ways with a shit-eating grin on your face. Your form when it was your turn to serve was exquisite even now despite your slight wince as you land on the soft mounds of sand. You might have made a service ace, but Oikawa knows and notices, but chooses to not say anything just yet. He realizes just how sharp your instincts are to chase the ball, following its trajectory all over the small court. Your digs are on par with some of his own team players in high school, hell even some of the ones he was travelling with at the moment.

The sand is kind to you as you land and give rise to your muscle memory gaining momentum in this sort of tug of war before you received one more brutal spike. You were breathing hard, yet so was your partner because for the first time in a long while you both felt evenly matched. There were no points to be playing for today. It was just an exhibition match as he had deemed it. Your heart beat rapidly as you sat down on the sand facing him and he did the same. Another bead of sweat trickles down the side of your face before you ask if perhaps both of you should call it a night. He hums and as he stands, he hands you a cell phone from his bag. You smirk behind the blue light, silently understanding why he passed you the phone; you press the numbers and the save button right after you take selfie.

“¿Te gustaría acompañarme a casa?”

At this, the grand king smiles when you hand his phone back to him.

The church bells ring in the surrounding neighborhood and seeing how late in the evening it actually is, your new friend escorts you to where you live.

“Aqui es donde vivo,” you say in your home dialect’s accent. Of all things for Oikawa’s brain to focus on after playing against you at the beach and having fun, he focuses on how your voice sounds like a smooth symphony to him. You reach into your pocket to fish out your keys and give the nice young man from Japan (as you’d out) a soft smile.

“Gracias por acompañarme a casa.”

“No problemo,” he says. Mind you, he doesn’t let you know how in the brief hours he had known you, you’ve managed to make him develop a playground crush on the mystery person named, “YN, venti-dos anos: leyenda local (del voleibol).”

“Buenas noches Oikawa Tooru,” you said with a nod.

“Buenas noches,” he says with a chuckle.

Inside the elevator of your building, he unlocks his phone, opening the contacts book. There he scrolls until he finds your photo, biting his bottom lip whilst a chortle escapes his throat.

“Leyenda,” he reads to himself. He shakes his head as he exits the building, grinning like he just played the best game in his life (up to that point).

FLASH FORWARD:

Tokyo, JPN, 2021 Olympics: GOLD MEDAL QUALIFIER

“And with this win, Team Argentina advances to the next round. Tomorrow night, they go up against Team Japan for the gold!” the announcers were excitedly talking about the game you had stood in the crowds to watch.

Indoor volleyball matches were the same, yet different to you, but you understood the appeal. Your boyfriend’s number had been painted on the right side of your cheek throughout the entirety of the games he was a part of. A few of the Olympic spectators noticed who you were since their favorite international star had made headlines in the local news channels reportedly he was seeing someone just by the way he makes a small cross over his heart after an interview. It was a sign he made recalling the first of many promises after your injury took you out of playing for good. Nevertheless, you persisted and eventually earned a spot (and title) of sports rehab specialist back home.

As blurred photos of you at his matches increased in the last two and a half years, bystanders would know (and recall) that you two were made for each other. Passerbys and the occasional fans of both you and him took note to how you kept each other performing at your personal best. Besides, if you think about it, a high-calliber player and his equally high-calliber significant other would eventually be caught stealing congratulatory kisses and warm embraces pre and post-match. This afternoon’s match was the first time the news and sports journalist columns finally got a clear photo of the person whom the captain of the Argentine team makes a silent reference to: your hair draped loosely over your shoulders and you wear the colors of your lover’s team in your outfit. You wave first then yell with the crowds jumping with your fist in the air as the players respectfully thank the attendees for coming.

The cameras were focused on both you and Oikawa when you watch Oikawa’s eyes finally find you in the stands and with a solid triumphant point with one hand to you and the other on his chest, you couldn’t stop the sensation of pride coursing through your veins. Afterall, Oikawa Tooru said this to you after making the national Olympic team:

“Si ya no puedes jugar, ganaré para los dos mi querido.”

Translations below!

Quieres jugar conmigo: would you like to play with me?

Me llamaban leyenda cuando jugaba. mi amor por el juego nunca vaciló, no hasta hace poco. Mis médicos dijeron que había agravado mi lesión de rodilla en más de una ocasión, así que, como todos los buenos jugadores, tuve que parar. hoy mi rodilla estaba mejor, así que vine aquí para practicar algunos de mis pases, pero ver cómo juegan tú y tus amigos me dio ganas de intentarlo de nuevo. El voleibol forma parte de mi vida hasta el punto en que es tan fundamental como comer o respirar ... jaja. lo siento, parecía divagar cuando me hiciste una pregunta tan simple.

they called me Legend when i played. my love for the game never wavered, not until recently. my doctors said i had aggravated my knee injury on more than one occasion, so like all good players, i had to stop. today my knee was feeling better, so i came here to pratice some of my passes, but watching how you and your friends play made me want to try again. volleyball is part of my life to the point where it is as essential as eating or breathing... haha. sorry, i seemed to ramble when you asked me such a simple question.

Te guestaria acompanare a casa?: would you like to escort/walk me home

YN, venti-dos anos, Leyenda Local: YN, 22 years old, local legend

Aqu dondes vivo: this is where i live.

Gracias por acompanarme a casa: thank you for walking me home

Buenas noches: good night

Sí ya no puedes jugar, ganaré para los dos mi querido: if you cannot play, then I will win for both of us.

[lamortexiii]

Cryptic Mystic: In the End

To bounce off of the previous blog posting, I thought it would be fun to just hop right on into the topic of what happens after we die. After all, we just finished talking about souls and a bit of astral projection last time. From transcending to another place/dimension to reincarnation, there truly is a lot to cover when you start diving into the many beliefs and ideas that surround death and mortality/immortality. But what differentiates the scientific facts from myths and stories of olden days? For those who believe in one defined means to an end for us all, how do you know for a fact that what you believe is true? Have you ever questioned what is life after death? Hell, is there a life after death? Or maybe… it’s something else… something so obscure that our tiny human brains are nowhere near possessing the capabilities to understand it. In the end, readers can decide for themselves what is more likely to be true, or maybe… the answer to this cryptic question has been right in front of us all along? Maybe it is a combination of what we know but do not yet understand. Let’s talk shop, shall we?

Death. Happy for some, a time of joy and celebration for others, but likely a time of sadness and grief for most. Some welcome death with open arms, while yet others fear their mortality. The numerous speculations on what happens after we die is overwhelming. There are far too many ideas and beliefs that people hold in this regard. I’ll briefly cover a few of the more popular beliefs as to not make this blog super lengthy - because, ya know, your attention span and whatnot. 

Scientifically, there are two types of death: clinical death and brain death. Clinical death is characterized by major organ failure (e.g. heart, liver, kidneys, etc.) until the body is completely rendered of functioning and the individual is officially pronounced dead. In brain death, solely the brain stops functioning, but the other organs within the body continue to work within their normal capacities. Creepy fun fact for you: the heart can beat for up to 30 minutes on its own after all brain cells have died. Once the heart stops it’s adios amigo. The remaining major organs that were barely hanging on have now lost blood flow, and life has ended. More creepy death fun facts: the gastrointestinal tract can live on its own for up to 3 days, and the complete decomposition of a body takes roughly 30 years! Crazy science stuff. 

Now let’s take a look at some common beliefs and speculations of what happens when/after we die. Again, I want to remind you, readers, that in my eyes there is no right or wrong answer here. I am a firm believer in everyone having their own beliefs and respect all of them regardless of how obscure some naysayers may think that they are. I enjoy hearing stories from followers that help to further broaden my thought processes. If you ever have an interesting story or want to chime in with your thoughts please feel free to leave a comment here or shoot on over to Instagram and we can rap about it. 

The belief that we transcend to another realm/dimension has been around for thousands of years and has been studied for decades. There is a lot to uncover here between recent scientific discoveries and human belief. Many people believe that many other dimensions exist, however, scientific exploration hasn’t fully found the golden answer to if and what these other dimensions may contain if they do indeed exist. We know that Earth has at least three dimensions: space—length, width, and depth—and one dimension of time. Modern physics posits that there is at least a fourth dimension of space, but that we can’t experience it. Maybe we can? Maybe we do but just haven’t put a label on it? Maybe the odd phenomena that happen across the world that people describe as being ghosts, aliens, and other paranormal activities are actually from the next dimension or another. There has been speculation that extraterrestrials come from another dimension through a portal that is already here on Earth rather than from the sky (outer space). 

Give me an R! Give me an E! Hell, this word is too long and I’m not going to put you through reading a silly cheer for 5 minutes. Reincarnation - yet another commonly held belief of what happens when we die. For those of you who may have never heard of reincarnation, here is the quick and dirty version of the definition. Reincarnation posits that when we die our spirit/soul/whatever you want to call it, moves on to a new host. This host could be a human baby that is born the very second that you die OR you could possibly find yourself reincarnated as an animal, tree, flower, or any other living thing that you can find on Earth. Interesting concept indeed.

My favorite belief, that we go to Heaven or somewhere similar, is one that is believed by millions of people across the world. Wouldn’t it be nice to die and go to another world/place where nothing can do you harm, and just live out the rest of your existence in peace? Well, if you can believe it then it may just happen that way - or maybe not. I am fairly certain I have mentioned this in previous blogs, but religion can be thought of as a coping mechanism for that which we do not know or understand; the human way of putting a label on something to make ourselves feel better or like we are a part of something divine and much greater than us. Which, in all actuality, we very well may be a part of something divine and much greater than us, however, it is my personal opinion that we honestly have no fucking clue about the extent to which that is. 

Now, this next one I threw in here because I personally found it to be interesting. In 2017 I was having a conversation with a friend about mystical things such as portals, extraterrestrials, etc. My friend informed me of a research video on YouTube about a company called CERN. He described this Swiss company as having built a circular-shaped machine that when you throw something into its core it disappears. However, other items have come through this machine and into the room from… wherever the other side is? Basically, these people have created a portal and no one knows about it. You’re welcome for the information. Within this research video, the guy who was describing all of this stuff went on to talk about how China had gifted the statue that sits in front of the CERN building. This particular statue is reported to represent the end of time and hell on Earth. There is a whole mythical background story about this statue - you need to check it out. The irony between the statue and this machine they made is uncanny. It made my jaw drop. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I haven’t been able to find the YouTube video again, so I am not sure if it got taken down because the guy exposed something that was supposed to be secret, or maybe I just suck at YouTube searches. Either way, I encourage you to do some digging on this one, because this type of information could potentially support the whole soul/spirit transcending into another realm/dimension belief. I am not a physicist, so I could be explaining this all wrong. You’ll just have to check out their website for yourself and see what it’s all about. → home.cern

There is also the belief that when we die nothing happens. We are dead and it is the end of who we once were. This belief is often held by Atheists and some Satanists if we’re using labels. However, many people believe this who aren’t subscribed to a religion or don’t want to necessarily put a label on who they are/what they believe. This is the grim reality of our existence. Maybe it all means… nothing… Now isn’t that depressing. 

Then there are near-death experiences, which brings a whole different perspective into the mix. People all over the world have encountered near-death experiences. Many report shockingly similar experiences and stories. Some say they see a white light and follow it to a place of peace. I have heard people say that while they were legally deceased they found themself in a field of flowers or floating within the cosmos. A common theme found within these individuals is that once they have had their near-death experience, they aren’t afraid of death anymore - they welcome it with open arms. One woman on a documentary that I watched even went as far as to say that she didn’t want to come back from where she was and was disappointed when she was revived. These experiences could possibly support the theory of transcending to other dimensions or that there is a “heaven.” I can’t explain it, but I still find the information interesting to ponder upon. 

Our mortality is evident, but what really happens when we die? These are just a short collection of ideas and beliefs that have been around for ages, however, there are many more to consider I’m sure. What do you think? Or should I say: what do you want to believe? Ultimately it’s your choice. Whatever brings you peace, serves you well, and is the right answer for you is what I advise you to turn to. This flesh and blood will decay for each of us one day - it’s inevitable. It is for this very reason why I say live life to the fullest. Regret nothing. Do what best serves you. Do what makes you happy. Take chances. Above all else - be the best version of yourself that makes you happy.

Cryptic Mystic Blog by PsychVVitch

www.LaMorteXiii.com

[letstalksymphogear]

Symphogear, EP. 5

LAST TIME ON SINGY WINGY

ANGRY GREMLIN BEAT UP GOOD BY SUICIDE MOVE SURVIVE BLUE BIRD YES. BLUE BIRD GO TO HOSPITAL FOR WATER METAPHOR WITH AFTERLIFE GIRLFRIEND. TINY BIRD SAD, BUT THEN NOT GET SAD! JACKIE CHAN TIME AFTER MUCH THINKING. WIFE WORRIED ABOUT THINGS. SOMETHING SOMETHING PUNCH GOOD NOW.

Let us continue.

Miku wakes up to see her wife has run off yet again. This is the part of the Sam Reimi’s Spiderman franchise phase where the Mary Jane (not weed) begins having a rockier relationship with Peter Parker (not slang for penis) due to lack of availability.

It’s contrived.

It’s almost impressive that she left a note and had time to draw a tiny Hibiki saying something in a bubble. Glad to see you have your priorities straight, Hibiki.

“you know she might have had a better time in the local art school that doodle aint half bad”

Hibiki is motherfucking Rocky all up in this.

She’s going to kick some ass and nobody’s getting in the way.

“YOU’RE GONNA EAT LIGHTING AND YOU’RE GONNA CRRRRRAP THUNDER TACHIBANAAAAA”

“THAT’S A DIET I CAN GET BEHIND”

I wasn’t joking when I said she’s not fucking around anymore. Did you think I was joking? I can see how you can get the impression given the first few episodes, but I really can’t emphasize the thoroughness of the ass kicking she is going to be capable of.

“MY FATHERLY ENERGIES ARE WORKING! ADOPTERS ANONYMOUS WAS WRONG AFTER ALL!”

That’s totally not ominous in the slightest.

Meanwhile, in the middle of an unnamed McMansion in the middle of who knows where...

Gratuitously spoken English is heard. To be fair, it’s actually really impressive pronunciation coming from people whose native language are systemically different to ours. Most shows would just settle for “this dude is actually speaking english but everything is said in japanese for better interpretation” but not Symphogear! No siree!

Relic business is afoot.

We have a random blonde lady shooting random Noise from the thing The Gremlin had in her hands.

She’s really trying her best with her accent. She’s also casually shooting Noise because let’s face it, would we not do the same if it were in our hands?

“i do whatever i want with my big stiff rod pal”

Also, she’s a nudist. To also be fair, if you lived in a fuckoff rich McMansion with weapons beyond your comprehension, you likely couldn’t help but walk around naked doing whatever the fuck you want.

The people she’s talking to are the Americans, which we explained before are portrayed strictly in an antagonistic light. They want some relics, and this lady clearly deals them like like some sort of glorified drug dealer.

Suffice it to say, she’s not a very nice person.

Also, the subs don’t match what they’re saying in English in the slightest.

The name of this woman... is Fine (pronounced fi-neh). And she is the main antagonist of this series.

Fucking identical.

And here is the most unpleasant scene in the entire season.

The person we’ve repeatedly alluded to as The Gremlin is called Yukine Chris. She serves Fine in whatever the hell they’re up to right now. In this case, it’s using the Nehushtan armor to run around with Solomon’s Cane to throw Noise around the city.

“shits gonna get real abusive, pal”

Fine is a narcissistic sociopath. She’s manipulated Chris into servitude by believing she is the only one that can pave humanity into salvation.

“i dont like that smile”

Chris thinks Fine can secure her deepest wish. Ironically? It’s world peace.

“yeah! yeah yeah, world peace, yeah, totally. just treat me like jesus and we’re gucci”

Anyway, she proceeds to thoroughly shock Chris.

The lore behind this is that this is helping her resistance with dealing with the physical demands of the Nehushtan armor, as well as deal with the pieces of Nehushtan that may be still inside. Let’s be real, though. Fine’s a sadist, and just likes hurting people willy nilly.

“fuck... that hurt like shit... hey wait... wouldnt some of the electrical arcs hit you and shock you too, given you’re so naked and close to all this...?”

“ya nevermind that food looks real nice and i want a piece of that fuckin turkey”

It’s a real creepy scene, and it cements Fine’s horribleness really well. One of the most pivotal things to take note is that Fine says that people can only communicate with each other universally through pain. Strong, terrible BDSM overtones notwithstanding, this will be a common (though varying in quality) motif of the entire series.

“BITCH YOU THOUGHT WE WAS GUNNA EAT AFTER THAT FUCKIN’ WISECRACK ABOUT GETTING SHOCKED LIKE YOU’RE EVEN FUCKIN’ NIKOLAI TESLA ALL UP IN HERE WE’RE GONNA ELECTRIC SLIDE YOUR ASS TO NEXT WEEK”

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK”

“WHERE THE FUUUUUUUCK IS HIBIKI?!”

“i was gonna invite her to the circus with the rest of the class ‘cause i felt bad about how i treated her but i guess she’s not here”

“the only clown im interested in is hibiki, in the carnival tent of my own bedroom”

“isn’t being a part of /fit/ great, hibiki? can you just feel the gains?”

“yeah who needs doting wife based significant others when you have your gym bros, right newly acquired father figure?”

Hibiki, having acquired a new brain cell during her training, asks the million dollar question:

“Why the fuck are we relying on schoolgirls to deal with all this stuff?”

“anime just be that way, hibiki. i’m just the wrong protagonist in the wrong show.”

Japan is super big on keeping the Symphogear a secret because they are strong and the world really, really wants a slice of the Symphogear pie. These people are basically walking super-weapons. Tsubasa literally dropped a sword the size of a skyscraper. It’s like the premise of the series of Iron Man films.

“do i get like a superhero name too or”

Something to wrap your head around. This was released around 2012, and while the setting seems to be slightly more futuristic, the world it was made in at the time had not been through the era of social media/smartphones we have right now. It was on the cusp of doing so, which means the idea of decent (yet vertical) amateur footage of things happening wasn’t something in the mainstream yet. Why do I say this?

Because in Symphogear, the fact that Symphogear exist is the biggest open secret in this unidentified city ever. NDAs are passed like hotcakes to keep people’s mouths shut on seeing monster-fighting singing superheroes. And they sing, too! Symphogears as an entity are the most high-profile fighting agents out there. Bright colors, no masks, constant singing, fighting in broad daylight in populated areas. Everybody knows, but no one says a word.

Which means every politician on the face of Japan hates these idiots, but they’re stuck with them out of sheer necessity.

“i swear to god if you bring up sam reimi’s spiderman one more goddamned time”

“look it’s the truth, all anime comes back to sam reimi’s spiderman. fate zero did it. uhhh, fucking...baccano, probably? now us. face it. its pretty much the bible.”

It’s also pointed out that the very concept of a Symphogear is born from a science that didn’t exist, and it probably contributes to political frustration as well.

“im going to microwave all your sam reimi spiderman dvds. im gonna do it. you try me, motherfucker. i didnt go into acting and get into this position to hear lectures about a decades old film franchise nobody cares about anymore.”

“can we stop fighting about the validity of sam reimi’s spiderman for five seconds and get back to helping me thing of a dope as hell superhero name? now, lemme lay one on you: Mister Fister”

Hibiki asks where Code Ryoko is.

“any answer besides Not Here works”

“oh, she left to talk to the americans, why?”

“huh, shes sorta late, actually”

“WHY A BAD BITCH LIKE ME GOTTA GET STUCK IN TRAFFIC LIKE THIS”

In the mother of all Mom Vans, no less.

MEANWHILE... IN METAPHOR LIMBO...

Tsubasa has reached the sea floor of the water metaphor dimension surrounded by water, which is her feelings, which are very gay. Imagine the Mariana Trench but like, deeper. Way deeper. That’s where Tsubasa is.

Leave it to Kazanari “I am literally a sword” Tsubasa to successfully spin the very act of surviving a suicidal move during combat as a failure. That’s a special kind of self loathing right there.

“the sheer force of my love for big ladies is keeping me alive”

Tsubasa asks about the point of Kanade’s sacrifice. Why’d she do it? Why was she so hungry at the end?

She personally shows up to answer that question, because that’s Kanade for you.

“being badass is cool, but you know whats cooler? caring.”

“sharing the sauce... you... you shared the sauce...”

“thats right, tsubasa. i wanted to protect the sauce, but... ultimately... sharing it was better. it wasn’t my sauce, tsubasa. it was everyone’s...”

“im gonna suck on a ketchup packet in your memory, tsubasa”

Kanade’s spirit pulls her out of the dimension of water metaphors as she is slowly undrowning from her emotions.

Tsubasa, like Kanade, was lost in the sauce. But now, after Kanade’s touching peptalk, Tsubasa is lost no longer.

“will i ever see you again in my dreams, kanade...?”

“where there’s a sauce. i’ll be there.”

“ill eat taco bell every day just to see you again kanade”

“and i dont even like taco bell... im more of a chipotle girl...”

After accepting Taco Bell as her lord and savior, she is immediately pulled out of the metaphor zone.

And wakes the fuck up.

“b..... b..... b............”

“Baja Blast....”

[brooklynislandgirl]

Parent au : Beth and seal

They Just Seem A Little Weird || -

   Who cried when they brought their child home for the first time:

“So ah....d'at's happenin'.”The phone shakes in Luka’s hand as he tries to get a good view of the back seat from over his shoulder. The video captures Beth, wane and frailer than she normally looks, but somehow more radiant than ever as she fusses with the tiniest of socks on the tiniest of feet sticking out of the swaddling blanket wrapping the sleeping infant up inside the newborn car seat.There’s a rousing and tinny chorus of shouts and whoops, whistles and other celebratory noises that he’s sure won’t be delighting the rest of the two hundred men crammed inside the Quonset huts that are home for his unit, as Boss and the rest try to crowd around the crappy old computer setup. It may be 4 in the afternoon in Hawai’i, but it’s only 6.30 the next morning where they are.“Could say ‘wishin’ ye lo’ were here’, bu’....be bi’o’a’loi’e.”

She half grins but no one can tell if it’s at Luka’s comment or the baby.One of them asks the obvious question at hand.“Dunna have o’ name ye’... stars dunno be o’loi’ned or some shite.”House is sobbing when the camera cuts out, the video call interrupted by terrible satellite internet, the time ran out, someone farted the wrong way, a dozen other reasons that don’t seem to matter at the moment.“No’ true, Lulu. Her name is Po’okelamakanahawikahepualaha’ole.”He gives her the same look he did when she said that in the hospital. It’s got to be the drugs still in her system if she thinks he can even begin pronouncing that name.

Who would wake up in the middle of the night to check on the kid(s):He’ll never tell Beth that she snores. Not loudly, not even really noticeable if not for these moments when he’s awake and everything else...isn’t. She sleeps on her side and curls around the baby, protectively. He reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. That’s when he notices that Éire is awake too. Staring up at him with big hazel eyes and little spit bubbles at her mouth. It feels almost like theft when he gingerly gets out of bed and scoops her up, careful not to wake mommy shark.They go out in the garden where he sings snippets of his mother’s old lullabies he can barely remember. Faery tales older than his blood. Offers her coffee since they’re up early as he moves past the gate and out onto the sand, introducing her to the sea and the moon in ways her mother can’t.

Who changes the kid(s) diapers:

“No...d’at be o’WMD...”He’s holding the folded up diaper at arm’s length as far from him as he could get.“...Geneva be makin’ conventions against d’is sort o’d’ing, luv.”She can’t help but laugh. She was the reason why they used cloth over disposable. While he goes to put it in the special and thankfully smell-proof container, Beth blows raspberries on Hawika’s belly. She wonders if he grumbles when she’s not here, or if its just a show because she is.

Who makes the bottles:She’s completely unaware that he’s standing in the doorway. Her back is almost to him but at this angle he can just barely make out Hawika’s auburn curls glistening in the dim nightlight. Beth insists on breast-feeding, pumps when she has to work, because she hates the idea of not bonding enough with the baby. He’s tried to tell her that it doesn’t matter if she was created outside of the usual way, but Beth won’t hear him. He can’t know that she worries the little girl will somehow think less of her because technically she isn’t Hawika’s real mother. Andy had always disliked Iwalani for the same reasons and she...she can’t bear the idea.

Who stays up late at night to rock the kid(s) to sleep and sings them lullabies:Éiredozes in his arms as he rocks gingerly in a chair not designed for someone of his height. One blunt-tipped finger traces each of her tiny ones, then each of her ears. She stretches and grasps at his hand with her own and latches on, curling her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a suckling gesture that has him reaching for the bottle tucked at his side. The nights that Beth works, an arrangement worked out so that at least one of them would be home any given time, are the ones he likes best. It’s quiet and the fragrant breeze drifts in through the nursery window, carrying the scent of the sea and the greenery surrounding the house. He couldn’t have imagined that a few short years ago when all he had to look forward to coming home to was an empty apartment and the next ship’s call, that a new life was waiting. And now that new life was small and warm, and settled into his arms more perfectly than her mother does.

Who is guilty of spoiling the kid(s):

“Oh my gawd, Cerise. Look at him!”“Definitely not local.”“Definitely.”“Y’all are some thirsty bitches.”“Well, he can ride me any time he wants.”“Shhhh. He’ll hear you.”It happens twice a week. The lot of them, some married and some not. Cerise is new to the group and doesn’t know what a joy it is to see Lieutenant O’Rian out on the ranch with his little girl. They know he’s married, that he bought the horse that his daughter rides and is only JUST taller than her father when she stands in the saddle. That he’s Irish. The rest is rumour. That he comes from money. That he’d been in some kind of accident in the field. A few years ago Karen had managed to get him to buy her a few drinks, almost got him to go home with her.“Da! Go! Go!Luka couldn’t care less about the rumours. The stares and awkward attempts at flirting while he walks the horse across the field. Though if he were to tell the truth...after this he does have a date. He’s taking Éire to breakfast, then the beach. Then back home for a bath before they go shopping for new clothes. Tomorrow the biggest gift is coming into the airport, and she wants to look her best for Grandma.

Who would give the kid(s) cookies in the middle of the night:

When she noticed that there was no sound coming from Hawika’s room, Beth crawled out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. Not because she was cold but...it had been a while since she’d lived in New York. A quick check showed the little girl’s bed was unmade, the covers thrown back, and her stuffed seal pup conspicuously absent. She pads down the hall, passing the guest room, passing the living room where she’s a hundred percent sure Andy is oblivious to anything but his head phones and his whiskey {and for once, taking the ban on smoking seriously}.

The kitchen is illuminated by the bulb above the sink. At the island in the middle of it are two backs. One tall and broad like miles of empty country, boots hooked on the lowest rung of the stool. The other is tiny, covered in pinks and purples, with two pigtails hanging down her back. The memory it brings up takes her back a little. Both of them have glasses of milk in sight and both of them turn in eerie unison. Hawika’s little face is covered with cookie crumbs and toffee chips and a gap-toothed grin.“Hey Apps,” Baz greets her, unclear on the concept that it’s after midnight. Beth folds her arms across her chest and fixes him with her new found power: the Mom stare.“What? S’a’cookie. Ain’t gonna kill’er.”Apparently, Wanda Barton she is not.

Who always takes the kid(s) side:

“O’i-”“We.”“We-”“Mahalo.”“Dunna feel ye apriciate d’ situation-”“Keiki, wha’ Uncle Lulu is try f’ say...if ya don’ give her back dat swing… he gonna rip ya arms an’ legs off like one wookie.”“Be’d!”“What? Got da lil hannabaddah off, din’it?”Despite the look Luka gives her, she watches as her daughter climbs up into the now vacated swing.“Da! Push me! Push me fast!”Who would wake up early to make breakfast for the kid(s) before school:Two eggs. Two strips of vegan bacon which...no. No, he doesn’t want to think about it. Then it’s pancakes. Then porridge. Then…“Can ye jus’ pick one, luv?”And she does. Takes one bite of everything before she’s dancing across the kitchen floor, her tiny backpack glittering and casting rainbows from the sequins catching morning light. The fake-on is being used as floppy bunny ears as she sings a song that only bats in Honduras can hear.Beth is running late, normally this is her part of the job.“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Hurry uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup. I’m gonnna be laaaaaaaate.”

Who gets the kid(s) ready for school in the morning:He’s got half her hair done, her shoes are by the door, her lunch is packed, breakfast eaten, face washed, and they’re practically matching in uniforms. He’s not sure why Beth insisted in an all girl Catholic School, but the resources and academia almost make up for the ridiculous tuition. If he doesn’t leave soon though, he’s going to be late, and Luka...cannot be late. He’ll make it up to her with a Saturday afternoon just the two of them, he promises.Just as he hears her car pull up into the drive way.“M’sorry… go’ah go, luv. Be good.”Éire smiles with angelic sleepiness.

Who takes the kid(s) to school:

Beth has run the Boston Marathon and regularly surfs the pipeline. She’s worked in the Congo. She survived over ten years in New York City, and knows how to navigate the subway. But never has she come face to face with a child who doesn’t want to go to school before. It’s creeping closer to to 7:15 and her shoes are still by the door. Her hair is half in and half out of her braids. Her backpack and all of its contents are strewn all over creation.“Hawika! C’mon. We goddah go.”Silence meets her.“I know ya can hear me. Get ya stuff an’ get ya little bottom in da car. NOW.”“O’i dun wanna!”She intentionally sounds as much as she can like Luka. “Dat’s too bad, we all do da kine we don’ wanna, jus’ da way da world works.”The evil glare she gets is breath-taking, and Beth, at the end of her rope, snatches her cell-phone off the counter. It takes almost another ten minutes on hold to bring Luka in from the field and whatever he’s doing with his new little tadpoles.A few quiet words later, Hawika is picking up her things and pretending that nothing happened. Beth has no idea what he said but they are going to have a chat later.

Who goes to the parent-teacher conferences:They present a unified front, even if they have to have an advance schedule of the conferences. They try to make every performance together, every open house, luau, sporting event. It doesn’t really matter how tired they are. How busy their schedule. The teachers drone on and on and they smile and nod. It’s on the way to the car that they finally break ranks. “We NO are buyin’ her a bike f’ her grades, Lulu.”He grins. He’s got the ten minutes driving home to talk her into it, because he spent all night putting that thing together. Who will be the first to suggest to have the “Talk” with the kid{s}.

“She’s only d’irteen, Be’d. Ta young.”“Yeah, an’ Panda wait til I was sixteen an’ caugh’ him red han...well. Ya know wha’ I mean. An’ she no like me a’ dat age. Wen go pick her up t’day from class, an’ she was sittin’ on da hood of her friend Janette’s braddah car. One of da younger boys from Kamehameha had his arm ‘round her, an’ he wearin’ her lip gloss when I pull up. So I t’ink it’s time.”“Oh. No. No’ it. Oi’ be an oak an oi’ canna be moved. But aye...go for’d an’ conquer.” 

Who would choose their child(s) prom outfit:

“Mom! Lindsay Stewart is such a bi-”Beth looks up from her laptop, and the article she was writing for Nursing Quarterly. Brow rising above the upper rim of her glasses at the chosen word.“I mean...well, no. You know what I mean! She stole my dress!”“Stole?”“Well, bought it before I could! And I’ve been saving for months.”Beth smiles softly. She remembers this age, and all the ones that come after it, and this isn’t the worst lesson life could teach her daughter. But she also needs to know that they’ve always got her six. “K, den. So wha’ we do is...you an’ me ...we go shoppin’. Calista’s firs’ den Bijou’s if no like. Shoes, dress, every kine, an’ we put it on my black card. Mebbe after we get some shave ice or some kine a’ Leonard’s, yeah?”

Who would cry when the kid(s) go off to college:

“So dat...dat happened!”The phone shakes in Beth’s hand as she tries to get a good view of the front of Wilmont Hall, the dorm that Hawika’s already mostly moved into. The video captures Luka, strong and tall as ever, a little more silver in his hair than the few years before arms around her dainty waist. Hers are wound around his neck, lifting her a solid foot off the ground. She’s always been a Daddy's girl, and even now, about to start her freshman year, none of that’s changed.Her brother and Baz make comments that are both sweet and snarky, toasting Hawika with Fireball boiler makers which she doesn’t even want to think about. Because it won’t be long before her daughter is going to start experimenting on her own, far beyond the reach of her parents and Beth still remembers what college was like. Notre Dame is far away from Hawai’i and far away from New York and everything is changing. The house is going to be quiet. There won’t be a constant state of everything. It isn’t going to be the three of them any more.“That’s why they call it growing up, babe.” Of course Andy’s right. He almost always is.She catches Luka in her own reflection and sees wet on his face, from both eyes, which surprises her. “So. Hey. Goddah go, wan get my alohas in too. We’ll see you in a couple of days.”She hangs up the call and slips her phone into her pocket, turning to face the other two. She blinks back the moisture in her own eyes and fixes a bright smile. The air isn’t quite chilly yet and the sky is blue, clear, crisp. There’s trees everywhere and dozens of other kids milling around with their parents or gathered in groups scattered over the quad.Maybe twenty more minutes is all she has to give them before Éire’s pulled away by the call of student life. Luka’s arm wraps around Beth’s waist, hers woven behind his back the same way and they walk back to the rental car slowly.“Were o'fair play, luv. Ye want ta troi'y again?”Beth tilts her head up at him, nostrils flaring, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and her lips tremble at the corner. Another entire life flashes in her green gaze as she seriously considers it. Then comes a deep hug, her hand coming to rest against his abs. A little laugh that’s sweet and soft.“I...I think I’m good, Admiral O’Rian.”He grins back, presses a kiss to her brow, and sweeps her off her feet.

[danvssomethingorother]

Start of Something More (P1)

Summary: A look into another time line where Ego never came to Earth and instead Yondu had changed Meredith’s life.

Characters: Meredith Quill, Yondu Udonta

Warnings: some violence, but nothing graphic.

My entry for @yonduweek.  I was just gonna post this large as heck thing for the last day only (AU) but there are elements of all the prompts in this. I wanted to break it up to be easier to read because 20 pages is just too much for me to expect people to swallow.

Also on A03  

-New York, 1988-

 “Come on…come on…”

 Meredith Quill bit harder down on the thin flash light hanging out of her mouth, her jumbled curses shaking her only light source around. She paused and quickly snapped the light off hearing a loud crash, she stood straight up and quickly moved behind a dumpster by the back entrance of the Stark warehouse. Waiting. Waiting. After several tense moments passed and nothing came of it, she went back to picking at the door.

 She got this damn far, she wasn’t stopping now.  

 In her backpack she had quite the collection of authorized paperwork she had picked off Howard Stark himself over the months of her grueling, almost dehumanizing internship. She had to wonder if Howard would have looked past her genius and went on to the next applicant to work by his side if wasn’t for her ‘womanly charm’ as Howard liked to call it (or as she put, he liked looking up her skirt).  

 She worked hard to crack into the safes and get close enough to flirt with Howard and get him off his guard enough to get this info. This was the greatest information she had ever accidentally stumbled into ease dropping on Howard’s private phone calls. Howard Stark was helping an organization called Shield crack into what sounded like a real space craft and the icing on the cake was they had a real life alien in their possession.  

 Often she was made fun of for her belief in extraterrestrial life. During her time at Stark Enterprise, the only joy she got was getting Howard’s college aged son riled up with her beliefs. Tony rolled his eyes and only promised to keep listening if she worked her magic and got him some of his dad’s good stuff he wasn’t allowed to touch. She always obliged to the request so they could both share some secrets between each other, if she went down tonight, she was telling Howard about all the things Tony had been hiding from him just to cause some chaos between them before she was probably arrested.

 She didn’t really feel she had anything to worry about though, Meredith Quill was getting off this rock for good tonight and no one was gonna stop her.

 Being an engineer who worked under a weapon manufacture certainly had its perks.  She smiled as the lock clicked indicating she had opened the door. Show time, she mouthed pulling a trigger from her pocket and activating the bombs she had set up around the area to distract the few people inside while she made her move.  

 She flinched a little feeling the earth shake from each bomb she had painstakingly set up. Months worth of grueling labor on her part. All the forms of security had to be memorized and she had to learn how to bypass it all. All the prototypes she had to steal. All that wiring she had to set up and men she had to deal with to help her plan go this smoothly. All of it was paying off and she couldn’t be prouder.

 She walked in with pride after waiting for the people in the facility to run off at the sound, her distraction working. She knew only three staff and three security personnel would be here tonight, most would be at the Stark Convention. She silently thanked Tony for the info she could get out of him while the little idiot was drunk.

  She walked into the work area and her eyes lit up at the space craft left unattended in the middle of the room. This was it, she was gettin’ off this rock once and for all. No more fighting with her dad, no more dealing with Stark’s shit, she was finally gonna be out in the stars like she had always dreamed.

 A loud snarl brought her from her day dreams, she looked across the room to the cell that housed who she guessed was the alien. He wasn’t too different from most Earth men. Big and burly, trying to act all big and tough in his leather jacket. The only real difference was he was blue. He was glaring at her and she glared back.

 “I worked hard to get in here tonight, Marvin the Martian and even ya aren’t stoppin’ me from getting off this rock and on my way to a better place.”

 He rolled his eyes at her and shook his head nudging his head towards a table with supplies neatly laid out across it. Each item bagged and tagged as being from the ‘unknown species’. She picked up what looked like an ear piece he was pointing at and gently opened the bag, sliding it in her ear as he was gesturing her to do.

 She jumped a little as the alien began talking to her and she could understand what he was saying.

 “Listen good girl, if ya want my M Ship, ya ain’t goin’ anywhere without me.”

 “And why would I want to bring ya? Ain’t ya havin’ fun with yer new friends?”

 “Just try to get far without me, girl,” he chuckled, “I would really love to see something entertaining, Terrans are awfully boring with all their talk of ‘science’ and ‘America’ and ‘Greater Good’.”

 “That sounds like Howard alright, you should try being his intern. Its like taking care of your oversized three-year-old…His son Tony ain’t so bad, has great taste in music.”  

 “All the Starks are nothing but pompous a holes to me,” he chuckled again making Meredith approach his cell, for a gross blue alien he weren’t so bad.

 “Can’t disagree with that, but hey I wouldn’t be here right now if Tony weren’t so young and gullible, so can’t complain too much about it either.”

 “You good with engineering, girlie?”

 “Wouldn’t be on Howard’s good side if I weren’t.”

 “Grab that Fin right there they so rudely ripped from my head and re attach it will ya?”  

 “I don’t even know who ya are, blue man. How do I know ya won’t eat me for comin’ near ya.”

 “It was very ungentlemanly of me not to introduce myself right away to a lady so brave enough to come rob my ass while I’m down,” she couldn’t help her smile at his sarcasm, “Yondu Udonta, my lady.”

 “Meredith Quill,” she said instinctively not wanting to seem too rude glancing back at the front entrance to make sure they were still alone.

 “Ya bought yerself only a little time, Merry Death,” she scowled at the way he pronounced her name but didn’t sink to his level by doing it to his own name, “Clock is tickin’. Ya best hurry and decide what yer doing.”

 Meredith thought about it for a moment. She was running out of time fast, her diversion wouldn’t keep them occupied long. She stared at the alien, her stare telling him all.

 “If’n ya don’t do that, yer gonna be defenseless on yer own when they get back. I like ya a little more than those idiots, so don’t fail me girl and I’ll drop ya off on Xandar when I get my ship back and ya’ll be right where ya need to be.”

 “Alright but I suspect foul play….I’ll…” she thought for a moment before pulling a bottle of pepper spray from her bag, “I’ll mace yer ass and it won’t be pretty. Hell, might be lethal to ya for all I know.”

 He just laughed at that not taking her threat too seriously. Taking a deep breath, she picked the lock of the cell as quick as she could making the man’s smile widen. She shot him a smug grin. Dating bad boys had its perks.

 As soon as she got in, she tossed her bag to the side and got to work on installing the fin back to his head as fast as she could, not wanting to chance them coming back so soon.  It was easier then she suspected it would be, like putting an engine back together. All the wires were easy to figure out, some needed a little bit of pressure to get back into place, those idiots probably just yanked it out of his head while he was unconscious. She felt bad, that it musta hurt, she gently shushed him when he groaned a bit at her tightening it, even taking the time to message the side of his scalp as she tightened the last part in to help him feel a bit of comfort.

 Her luck was never great though, good but not perfect. As soon as she got the fin reattached to his head, she heard someone already coming back. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she mumbled.

 “If yer comin’ with me ya best hurry.”

 She nodded grabbing her back pack off the ground and hurrying out the cell with the alien who looked thrilled to be on the outside looking down the guards guns.

 “How did the specimen get out?!”

 The lead doctor pushed past the guard and stared behind a very smug looking Yondu and stared straight at Meredith who shrank back a little beating herself  up a little for not getting that ski mask.  

 “Meredith?! How did this nut job get in here?!”

 “Ok but that hurts,” she scowled at the man, “At least I got here for actually knowin’ what I’m doin’ and not cause ma daddy’s got money, Carl.”  

 “As much as I’d love to stay here to watch ya tear this guy to shreds, Merry Death, I got shit to do, may I do the honors of gettin’ us outta here faster?”

 “What did the creature say?!”

 Meredith ignored her former co worker and nodded. To her surprise her new partner in crime let out a soft whistle and something shot off the table beside them. Meredith’s hair flared up as something whizzed past her. She briefly glanced at the red streak as it passed her by and drove forward and through the six men in the room.

 She didn’t expect he meant murdering her former colleges. She was shocked and unable to move for a second just staring at the blood that splattered on her shoes. She never liked these people sure but murder was a bit much.

 “Ya comin’, girlie?”  

 She stared at the corpses around her and knew she had no other choice. She was getting what she came for or she would stay behind and likely face a lifetime prison sentence or worse. She quickly ran into the space craft with Yondu.

 “What the fuck dude?!”

 “Wha?”

 “You didn’t need to kill them!”

 She felt her emotions buzzing in her head, what the hell was she getting herself into?

 “Its just quicker that way,” he shrugged pushing her down into the co pilot seat and preparing the ship to leave, “Ya got a lot to learn girl.”

 “Don’t patronize me!” she snarled but made no move to stop him as he helped her buckle herself in.

 “Just don’t think about it anymore then, Merry Death,” he grunted taking off through the hangar someone must have left open on their hurried scramble in and out of the warehouse during Meredith’s bomb scare.

 “Those weren’t good men. If ya weren’t part of their species, hell maybe that don’t even matter in their pursuit for ‘science’, ya would have been on their chopping block next like ya saved me from being.”

 Maybe it was the shock  but she couldn’t find the words staring at his solemn and serious face. Like this weren’t the first time this had happened to him. She felt a little guilty about not coming sooner.  

Guys like Carl were a little too happy about cutting into things they didn’t understand. While it was fine he did it to his prized taxidermy collection (always making Meredith’s skin crawl a little with how he described his exotic hunting trips and how he would dissect those creatures to know a bit more about them), it shouldn’t be legal to do that to something sentient. It was disgusting and cruel.

 “I’m only given ya what ya want cause ya saved me back there girl, so don’t take this like I like ya or nothin’. I’ll drop ya off at Xandar, you should be able to find some noble law abiding do gooder ta help ya from there.”

 “What were ya doin’ on Earth to begin with? It don’t seem like yer the type to abduct humans for experiments.”

 He snorted at that giving Meredith an incredulous look that made her sink a little in her seat.

 “I’m as low as they come girlie but I ain’t no slaver. That’s a low I will never get to. I ain’t gettin’ close to bein’ that again. I was just on a drunken joy ride and thought it would be funny to stop on a primitive planet. It weren’t.”

 She didn’t question him any further, not really wanting to know what he meant by that. She slid her head sets on and turned on her favorite band, Electric Light Orchestra and let Sweet Talkin’ Woman take her mind off things a little.

 “What is Xandar?”

 “The more advanced Terra. Bad place to be for a thief and murderer like me but its safe and harmless and should help ya find where ya want to go. We’re just gonna make a pit stop to find my crew and make sure they haven’t destroyed my mother ship yet.”  

 She nodded, even after watching him kill people, she knew he wouldn’t harm her, might as well just go along with what he wanted for now.

 They never quite made it to Xandar. Meredith couldn’t tell you when exactly she went from ‘cargo’ to a full-fledged ravager but that was just how her life went it seemed.

Like my work? Buy me a coffee.

[sin-n-tonics]

Sure, here ya go:

@prettyangryprostitute

Yes, there is—generally speaking—such a thing as a “male brain” or a “female brain”. Sexual dimorphism and differences between the sexes can be observed on a neurobiological level as well as a physical one. These differences are pretty pronounced, cannot be entirely attributed to socialization, and are defined enough that one can actually use brain scans to identify males and females with about 70-80% accuracy (x, x, x), even after controlling for general size differences between male and female brains.

Evidence for Sexual Dimorphism of the Human Brain:

Official Journal of Neuroscience Research — 70 Papers Analyzing Neurobiological Sex Differences (x)

Piece by neuroscientist Larry Cahill discussing neurological sex differences and their import (x)

Non-Overlapping and Inverse Associations in Structural Brain-Trait Associations (x)

Sexual Dimorphism of the Brain Assessed via In Vivo MRi (x): “Sexual dimorphisms of adult brain volumes were more evident in the cortex, with women having larger volumes, relative to cerebrum size, particularly in frontal and medial paralimbic cortices. Men had larger volumes, relative to cerebrum size, in frontomedial cortex, the amygdala and hypothalamus.”

Sexually Dimorphic Cell Groups in the Human Brain (x)

Here are some really good resources from Tumblr blogs that review brain sexual dimorphism & transsexuality:

Dykedebates’ explanation.

Gillygeewhiz’s review.

And also kiss-the-cis’s stuff (x, x).

Now onto sources for how this all relates to transsexuality, how atypical brain dimorphism is likely apart of the aetiology of dysphoria, and more:

Structural Connections in the Brain in Relation to Gender & Sexuality (x)

Discussion on the Effects of Testosterone on the Brain (x)

Renowned neuroscientist Dick Schwaab’s work on the aetiology of transsexuality (x, MTFs have female neuron counts & FTMs have male ones).

“The present findings of somatostatin neuronal sex differences in the BSTc and its sex reversal in the transsexual brain clearly support the paradigm that in transsexuals sexual differentiation of the brain and genitals may go into opposite directions and point to a neurobiological basis of gender identity disorder.” (X) (Schwaab)

“our group has recently found that the size of the central subdivision of the BST (BSTc) was within the female range in genetically male-to-female transsexuals” (x) (Schwaab)

Luders et al.: “ “we detected significant differences between MTF transsexuals, males, and females in a large number of regions across the brain..” (x)

Evidence that transwomen’s androgen receptor gene is less effective at binding androgen on average in comparison to cis men’s (x). Points to atypical/ineffective virilization in transwomen in utero.

Neuroimaging differences between MTFs and cis males before and during MTF HRT (x)

White matter patterns in FTM transsexuals more similar to patterns in males than in females (x)

Evidence overwhelmingly indicates that transsexual MTFs have atypically feminized regions in their brains on average compared to males, and FTMs have atypically virilized regions compared to other females. The growing consensus among neurobiologists exploring the condition of gender dysphoria is that atypical hormonal exposure in utero (which results in a virilization or feminization of brain regions) is what causes sex dysphoria in transsexuals.

Prettyangryprositute, there is countless studies indicating the existence (and neurobiological roots) of sex dysphoria, since it is rigorously studied in and out of labs. Saying “there is no evidence sex dysphoria exists aside from the feelings of those who claim to suffer it” is like fucking saying that “there is no evidence depression exists aside from the feelings of those who claim to suffer it”. There’s plenty of evidence, it’s just clear that you have never gone looking nor give enough a shit about transsexuals to care for what they suffer, and would rather sit on your ableist ass and play ignorant. Neurobiologists would laugh at what you’ve just said.

Sex dysphorics are distressed about their sex because of how their brains are wired, whereas the same cannot be said of Dolezal. Pack up the ableism and go please. And before any of you complain about me writing a fucking essay in response: the only way to shut up ableist clowns like you is through demonstrating and proving how thoroughly and scientifically wrong you are, but even then I don’t suppose you would budge in your political narratives. So.

JK Rowling: Makes transphobic statements that trans women are men in dresses and trans men are crappy women while also expecting newcomers to watch her latest movieset based on the “Fantastic Beasts” books and do new stuff with them

Maxis/EA: Here have some non binary, transexual, post-trasition wizarding ass inspired by this terf’s latest movies and enjoy living with them on a diverse world where no one questions them and where if they are mean to them they will get a bad reputation and a curse for being a jackass.

[chronicleblogger]

Happy Goku Day: Goku Deserves his own Day because:

It was back in 2015 that the Japan anniversary Association designated May 9th officially as Goku Day. What brought this day about ?. It all lies in the japanesse language. 

The Number 5 is pronouced Go and the number 9 is pronounced Ku. Get it GO-KU...Goku. Our favorite big-haired, orange martial art uniform wearing, big appitite having Super Saiyan. It was because of the Japanesse language system that we anime lovers were blessed with Goku Day.

Who is Goku

Goku aka Son Goku, born Kakarot, is the main protagonist of the ever-growing Dragon Ball Franchise. Goku was born on the Planet Vegeta, home to the Saiyan race, a long-extincted race. Shortly before the planet’s destruction, He was sent off world to earth in an attempted mission to destroy the Earth. But a childhood head injury sustained shortly after being adopted by martial art master, Gohan, caused Goku’s violent and ill tempered personality to transform into the happy go lucky smiley personality we all know and aspire to have (cause we can all use a Goku in our lives).

Since growing up on Earth, Goku has grown up to become one of Universe’s Greatest Warriors. Just think about it, Goku’s Universal Celebrity Status came into fuitition when he began his adventure after a chance encounter with a 16-year-old Bulma Briefs and began their quest for the 7 Seven Dragon Balls. 

Dragon Ball High Points with Goku:

It is safe to that Goku has set the tone on how your average protagonist should be but Dragon Ball Z, along with its spin-off Dragon Ball Super, has set the tone on how anime is suppose to be. DONT GET ME WRONG! Naruto, Fullmetal Alchemist (Brotherhood), Yu Yu Hakusho and the current era’s My Hero Academia are jewels in the anime community. 

Universal Shattering battles, Comedic moments spanning 20+ saga, plus hidden themes on love, family, teamwork, classification based on one’s strength is why I refer to the dragon ball franchise as a “godfather of anime.”

As to Goku himself, He has dealt with struggles in his own right. Lets start with the fact that due to Goku’s Origins, his lack of knowlegde of his heritage leads to the unknowingly death of his Grandpa Gohan. Goku transforms into a great ape for the first time (prior to the start of Dragon Ball) and unwittingly kills Grandpa Gohan. However this realization does come unitl nearly 10+ years later during the Saiyan Conflict. After witnessing Rival Vegeta’s Great Ape Transformation for the first time, it hits him in the head in terms of realization that he has transformed into the very monster twice in the first series. Nonetheless, Goku continues the battle. A hero whose all about mission first, grivence second. Depending on the type of person you are, this can be a good trait or a bad trait. I’ll take good trait for 500 Alex

“The giant monster my Grandpa warned me about. It was me.”- Season 1, Episode 32 (Spirit Bomb Away!) Dragon Ball Z

One the main fallouts that Goku has had to deal with is the deaths of some his friends (I know, I know. Dragon Ball is mainly known for defying the laws of physics and just resurrects people left and right but death is still death).

From Bora in Dragon Ball to Krillin (many times) to his best rival Vegeta, Goku has dealt with striving to bring back friends who fallen in battle and still managed to keep his head up and defeated those who caused harm to to him.

Lastly, The signature Super Saiyan transformation and his arsenal of attacks and abilites. The Dragon ball franchise has not disappointed when it came to super attacks. Now that I think back to my childhood being a 90s kid myself. I cant remember a single kid in my classes that did not try to turn into Super Saiyan during recess. I remember my teachers asking me what did I want to be when I grew up. I told them (in my goku voice) “a suuuppperrr Saiiyyaann!” I could not remember a single kid that did not want to a super saiyan right along with me. If your reading this and you went to school with me or even if you did not go to school with me if you comment that the you are a 90s kid and did not want to be Super Saiyan growing up, then head over to DC Comics and the DC Universe and commit yourself to Arkham Asylum cause ya crazy as hell. That Golden Transformation was what it is: Golden! The Super Saiyan Transformation is sacred for a numerous of reasons but the main reason is because Goku’s famous transformation during his historic fight against Self proclaimed “Emporer of the universe” Frieza, which by the way is the longest fight in anime history that is a fact dont argue with me over this, ushered in the Era of the Super Saiyan and set the tone for the Earth-Shattering battles. It lead to famous dragon ball characters creepying out from all corners of the dragon ball franchise to challenge the celebrity Super Saiyan and his friends. 

Come to think of it, would the Bio-Android Cell be the “Cell” that we all lpublicly hate cause his a super villian but secretly love cause he just that awesome if not for the Super Saiyan Transformation ? Debate on your own time. For now back to loving Goku and his Awesomeness. 

Oh I almost forgot about some of Goku’s Super Attacks. We all know the Signature (in my Goku voice) Kaaammmmeeeehaaammmmeeehaaaaaaaaa! But let us not about Goku’s other attacks that have saved his ass and put his ass in danger I’ll explain. Goku aquired the (Goku Voice) Kaioo Keeeenn technique during his 9 month Otherworld Training for the Saiyan Conflict and when it was first introduced we loved the red-flaming power up before realizing that the higher the power up the most painful Goku’s body becomes. We dont want our Saiyan to be in pain before the fight can really heat up! Yes they have been new techniques over the years, most notable the Dragon Fist and the Spirit Bomb. Another reason to love Goku: When the hell did he learn the Dragon Fist ? But Spirit bomb, another attack acquireed during his Otherworld rendezvous during the Saiyan Conflict Prepartion, where to begin. It the perfect attack for Goku because according to King Kai: “Remember that the Spirit Bomb is a martial arts discipline that allows you to borrow energy from grass and trees, from people and animals, from inanimate objects and the atmosphere... And then to concentrate them and release them. If you can draw so much destructive power from a ball made on this small planet... ...Imagine what you can do with a Spirit Bomb formed on Earth! If you can also learn to tap into the astounding powers of the Sun... Well. Just be careful. Or you may destroy the very planet you're trying to protect!" — King Kai, in "Closer... Closer..."

Spirit Bomb for Goku is perfect because it requires him to basically team up with very person he is trying to Protect: The very Earth he practice Martials Arts on.

Goku Day has transformed into a day to celebrate one of Pop/Anime Cultures most iconic manga/anime characters to debut outside of Japan and has blessed us with 30+ years of positive inspiration and impacted the lives of Countless fans around the globe. With that being said from the action he displays to us to the touching moments he gave viewers during the Cartoon Network Toonami days to quote the last episodde title of DBZ Kai: The Final Chapters: “Even Stronger! Goku Dream is Never Ending”

Well we can change that to “Celebrated More! Goku Day is Never Disappearing.”

[michaelfallcon]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[shebreathesslowly]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge https://ift.tt/2Pwglhb

[davidaolson]

Awakened by a Demon

The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

“Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u”

It’s screeching shattered the still of the night. Not just once. Over and over for the better part of an hour. It screeched. Then the lull during which my heart settled and I felt sleep crawling from between the sheets, my eyes growing heavy. Until it screeched again. Four screams in a sequence with the last sputtering words decaying like a loosely mounted motor running out of gas forcing every cell in my body to high alert. Danger, Will Robison.

The beast had to be close. Beast? Or was it a ghost? A demon? A demon ghost hybrid. The locals are superstitious. Stories of ghosts and spirits are commonplace. Just tonight, I learned Auntie would not go to the upstairs floor in her own home. Her own home! A place she lived for decades because she believes it is haunted. Yet, it is ok for the maid and the grandkids to sleep up there. How much of the belief is based in fact? How much is fiction from a people steeped in superstition? I noticed I am fingering the smooth leather medicine bag I’ve worn around my neck since my encounter with Rattlesnake in New Mexico a couple of weeks earlier. I guess a Western education does not immunize one from a belief in amulets or the evil they keep at bay.

The noise seemed to be coming from just outside the sliding glass doors of my room in the Abuyog hotel. It may be a ventriloquist. The identified location a misdirection and it was nearer. Under the bed??? Did I remember to lock the window? “Fu-Quuuuu”. Is the demon studying me from behind a curtain of darkness? Behind the corner armoire? “Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” Let’s rationalize. Maybe it’s a screaming cat. A cat in preheat sparring with an overzealous mate attempting to force a dry fuck, or a night bird trying to spook a twitchy nose rat into breaking cover and running, perhaps the Philippine version of a Screech Owl, the tufty eared, bug-eyed predator out for the nightly hunt. Screech Owl? Screeching Owl. Yes.

The noise tortures me. I am also tormented by claws scratching the floor in the room directly above me. Or, is in hiding between the ceiling and the floor? If it found a way to infiltrate the hotel, is my room safe? Is it rats? Is the Fu-Quuuuu demon inside the hotel trying to catch a rat? Does it have the flexibility to escape through a hole and emerge in my room? Is it a rat jousting with a slithering snake? Will the snake find refuge in the pipes and poke a triangular head out of the toilet bowl during my morning constitutional sinking teeth into my meaty, muscley ass or, shudder, ball sack? I better check the bowl then shit while hovering.

I cowered stock still sweating in the bed. My pillow is soaked through to both sides. My heart pounds. What time is it? I slowly looked at my phone. 3 am. 3 fucking am and I’m wide awake. 3 am. Much too early to chase a sunrise. And going outside in the dead of night could mean an encounter with the Fu-Quuuuu demon. Is it taking a clue from the owl playbook, trying to spook me from my safe sanctuary into vulnerable open space? I want to run. But, I imagine going up to the roof and facing Fu-Quuuuuu followed by my own fading Oh-Noooooo as it devours me, head first, or hexes my life ensuring I die tragically, or scares me so deeply my hair roots die and white strands sparsely cover my head. Irrational? Who’s to say what evil lurks in the heart of demons.

I lay unmoving for the next two hours too terrified to reach beyond the bed for the lamp for fear the demon is throwing its voice beyond the glass as it sits beneath my bed waiting to tear off any limb extending beyond the bed’s edge. Too frightened to reach over to my wife for comfort for fear the beast would hear me move and be triggered to attack the way running prey triggers a bear to give chase. I lay petrified waiting for the rising sun to send the safety of daylight.

“Did you hear the demon last night?” It wasn’t until the second morning hearing the awful screeching that I overcame my embarrassment and felt comfortable discussing the screaming, screeching demon.

“Demon?”

“Ya, that loud screaming.”

“Screaming? That was a tukó, one of our local geckos. The name is from the sound it makes. Tu-koooooo. Tu-koooooo.” It’s a cute lizard. Good luck in the home.

“I didn’t hear no Tu-koooooo. I heard “Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” My voice decayed quicker than tukó at the end of a chant. “Cough. Cough.” I look at her. No sympathy for my feigned cough. It’s no use. I know it. She knows it. There is no way for me to save face. I feel the fool for being distraught because the unfamiliar voice squawked by a little lizard frightened the hell out of me. And I am simultaneously excited knowing Rattlesnake may have been speaking capital ‘T’ Truth.

The Ambien Zombie

The waking up before the sun theme lasted the entire trip. Jet lag from jumping 13 time zones over 24 hours requires the better part of two weeks for me to fully adjust. We were only a few days into the trip. Once my body clock adjusts to local sun cycles, we head back to Chicago where I endure another two weeks of screwed up sleeping schedules. Plus I have a very difficult time sleeping in a sitting position. On long-haul flights, I use prescription Ambien to help me sleep and adjust to a new time zone.

I’ve head stories of Ambien zombies, perfectly nice people zombified by the drug especially when mixed with Alcohol. They babble incoherently, have even been known to strip naked and wall about the plane. All with no recollection when then come down.

Always, until this trip, I enjoyed my Ambien induced coma without incident waking refreshed on the flip side. Win-win. The episode between Chicago and Taiwan will keep me away from Ambien the rest of the trip and will probably be the last time I ever use the sleep aid. I became the dreaded Ambien Zombie.

I took two as soon as my luggage was stowed in the overhead before buckling into my middle seat, next to my aisle seated wife, for the 15-hour flight taking off at 12:30 am. Normally, I fly long haul alone. There have never been complaints so I assume my induced sleep is simply a deep, dreamless sleep. Not so this time where I experienced two vivid dreams.

The first was of me walking around the airplane in slow motion. In the dream, I was unable to pronounce Pinot Noir in a way the flight attendant understood. I rarely eat airplane food, aside from crackers and fruit cups, because the smell while still in the carts makes me nauseous. But, I ordered the beef dish. And I ordered a whiskey which I mixed with apple juice. The obnoxious concoction was promptly spilled mostly onto my wife’s tray overflowing into her lap. I looked at the mess and returned to eating with all the dexterity and urgency of a sloth. All this, I later learned from my irritated wife, actually happened but I was too stoned on the sleeping pill to realize it.

I now wonder if those previous trips were simply a relaxed deep sleep or I acted the fool. I’ve never been arrested or deboarded so I’m going to guess there were no exceedingly unseemly events.

The second dream was rather bizarre.

Tukó, the gecko lizard, and I are sitting face to face in chairs. This is a giant Tukó, big as a double homunculus human. It’s feet dangle above the floor, the fat tail wrapped around the chairback providing balance. Tukó has no butt so sitting is difficult. The pink tongue licks its eyes the way a dog tongues its snout clean after eating. The mouth opens, sound spill out, the mouth closes. The eyes look at me, expectantly. The mouth opens again, “Who-Ooooooo. Fu-Quuuuuu”

Language gap. Unlike my encounter with Rattlesnake who spoke in words I understood, there is a definite language gap with Tukó, a gap exacerbated by the human lizard culture gap.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I said wondering if the language barrier was two way.

Tukó reaches out a closed hand palm up, turns it over, unfurls the five thick fingers revealing a very small gecko. It couldn’t have been longer than one-inch nose to tail. He pumps his hand up and down motioning me to take it. I reach out and it crawls, without hesitation, into my hand. I can feel the stickiness of the toe pads. It’s a little like tearing apart velcro with every step.

“Emmm…” how to be culturally sensitive here? Is it simply a gift? Am I supposed to eat it? We are in Asia where feeding guests is standard hospitality and refusing to eat offered food an insult. I look at it again. Well, at least it isn’t balut. I hope I don’t gag. I force a smile,” Thank you”. And move it toward my mouth.

Tukó chatters frantically. “Nuh-Oooooo. Nuh-Ooooooo.”

I stop midway, mouth agape.

Tukó points to the side of its head. I am still very confused. “What? What do I do?”

Tukó deftly grabs the miniscule gecko from my hand and places it next to my head. It crawls into my ear canal. A shiver starts from my ear and runs all the way down to my toes. This is worse than one gulp needed to swallow it. I am scared. No. Terrified. I once saw a movie where a person was strapped to a table while a villain in a white lab coat looked on. The villain grabbed an earwig from a bucket of crawling earwigs using a longish pair of zircon encrusted tweezers and proceeded to stick the wiggling bug into the man’s ear. The man screamed in agony as the earwig slowly ate its way through his brain until it reached the center killing him. Was I about to begin a ghastly death?

“Can you understand me now, David? You should be able to.”

“I…I can understand you.” What the hell was going on?

“That is a Babel Gecko. It is similar to the Babel Fish. You do know what a Babel Fish is, David?”

“Yes, I do.” My pride swells. I read the six books in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy and knew the answer. “A babel fish is fictitious It’s small, yellow and leech-like. It crawls into the ear of a person suctioning onto the eardrum enabling the person to understand any language in the universe.”

“Close.”

“Close? I read all the books and saw the tv show. I know what a Babel Fish is.”

“It is not fictitious.” Tukó emphasized ‘fictitious’ by making air quotes with those fat finger hands. “It exists just not in our space-time continuum. Douggy Adams was taken up by aliens and moved between space-time streams. Eventually, the brought him back but failed to erase all the memories from his time away. Those books he wrote contained fractal representations of that time. Now, what you have in your ear is a Babel Gecko. It has the ability to translate all animal, tree, and rock people communication into your human language which is why you now understand me. It cannot translate human to human because the primitive human language causes the Babel Gecko to deteriorate from the inside out.”

“Primitive human language? Human language is the most sophisticated ever devised.”

“Typical human arrogance. It is not the most sophisticated on earth and considered white noise in other worlds. It’s why the beings on distant planets don’t bother responding to the signals and probes you send into deep space. You, humans, communicate only with sound with the exception of visual artists. Unless the artworks are straightforward, you misinterpret them as well. We animals have the ability to communicate with and without sound. We can communicate with color, physical motion, smell, telepathically and any combination. It is called ‘voice’ and is sophisticated beyond human comprehension while being transparently simple to all nonhumans. Babel Gecko translates all voice into approximations of human words. You may sense gaps, sometimes elongated, in the translation because the Babel Gecko must dumb it down for your comprehension.”

“Okayyy. There are insects and other lizards in this room. Why don’t I hear them?” I got him. There was no recovery from this argument.

Tukó chuckled. Paused. “The Babel Gecko knows. Humans like claiming they are good at multi-tasking. But it is impossible for the primitive human brain to focus on more than one task at a time. The Babel Gecko’s sophistication allows it to tune into the vibration of your thought waves then filter the many voices allowing only the one on which you are attempting to focus. This is why you don’t hear the mosquitoes discussing the sweetness of your wife’s blood they are sampling while she showers or the very large spider behind the shower room curtain singing a siren song to lure those same mosquitoes into its lethal web.”

“That sounds quite far-fetched.”

“Of course you would say that. Liars have a hard time believing the truth.”

“Liars?”

“Come now David, you are fully aware humans tell as many lies as they do truths. Even the quote-unquote truths tend to be embellished.”

I have to admit he is correct. I like to think I am truthful to a fault but know, in my heart, I am prone to embellishing my stories. Innocent enough but still, why not just relate facts?

“We in the animal world are incapable of telling lies. Our communication is always congruous. Our voice, true. The body, our colors, telepathy, and words are always in sync. Though, one should be extremely careful when communicating with a split tongue being such as Rattlesnake. With them, truth halves and they may allow one half only to slip off a tongue branch into the world. Half truths are deceptive. Lying by omission of the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me by one of the thousands of Gods, is still lying.”

Gecko stopped talking, stared up at the ceiling. Was it hungry? looking for bugs? Too much silence for my taste, a vacuum needing filling.

“Thank you for the gift of the Babel Gecko.”

“It’s NOT yours.” Heavy emphasis on the NOT. “It is a loan. It will crawl out and away before you leave the Philippines. It would be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Dangerous? You can trust me. I won’t let anything happen to it.”

“Fu-Quuuuuu!”

“Sorry, I didn’t understand you. I think the Babel Gecko is on the fritz.”

“It’s working just fine. And you heard me correctly. I said, ‘Fuck you!’ Your people have brought nothing but misery to this planet and my people ever since you left the trees in your hairy pre-hominid days and started building cities. You bred, still, breed like roaches, and continue spreading your pestilence! No offense to roaches. They are a hearty people. It’s simply a reality your mind can’t grasp.”

“Sorry?”

“Was that a question?” His color changed slightly. A red hue undertoned the skin. Can they color shift like chameleons? The gold eyes pulsed.

“Um, Sorry! I apologize for the human race.”

“It’s too late for apologies. The damage is done. We will all pay the price for your unchecked infestation. You humans most of all.”

“Really? What’s gonna happen?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, Yes I do. I have a right to know.”

“Rights is a human philosophical construct. There are no such thing as rights there only is existence. But, I will tell you. There’s nothing you can do to change the future. It will start when Big Ben strikes thirteen…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt “…the blood moon will crumble…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt.

vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt. My vibrating watch alarm, set for the morning in Chicago, pulled me out of the Ambien slumber. I was still mired in a stupor, still mashed into the too small middle seat in the exit row, still on the plane heading to Taiwan. I dreamt it all.

An Expected Unexpected Trip

We weren’t supposed to be in the Philippines this year. Our trip to Southeast Asia was scheduled, tentatively scheduled, for 2019. January or February, opposite typhoon season, when the cold still strangled Chicago and the Philippines was a beacon of near perfect warmth. We planned to forego Belize where we had lizard basked in the sun for a week each of the previous two Winters and make our 3rd trip in 6 years to my wife’s homeland, her hometown. Her father was aging quickly. His health was not the greatest. Each of our last two visits we believed was the last to see him alive.

The dreaded call, came on a Friday a few days after we returned from New Mexico. Just as Rattlesnake foreshadowed. The following Friday, we were crammed into a plane for the 24 hour trip from Chicago to Manila this time via Taiwan. We overnighted in Manila then took an early flight to Tacloban City in Leyte. It was a short flight. Most flights between the islands in the archipelago are about an hour. We spent more time in lines and waiting in the terminal than airborne. Such is the curse of modern travel.

Our Manila hotel was an apartment. Inexpensive, great air conditioning which we desperately needed in a 90/90 country. The temps were 90+ Fahrenheit and the humidity was upward of 90% all day every day. Life in 90/90 means the sun feels heavy, a burden one must carry like an overloaded backpack even in the relatively cool shade. It was almost possible to extract a glass full of water with every few breaths. Sweat was my Eau de cologne. Not of choice but the natural order of life. The body must cool itself. The inexpensiveness of the apartment means one foregoes amenities like on-premise restaurants. The neighboring Marriott goes for $200 a night. For me, it’s a no-brainer tradeoff. Though, walking between our place and the restaurants in the pouring rain, Manila was in the middle of a typhoon, while sharing a single umbrella is a downer.

Our flight to Tacloban was in the early morning, too early to find a breakfast place. Plus we were reluctant to walk to the nearby hotels and be pelted by the typhoon drenching Manila and snarling traffic. The food at the domestic airport did not appeal to me. This all added up to being hungry upon arrival in Tacloban.

Stuffing My Face With Outdoor Chicken at Andoks

Our choice of eateries on the road to Abuyog is limited. There’s a McDonald’s or, on the opposite side of the street, Andok’s Chicken. Just the thought of McD’s makes my stomach cringe so, when asked, I requested Andok’s. I think it surprised our hosts. Andok’s is an open-air eating establishment with the food cooked on an outdoor spit behind a three-sided glass enclosure. It looks and smells succulent. We order, carry our chilled pop, without ice, to a clean table next to a table where a group recently vacated.

Our conversation is primarily in the local language, meaning I think it my own bubble. It is an existence with which I am more than content. I half listen to the ambient noise, sip my rapidly warming pop. Curse the ice made with unfiltered water. My inner life is active. I rarely grow bored. I am content to sit and think while they conversed. After all, they have a deep history and I don’t speak but a few words in their language. To expect them to accommodate my desires would be selfish. We achieved yin-yang balance.

I catch a whiff of a stench and look around to see if an open sewer is nearby. Nope. There’s a person at the adjacent table who I at first think is a worker cleaning up but noticed she’s eating the leftover food. Nibbling whatever morsel she can from the chicken bones, tilting the bottle to drain last drops of soda. When finished picking the plates clean, she walks toward us and reaches out for my half-empty water bottle. They told her no. I try an appear nonchalant.

Her face is oddly shaped. Is she mentally challenged? A mild Down’s Syndrome. There is a strangeness to her eyes. She walks behind me on her way beyond the restaurant boundary and I realize the malodor is not an open sewer. It is her. She never says a word at our table nor while she waits, like a feral dog outside the range of stick and stones, for opportunities to pick at leftovers. She took a position further from us than the strays sniffing the chicken laden air on the periphery. Is this how she is forced to survive. Does she view herself as lesser than dogs which is why she waits beyond them? Is she viewed by the locals as lesser than a dog? Does this society have more empathy for the canid than the hominid? I soon find out.

My companions drop back into their lingua franca freeing me to eat the delivered chicken and ruminate in the less visited antechambers hidden in my mind. I think back to the unplanned nature of this trip and its prognostication by Rattlesnake two weeks prior while we explored the wilds in Nueva México. A little Spanish thrown into the narrative. I’m not totally oblivious to other languages just lack fluency in any but English. Tubig means water in Tagalog and Salamat is thank you. Two words I need to get by in this country.

Rattlesnake told me. Is that the right phraseology? No. It is more apt to say Rattlesnake warned me that Tukó harnessed the temperament of a trickster with the ability to shapeshift. Trickster spirits take human form by day changing to animal form when Sun is replaced by Moon. He warned me, a preferred form for Tukó was that of an impoverished, mute woman. Is this woman a human being or a spirit being? Are her eyes a bit off or did the Rattlesnakes tales fill my head with imagined realities?

I try from a distance to see her eyes. Are the human round pupiled or vertical gecko pupiled. I cannot see clearly from where I sit. Would round pupils, tell me anything? If Trickster shapeshifts to a human, wouldn’t it also mimic the eye design? Perhaps the human form is a shell and a vertical pupil exists behind the round pupil. In the right light, would I be able to see the Trickster behind the translucent human-like eye?

I catch myself absentmindedly rubbing my medicine bag. Instinct once again overrides my Western University education predicated on logic. I doubt this would have been the case before I encountered the talking Spirit Rattlesnake and the Ancient One that set him free from the large stone. That singular event rocked my understanding of reality and now I am unsure where the division between real and imaginary exists. Or are they one and the same?

I look at her askance. Not wanting anyone to know I am staring but I need to know her nature. What is that movement? Did she just flick a pink tongue over her eyes?

Our stomachs full, my companions start tossing chicken bones to a yellow furred mongrel. It’s a stray. Heavy teated. Dirty. Patchy fur from fighting other curs. It inches closer, warily, until it is next to our table. Hunger trumps fear. Western dogs who are rarely given chicken bones. One because in America dogs are on par with humans. And because of the belief, their digestive system is too sensitive for the tiny spears. They give all the chicken leftovers to the dog. The dog eats. The hungry woman looks on. They pet the dog, a few affectionate pats on the head. They tell her she’s a pretty dog. Eventually, they give the woman a chunk of pork. No kind words. No affectionate touch. They don’t tell her she is pretty.

Is giving her food kindness? I don’t see it that way. We give of our excess. Our trash. A mouthful she would have helped herself to after we left. It seems to me more a guilt offering. But this is my perspective, the view of an outsider out of tune with the spoken language and the cultural context. My conscience is not assuaged.

I ate too much and I struggle with churning guilt grinding at my insides. I try to rationalize my lack of action as not wanting to throw a stone in the culture pool and start unexpected ripples that might upset the natural order. But it is simply a rationalization, a lie told to the self.

Truth is, I am wretched. Not the poor woman with little access to food. Me the overweight, self-centered glutton who ate my fill, more than my fill until I was sluggish, without thinking of her hunger. Ate until I was stuffed beyond need. As I think this, I looked sheepishly at her one more time with my eyes hidden behind my dark sunglasses. I swear her eyes flash gold for the time it takes to snap my fingers, flash gold with a vertical slit and the hint of an almost smile.

There is still an hour’s drive to our hotel. An hour where I am reminded of my wretchedness with every home we pass cobbled together using uneven wooden planks leaving open seams in the walls, and discarded sheet metal roofs creating oven temperatures in direct sunlight, homes without running water or electricity, homes without screens to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

I had forgotten the extent of the poverty in the country, forgotten the face of a similar poverty I saw every day in India and vowed never to ignore. Forgotten how blessed I am to have access to quality medical care, two cars in the family, a home with climate control, the means to travel eight thousand miles and stay in a comfortable hotel with a roof from which to enjoy the sun climbing spectacularly orange over an ocean horizon. And, always, the promise of a warm meal greeting our every arrival at Auntie’s home.

Auntie’s House

It is customary in the Philippines for a family member to host the deceased for the nine days preceding the funeral including the feed those coming to pay their respects. On day ten, the funeral is held. There are additional ceremonies at prescribed intervals following the entombment with the last at the one year anniversary.

Aunties home became the makeshift funeral parlor with the casket prominently displayed in the family room, the first sight when entering the front door. On the trip over, I wondered how people tolerated the stink of the slowly decaying body. It turns out, in this case at least for they do not live below the poverty line, the casket was top tier including a clear, glass covering. Hermetically sealed. Any odor would be confined.

We arrive on day 7 and visit daily until the funeral which ended up being delayed until day 10 for want of an available officiate. Each time we enter food is offered within a few minutes. In the Philippines, serving food is equivalent to saying, “I love you.”

I love chicken adobo and pancit. Have grown accustomed to heaping bowls of rice. But not so much the bony fish, too much work to separate the flesh from the sharp bones. Nor am I a fan of dinuguan. Pig’s blood adds a strong iron taste to the soup. By the third day, my palate craves variety. Our farm visit added a touch of variety. Virgin coconuts freshly felled from the trees with a machete have the sweetest milk. Locally grown greens added to a soup of freshly killed chicken, head included. It is a self-supporting chicken so the meat is on the chewy side. Of course, heaps of steaming rice, for a meal minus rice is only a snack.

The trip to the farm is different than past adventures. The ferry was bypassed by a bridge. It’s not strong enough to support a car so we walk across and board a motorput for the final distance to the farm. It terrifies one of the aunties so she opts for the ferry on the way back. It is dubbed the dancing bridge for it sways while we walk across.

Aside from one fast food place, there are no restaurants in town, none with hygiene necessary to sensitive Western stomachs. The last thing I want is Montezuma to seek revenge while I’m in the Philippines. On our final full day in Abuyog, Cousin remembers a new Italian restaurant owned/operated by a real Italian at the far north end of the city outside the town proper. I am skeptical. Authentic Italian food in the middle of a small town? How is possible? We eat there for lunch. Stay to swim and eat dinner as well. It is heavenly. And we finally have wine to accompany our dinner. There are no liquor stores in Abuyog, my wife tells me. No place to buy wine. We find the last day she is wrong. There is a liquor store a very short walk from our hotel. We leave tomorrow. No time for a bottle of red or a chilled white.

Daily temps are 90/90. Yet the homes have no air conditioning not even the nicer ones like Auntie’s or Cousins. I mostly visit after sundown to avoid the heaviest heat. As soon as I enter, someone adjusts both oscillating fans to ensure I was in their path and had a smidge of relief from the heat. Still, after about an hour, I am sweat soaked and head back to the hotel to bask, sometimes naked, in the air conditioning, temperature set on stun.

Some of the visitors we encounter are comfortable enough with English to greet me and ask if I am hungry. Hungry or not, food is still served. They can speak quite a bit more but are embarrassed to speak the language with someone who is fluent. The fear of making mistakes and possibly looking foolish is strong. I speak no Waray, the local dialect, so welcome any attempt at English. I do not push the issue. It is my preference they enjoyed the company of my wife. These are her people and holes are rent in the fabric of their family during her absence. Our visits are a time they all participate in mending the holes, a tribe working together to sew up the holes in the fishing net. I enjoy watching her. She becomes highly animated when conversing in her native dialect. I sit and watch from my familiar bubble.

For most of my life, I have felt an outsider, apart from the group, isolated. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was (am) the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. I have come to accept isolation is endemic to my DNA and I have learned to thrive in solitude. So much so, it has gradually become my preferred mode of being. I inhabit a bubble. Bubble boy.

The isolation becomes a shroud when visiting a land where my language is an afterthought or a nonthought. Non-language can be a wall. A wall of our own making when we chose to remain monolingual.

Unless one has extensive practice existing in isolation, whether by choice to remain apart from people or one is forced into it by dint of not speaking a common tongue, it can be a terrifying space. The sharing of even a few phrases gives hope, creates connection.

Many, probably most, of the native-born US citizenry speaks English only. Bilingualism, sadly, is an anomaly, a logical outcome of communal arrogance. “If you don’t speak Amurican you ain’t worth talking at“. It sucks that multilingualism is viewed as an unnecessary expense by most school boards in the United States. Worse, speaking any language other than English is increasingly, thanks to the orange buffoon, viewed as unAmerican, unpatriotic. If he truly wants to make America great, he should emphasize multilingualism in the schools verbal as well as speaking the languages of the arts.

For the ‘Build the Wall’ types, being in the midst of people who speak a language in addition to English, or worse, only English is uncomfortable exacerbating their fearfulness. They would rather isolate themselves with a border wall than face their fear. Build an isolating wall because of a fear of being isolated. Oh, the irony.

The proposed border wall between Mexico and the United States is a concept buttressed by fear, a foolish attempt to medicate anxiety. Like the antidepressant Prozac, it creates the illusion the situation is different. Perception is more important than reality.

Me, I am thankful for the multilingual. They can help build a bridge between us.

On our previous visit to the Philippines, I learned the concept of beer English. We were at the beach celebrating our marriage with lots of fresh food and buckets of beer. For the most part, I watched the waves kicking up against the shore and the fishermen in their small boats pulling in nets. Once in a while, there would be a word I understood in their language pulling me into their reality before I returned to watching. From a raging sea of Waray, an English speaking fish breached the water, hung in the air. A cousin started speaking to me in English. I was incredulous.

“You’re speaking English?”

“It’s beer English. We only speak English after drinking five beers.” Everyone laughed. And I was included in parts of the conversation until the beer was gone and we parted for our own homes.

There does not seem to be a drinking culture at wakes in the Philippines. Consequently, there was no beer English, very little conversation drawing me in. My ears do prick up when I catch one of the few Waray words I understand. Salamat for thank you. Tubig for water. O-O for yes. Mostly, at Aunties, I retreat to the sanctity of my bubble from which I people watch.

The Honking Huge Spider

I was in my sanctum one evening when I saw the short, jerky movement of a black object overhead. The homes, the ones I have visited, have no screens. Geckos and insects are regular visitors. In the ceiling line, where the ceiling meets the wall, a massive spider. I am not one to shy away from the creepies or the crawlies but this monster caused chills to shoot down my spine and escape through my toes where they hid in the shadows of a bookcase.

The spider is a good 5 inches in diameter with a body big enough to kidnap and drain the blood from a small child in one slurp. Not wanting to interrupt my wife’s animated conversation and appear to be a fraidy cat in front of her family, I stared at her hoping she would feel the intensity of my gaze and look my way so I could lip point, Philippino style, at the gruesome beast. No luck.

I sent mojo vibes through the air figuring the dense humidity would easily carry the signals drop to drop between us and tweak her subconscious. Again no luck. I became increasingly agitated. Should I shout a warning and save everyone’s lives? Or would my alarm raise twitters at the city boys irrational fear of something that amounted to a child’s pet?

I hold my tongue. Chilled fear sweat added to and mixed with my heat sweat. I am both hot and cold.

A gecko darts across the ceiling in the direction of Mr. Monster Spider. It is the biggest I have seen on the trip. Six inches long with a thick body and tail. Was this the Spirit Tukó come to save me?

As gecko draws near to the spider, it scurries until it is directly over my head. The movement is blindingly fast. If the spider decided to attack, could I beat it in a foot race? I am wearing my ultralight Ferrell tennis shoes but don’t know if my old knees can sustain a pace for the duration necessary to be further from the spider than one of the other guests. I didn’t need to be faster than spider just faster than the slowest person to put a victim between me and the monster. Of course, it could just let loose and fall from the ceiling onto my head the moment I look away and siphon all my brain juice.

Gecko appears not to notice Spider. Rather than witness a lizard arachnid skirmish, I watch Gecko descended the wall and take refuge behind a framed picture. Is it, too, afraid of the spider or simply returning to digest a stomach full of insects in a safe space?

Either way, I feel safer with the sentinel Gecko, a natural predator, close by. My protector. My savior. I have long been a fan of geckos. Correction. I love geckos. I wish there were a dozen or so roaming the walls and ceilings in our Chicago home. Wild geckos. Free-range geckos. Not the inmates transferred from animal prisons (aka pet stores) only to be locked in another glass cage inside a home.

A human can’t be human confined to 6′ x 8′ prison cell and still be a human nor can a gecko be a gecko when confined to a small enclosure. The US government confined the American Indians to reservations knowing full well it would crush their souls beyond repair and domesticate the ‘savages’. I don’t want a tamed gecko. It would lose gecko essence. They are harbingers of good luck. If the essence is gone so is the luck. Or, the luck may go negative and bring bad tidings upon the household.

Geckos feast on the crawlies invading the home. And they whisper dreams into your ears during slumber. I could use some vivid dreams. One can never have too many geckos gracing the palace. The praying mantis also eats insects so is beneficial but they don’t dispense dreams. Alas, Chicago has bitter Winters meaning no insect food to sustain geckos. Geckos starve. More bad luck. Geckos are another good reason for me to move to the Desert Southwest. I wonder, is Gecko of my totem?

On our last trip, we were island hopping near Puerto Princessa. I paid a few Philippine pisos for a temporary gecko tattoo over my left shoulder. Since then, I have contemplated a tattoo of Delicate Arch topped by a gecko against a sunset. Almost like it was riding the Arch into the sunset cowboy style. It would make for a great back piece. A symbol of my favorite land, a spirit animal. And if the ink could be made of finely ground red rock dust, it would have in my body the actual where I wish to rest forever. Now, if only there was a way to get inked without needles.

Finally, Irene looks my way. I lip point upward toward the spider careful not to make eye contact and force it into a defensive posture from which attack would be imminent. I do not want the beast finding a path into my head to play mind games.

“What?” she said.

“There’s a spider,” I whisper not wanting to be too obvious.

“What spider? Where?”

“It is above my head.” Emphasis on every syllable. I look up. It’s gone. Disappeared.

“I swear. There was a huge spider,” I show her the size with my hands. “The mother of all spiders. A baby eater for sure!”

She gives me her half twisted smile. The one when she considers my actions foolish, my words moronic, or general idiocy on my part. She returns to her conversation. I feel humiliated. I also grow increasingly agitated. I cannot shake the feeling it is lurking in the shadows studying me with those 12 beady eyes waiting for an opening to pounce and sink those nasty fangs into my delicately soft alabaster neck.

I give a few exaggerated yawns arm stretch overhead but not too high to put them in harm’s way. My wife catches my drift and arranges for a motorput to take me to the hotel though I would prefer to walk. She doesn’t feel it’s safe for a foreigner to walk the streets alone after dark. I stayed safely locked in our airconditioned room until the funeral on the morrow.

Funeral

We hop into a motorput magically appearing right outside our hotel dressed in our blacks and/or whites, the preferred funeral colors but no reds. The motorput is a motorcycle with an attached side cage for passengers. The vehicle is not made for people of my height and girth. I shoehorn myself into the vehicle and endure the short, uncomfortable ride to Aunties. Thankfully, Irene is tiny so we are able to sit side by side. It is early morning and already the heat is surging. The hearse is late, as expected, so we linger in the room with the casket. I check overhead for the massive spider. Nothing. There is no way I am going to sit on the couch for fear it may be hiding between it and the wall. I stand. Watch warily. And exit the house right behind the casket. We are first and second-row mourners walking behind the hearse to the church.

The slow procession begins in full exposure to the sun. I have neither hat nor umbrella to stave the biting light rays boring through my flesh and into my body with the ferocity of a radioactive maggot in rotting meat. I boil from the inside out until sweat seeps from every pore and drops down the crack of my ass, swass. Sweat is the equivalent of body tears. We have only walked two blocks and there is close to a mile remaining. I rejoice inside when we turn from Auntie’s lane onto the thoroughfare to the Church and see trees lining the East side of the street. I strategically slide right and drink in the cooling shade.

A few trees ahead, there is a rustling of leaves. Green ballerinas? There is no breeze. There is, though, a small animal in the branches probably a bird, the monster spider hunting…me, maybe a lizard. We saw large iguanas in the Belizean trees. Would I be lucky here as well and see an interesting lizard or maybe a monkey?

My head cocks upward. I tried to be discreet. But it has to be obvious to the few without tear-soaked eyes. When beneath the fluttering leaves, my head is angled almost straight up, sweat trickles into my eyes. I reach to wipe away the sweat and feel something fall into my mouth. It sticks to my lips for an instant then slips inside. It is no bigger than the broken tip of a toothpick but soft with a slight wiggle. Wiggle?

I don’t want to gag and hack it up causing a scene amidst everyone’s sorrow so fish it with my tongue until it is between my front teeth and I can discreetly grab it. It is soft, pliant, dark with the texture of a lizards tail. A yellowish, juicy substance oozes from the broken end. Lizard blood. My lips tingle. Probably an emotional reaction to chewing lizard tail. It needed some chili peppers.

The Church

We enter the church. The delicious air is a good ten degrees cooler. The wonders of shade and fans to agitate the air. The upper row stained glass windows are open to the outside, to the elements. A few stained glass windows have holes. Vandals chucking rocks? The Doors and side windows are wide open, no screens, allowing nature free passage and a place at the foot of the Lord. Appropriate that the created has a place at the table of the creator. Birds flitted inside the church.

The second thing I notice is White Jesus. This is one of my pet peeves. It is bad enough swarthy people around the world apply caustic chemicals to lighten their skin to attain a twisted ideal of beauty. The Catholic church perpetuates the idea their God-Man was a slender white guy with light hair when they know full well Jesus was a Middle Eastern carpenter who was most likely brown and muscular. Better to show simply the cross as do the Protestant churches than further ingrain the twisted white is right agenda. It really is a disgusting practice.

By the time we reach the front and sit in the first pew nearest the casket, the immediate family pew where I feel completely out of place considering the deceased’s siblings sit further back, the slight tingle has crawled over my lips, slowly spreading until my lips and tongue are numb. What the fuck is going on? The numbness spreads up my cheeks, over my forehead, into my hair then rushed down to my waist. I can still feel my eyebrows and my legs still move. My eyes, too, retain the ability to bounce around their sockets. I can just move my head a few centimeters. The colors grow vivid as if the vibrance slider in Photoshop is pushed to the maximum. Acid trip?

I try to get my wife’s attention. I can’t speak. Can’t move my arms. She is lost in sorrow. We do not connect. The priest enters. The congregation rises. I stand out of instinct? More likely the almost 20 years of attending Catholic Mass imprinted the ritual into my DNA. I will never be free despite being nonCatholic for almost three times the years I spent in Catholic schools. The priest motions us to sit. And we all, in unison, drop to the seated position. Soon would come standing and kneeling and sitting and more standing and more kneeling. Catholic yoga

Sweat rolls down my face burning my eyes. I can not wipe it away. Frantic, I side glanced at my wife again hoping to attract her attention. She is still lost in grief. I am stuck on an island. Bubble boy is isolated. Bubble boy is not enjoying this isolation.

The priest raises his hands heavenward and opens his mouth to pray. Instead of words, sparrows fly out, small brown sparrows emerge from his mouth. Chubby seedeaters. They clumsily fly about until finding purchase on the walls, behind the lights where they cast eerie shadows, perched on the cross where they chirp, chirp, chirp. The longer the priest drones on, the more sparrows rush forth. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Until the altar is coated with brown birds. The mass of birds actually more beautiful than the gilded altar. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Not a pretty song in the bunch though. Chirpy chirp. The language of the birds a fitting eulogy especially since I exist outside the language of the priest and congregation. I would later learn the priest spoke monotone with a message clearly showing he had no personal, first-hand knowledge of the deceased. He was not nearly as coherent or interesting as the chirping sparrows.

At the consecration of the elements when Catholic lore says the wine and host transubstantiate into the blood and body of Christ, swallows explode from the wounds of Christ, streaming out of the hands, feet, and sword pierced side where once flowed blood and water. A steady flow of dark blue tuxedo dressed birds with elegantly curved wings. Each leaves an arced, blood red vapor trail that is pierced by a following bird and shatters into thousands of particles until a red mist hangs in the air like a dense morning fog hovering over a lake obscuring my vision.

The swallows twist and turn in the air with more grace than a prima ballerina in a Bolshoi Ballet. Their elegant flight poetic, poetry, the highest language, on the wing. They fly in and out of the windows seemingly gaining speed with every flap of their delightful wings. They fly under and over the casket while the priest speaks the eulogy.

I prefer the bird eulogy. I cannot understand the priest. I can understand the birds. They are honoring the deceased with an aerial ballet. They fly until their deep blue feathers are pushed from their bodies falling quill first into the ground like a thousand arrows shot into the sky descending in a veil. The blue feathers are replaced by virginal white feathers. Blue tuxedo swapped for a pearlescent tuxedo. What a tribute!

I want nature to be my eulogist, too. Yes, I do mull over the format of my wake and funeral. I’m creating a playlist of favorite songs for the occasion. It will be my last party and I want it done my way. Actually, I prefer my grandson to speak my eulogy since he is the only living being still viewing me from behind rose-tinted glasses through which I appear infallible or pretty close to infallible. He won’t have to lie to the congregants and say what a great guy I was. When he says it, he will believe it. It will be his truth even if it’s contrary to everyone else’s truth.

He would lead the burial procession, my final walk to my holiest of holies, the remote Red Rock Utah desert. I would love to rest atop Delicate Arch but I’m afraid the National Park Service would object, vehemently. Bones kicked by vultures and falling from the sky might cause injury followed by the inevitable lawsuit.

The procession would include a gaggle of geckos including at least one tukó since it’s voice sounds both cheerful and a lament. Its song will touch the hearts bidding me good riddance and those who weep in sadness.

I would like a chorus of birds in the background, the same cacophony the rises Sun in the morning, a chime of Canyon Wrens sitting first chair trilling the most beautiful birdsong ever to delight my ears. Their descending trills a metaphor for the winding down of my life. Somewhere in the procession, a single mythical rattlesnake to guard my corpse against rodents until one of the last California Condors rips open my chest and sticks that nasty pink head between my ribs and eats my heart. And we rise to the heavens on spectacular black/white, yin/yang wings as wide as the sky itself.

Since Delicate Arch won’t be available, my corpse it to be strategically placed beneath a gnarled juniper. A touch of shade to guard against sunburn. Face me West so my milky eyes can enjoy every sunset until they are plucked out by Raven and gifted to a blind coyote so it can see the world in vivid color and rejoice, as I did, with sunrises and sunsets. I can envisage it stopping mid-hunt, mid-chew on a kangaroo rat and watching, mouth agape as the apricot rays fade to tangerine. Maybe the not quite dead rat will escape while Coyote is mesmerized.

The priest descends down from the pulpit. Shakes the aspergillum at the casket anointing with holy water. The now white swallows start flying in tight counterclockwise formation layer upon layer from floor to ceiling creating a whirlwind, a translucent, blood red whirlwind. I feel myself leave my body and float into the air. The hulk remains seated. I see my shadow. Dainty long wings. A swallow. I am a swallow and I can fly. I am lithe. I am agile. I am Bird.

I join the flock flying round and round at dizzying speeds maintaining a fine balance between centripetal sucking us into the middle force and centrifugal thrusting toward the wall force. The blood red contrails continue to slide into the whirlwind forming a funnel cloud. The tip dancing on top of the casket, tap dancing on the glass until a hole is bored right through. The glass shatters it into a thousand knife edged splinters slicing the air into ribbons. They, too, join the funnel and shoot up into the ceiling digging and twisting, carving a hole in the dark wood.

The soul, white as daylight, cleansed of sin, purged of impurity pulls away from the body into the calm at the center of the vortex where it hovers with face turned upward, arms reaching heavenward. We all, birds, soul, red whispering smoke slowly begin to ascend. Once through the bored hole in the roof, our speed increases both circular and upward. The more rapidly we fly the quicker we ascend, ascend through the damp clouds, through the cerulean sky, into space and still we ascend. We are headed toward a dot radiating white light, whiter than starlight. Is it a distant sun? My head tingles.

When I was in High School, I saw Supertramp live in 1979. It was my first concert. I was dressed in my coolest Rock and Roll denim vest, elephant flare bluejeans with side stitching, over a pair of Midwestern style cowboy boots. They were tawny with a squarish toe. None of that roach killer pointy toe shit the cow fuckers wear in Texas. I was probably wearing a $5 bootleg concert shirt purchased near the carpark. A friend drove freeing me to indulge in mind-opening substances. Our seats were 20th row almost dead center. We didn’t sit. Everyone stood on the folding metal chairs straining for the best sight line.

Late in the concert, the band jammed an extended version of the song Rudy including a synchronized video running on a big screen behind the band. The lyrics talk about Rudy riding a train to nowhere. The sound of a train chugging along. Subtle at first. The tempo of the song increased so did the locomotive until it was flying down the tracks at high speed. The screen image changed to black with a pinhole of white dead center. We were in a long, pitch dark tunnel except for the tiny dot on the horizon. The locomotive chug, chug, chugged. The song tempo increased. The dot grew bigger. Faster, faster until we exited the tunnel and were blasted by a full white screen. And I experienced the biggest head rush known to man with a force that knocked me off my feet and onto my ass in the seat of the chair.

This is how the ascension to the white light high in the sky felt. A slowly growing headrush. Our speed increases. The light comes closer, grows bigger, increases intensity. My eyes water against the speed we were moving and the friggin’ brightness of the immaculate light. I close my eyes tight to prevent my pupils from melting.

A voice at once feminine and masculine, gentle and kind spoke, “Welcome, my faithful servant.”

I feel a warmth from the pit of my stomach radiate outward, engulf me like I am swaddled in a blanket just out of the dryer and still hot. I force my eyes open. The light is still bright but I can make out a silhouetted figure between the machine gun eyelid blinks. Arms reach out from behind the light veil. My name is called. “David…David…” I am about to come face to face with God. “David…David…” I reach my wings toward the figure and feel a sharp pain in my side. “David…David…” distinctly feminine now.

“I am coming, Lord!” Again the sharp pain. I must be flying too fast or the thin air is making it hard to breathe.”

“David…” feminine and familiar?

“David, it’s picture time.”

“Pictures?” I open my eyes. I am still seated in the pew next to my wife. Her elbow caused the pain in my side. I can move again.

“Yes. I need you to take pictures of us around the casket. You will be in some, too.” There is a Philipino tradition of taking pictures of the family members standing around the casket. It dawned on me, during the days of the wake, people were taking selfies of themselves and the deceased in the casket. It felt almost morbid to my Western sense of decorum. But, it was a different culture and, as Pope Francis said, who am I to judge.

The remainder of the ritual was to walk behind the hearse to the above ground, vault cemetery. Most, including me, rode in cars to avoid the growing heat. At the cemetery, the casket was inserted into the concrete vault. This one was on the 2nd tier of three tiers. Many prayers were said. Rosaries swayed with the people’s emotion. I held an umbrella over my wife and myself so we wouldn’t collapse in the feverish weather. More prayers recited, ritualistic incantations spoken without thought as to their meaning.

The vault was sealed with cement while we watched then we walked back to the cars. Except for Tío Pat who hung around until the cement had dried and a name with date scraped prominently in the rough surface. A formal seal. Every tomb had the combination. I guess there are problems with people stealing from the graves and he wanted to make sure there was no funny business before the cement set solid. We returned to Auntie’s for another meal. While eating, I kept a wary eye out for the baby eating spider.

The next two days we spent at a mini resort in Tacloban where I did pretty much nothing except chill in the shade and write and drink and eat not Philippino food. Then it was an overnighter in Manila followed by a planned two and a half days at Busuanga Island Paradise in Coron, assuming the planes jumped on time.

Busuanga Island Paradise Resort

It was while checking in at Busuanga Island Paradise resort that I finally set eyes on a Tukó. Irene was completing the paperwork when a loud Tu-Koooooo sounded. Jenny, the manager, saw me searching the ceiling. She was tall for a Filipina, wore a baseball hat with the pony pulled through the back. Her face hinted at underlying features not quite Asian. I would learn later her father was an American. An Assistant Manager name tag was pinned to a white Busuanga polo. She wore knee-high water boots. It had rained every day for the past 21 days and was raining now. “Do you want to see the Tukó?”

“Yes,” I blurted excitement peaking on the inside.

She pulled a large picture frame part way from the wall. I peeked behind. Too much shadow. Easily remedied by the flashlight app from my iPhone. The bright white light helped me to see but it was still difficult to get a clear view even with my head pressed against the wall. Only one eye could see the lizard hiding high. My blue eye stared into vertical slit yellow eyes, very like Rattlesnakes. Cousins? It looked to be about 8 inches in total length including the deformed tail. Had it escaped the jaws of a predator?

“He’s a little one,” Jenny said. “There are lots of tukós here. Yesterday, I saw one twice the size at the pavilion.” Lot’s of tukós? Tukó promised land? Would I finally meet the spirit Tukó? There were only a few days left on our trip. Was I getting close?

The second evening, I am sitting in the outdoor pavilion in cross section with both fans enjoying the sounds of the jungle evening, switching between writing of my travels and reading poetry by Filipino author Nick Carbó. Half the books I read are translations by authors from the other countries. When visiting or planning to visit a country, I read at least one book from a local author with the aim to absorb a few cultural nuances. Obviously, the books have to be translated into English which limits the selection. And the profit motive further reduces the available topics to those appealing to English readers. Imperfect. But better than self-imposed isolation.

Anyway, I am switching between reading and recording our Philippine adventures in my travel notebook. Unlined, of course. Lined paper constricts writing to linear thinking. I like to think in other word flowing possibilities. A lovely tree frog hopping on the ground catches my attention. It is the color of brown, chlorophyll deprived leaves, dead leaves fallen from mother tree after their season turned. The legs are chicken thin, comical. Black eyes bulged from the head. I was tempted to catch it for closer scrutiny. But my words were flowing and I prefer to not interrupt flow.

I turn back to the table to grab my water bottle and am greeted by a very large tukó. It had to be at least 12 inches from toe to the tip of a very fat tail. Startled, I pulled my hand back. It didn’t move. There is no sign of fear in its eyes or body language. It stared. I stared back. There’s a glint in Tukó’s eye. There is very little ambient light so the glint must be emanating from an internal spark. I look deeper into the eyes through the vertical slit, beyond the gold flecks, and see the formation of the universe outside of time. The gold flecks are released by the explosion creating Earth. There were Canyons. Slot Canyon. A black Sphere.

A pink, almost human pink tongue, licks one eye then the other. Most geckos don’t have eyelids and are not able to blink. Like snakes, their eyeballs are covered with spectacles—transparent scales that protect them. Without moisture, gecko eyes can become dry like stone baked in a noonday sun. Swipes of the tongue keep them moist and clean, windshield wipers replacing instead of removing moisture. I sense a thought in my head. The thought feels like, “Dyu got sum ting para moi?” This could just be my mind playing tricks on itself. Then again, there is the distinct possibility this is the Spirit Tukó.

I reached into my shirt and pulled out the medicine bag. It was damp. Shit! We were snorkeling all day. The medicine bag was beneath my rash guard. I forgot to take it off. I open it up and pulled out the creamy flower. There is no movement inside the petals. Most likely worm is dead. Desert creatures and salt water are incompatible. Maybe, Tukó will still accept the offering.

I unfold the flower and lay it on the table exposing the worm. Tukó’s head bounces up and down in excitement. It licks both eyes double four time. It looks at me and back at the flower. Then it looks back and forth between the soy sauce bottle and the worm. I could have sworn Tukó did the Filipino lip point at the soy sauce bottle then again at the motionless worm.

Soy sauce is the number one condiment in this country, a land devoid of spicy foods. I have heard tell of a region enjoying fiery peppers but we have not set foot on that island. I planned to pack chili powder to add some pizazz but, in my haste, completely forgot. I was forced to suffer under the other two primary spices, salt and pepper. I grab the bottle and place a drop in the worm.

“Mu-Orrrrrr. Mu-Orrrrrrr.” Tukó bounces it’s head up and down. I sprinkle a few more drops on the worm. “Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr!” Tukó happy dances with every additional sprinkle.

“Okay”, I douse the worm until it is floating in a brown pool of the salty liquid.

Tukó, deftly and with lightning reflexes, grabs the worm. Chews once, twice then swallows. “Yu-Ummmmmm.” Wipes its mouth on the creamy flower leaving a brown stain looking like shit on toilet paper. “Yu-Um…” The second Yum is cut short. A look of disappointment clouds Tukó’s face followed by angry utterances. “De-Edddddd. No-Stooooryyy. No-Stooooryyy. De-Edddddd Fu-Quuuuuu! Bu-byyyyyy!” Tukó turns and waddled off. The body undulating like Snake but suspended on the four legs. It would have been comical were I not stunned and devasted it was leaving without informing me of my purpose. I feel tears well in my soul.

“Wait! I’m sorry. Worm’s death was an accident. I checked yesterday and it was still alive. It was an accident.” I brought it 8000 miles. Snuck it through customs carefully avoiding the sniffer dogs. “Don’t leave. I need to know. Rattlesnake told me you knew my purpose… don’t… don’t go.”

Tukó takes no heed. There is no indication it heard my words. If anything it speeds up. It waddles to the wall, climbs vertical with as much ease as I walk on flat, paved sidewalks, and disappears into the rafters.

Failure! All that effort getting Worm to the Philippines. Finally, meeting up with Tukó. What now? What now? I was on the edge of learning my purpose twice. One ended with a dream sequence conversation with Spirit Rattlesnake. This, the seconded, ended because a worm died. I was so close. It was a nightmare. Nightmare? Dream? Dream! And then it dawns on me…

I run into the night jungle, fall on my hands and knees at the base of a tree, and feel around for some soft loam. Mosquitoes buzz me. I dig with bare hands sifting the dirt through my fingers searching. One crawly. Too big. Mosquitoes ravage me. Poke and prod. I feel fleshy wigglers. Sweat burns my eyes. Mosquitoes pierce me. I pull out my phone, flick the light on. There. There. Gold. Grubs. Five grubs. I pick up two and tuck them into my medicine bag, hold two more in my hand.

I run out of the jungle. Grab my books and continue running into our room. I hadn’t run with such urgency in years. I grab the door with the muddy hand. The handle slips. I brush the mud off on my shorts, was able to turn the handle, and open the door. The room is still chilly. Amazingly chilly. So chilly, the cold-bloods would be sluggish.

I rush to the window. The mini gecko still clings to the diaphanous curtain. I grab the first grub between two fingers and held it out to the gecko. I move it slowly closer despite my rampaging heart and shaking hand. The gecko sniffs, licks with the pink moist tongue, then grabs the grub and gulps it down in one swallow. How I don’t know because the grub was almost half the length of the gecko. I show the second grub to the gecko and make sure it saw me stuff it into my ear.

“What on earth are you doing? Did you just put something in your ear?” Her toothbrush is still in her mouth.

I had forgotten my wife was in the room. I wave her down and shush her. “I’ll explain later.” I lean in close to the mini lizard. Hoping. Hoping. I feel the grub wiggling in my ear and have to fight the urge to pull it out. My hoping was rewarded by hopping. The gecko leaped from the curtain onto my ear then crawled into the ear canal. Where it, thankfully, gobbles up the grub.

“Yu-Ummmmmm.” I heard it say. “Thank-Youuuuu. I was so hungrrrrryyyy. Tired. Sleep now. Talk on the ‘morrow.” I could feel it circling like a dog then curling up and settling down in the warmth of my inner ear. It is pressed against my eardrum. At first, all sound was muffled. In a few moments, clarity returns. No. Clarity is enhanced. I can feel-hear its rhythmic breathing.

I am now equipped with a living translator, a Babel Gecko. Mission to speak with Spirit Tukó step one accomplished. Tomorrow I will seek the Spirit Being and attempt to convince he/she/it/they to continue our conversation. Until then, I have some mansplaining to do or I might be sleeping on the floor.

There’s Got To Be A Morning After

I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep, a sleep restful from eyes closed to eyes fluttering open. Not once did I stir awake the usual 2, 3, 4 times every night. I must not have snored for my wife did not nudge me awake during the night and tell me to go back to sleep. Or, I was so exhausted I was oblivious.

Is this attributable to the Babel Gecko silencing my voices? Or a long day island hopping to white sand beaches, swimming in warm crystalline waters, and snorkeling near reefs teeming with fish?

I slept for seven blissful hours and awoke percolating energy. I can feel Babel Gecko as a slight pressure in my ear canal. But, there is no movement. A small gecko barks by the mirror. It is amazing the volume coming from such small creatures. Just gecko speak. No translation. Babel Gecko must still be sleeping. I want to rush out to the pavilion and seek the spirit Gecko, Gecko with a big G just like the big G Gods. What use, though, if my Rosetta Stone is not awake?

I push the area around my ear, front, below and behind, hoping the pressure will nudge it awake. No joy. I contemplate sticking my pinky in my ear, the nail length should reach. It also might pierce Babel Gecko. Patience. I tell my self. Patience? Patience when every fiber of my body is stretched taut enough that any touch would vibrate in the audio range, a human harp singing?

The last time I felt this high strung was the first time I engaged with my wife in the biblical sense. That night I had a clear path to satiating crescendo and hours of cuddling relaxation. Now? No path, no physical path. Perhaps a run? No. My knees are ravaged and the humidity would wrap me like a warm, wet towel keeping me from losing heat and ripe for an internal meltdown. One heart attack is enough.

Rub one out? No, that would leave me with sticky fingers, a wet bed, and wake my wife from her deep slumber. Not a good choice. She prefers, strongly, to not be woken early in the morning. We still had a few hours before she needed to wake for our 2nd day hopping the pristine islands. I could write a few pages in my travel journal but the agitation would render my already poor scribbling unreadable even to me.

I ease out of bed, grab my Kindle, make a cup of Earl Grey and walk to the pavilion. There is still a few poems by Philipino poet Nick Carbó to finish in his book, El Grupo McDonalds, before wrestling with Octavio Paz. Nick’s imagery is straightforward, relatively easy to follow. Octavio lives in the surreal. The words are tangled, the images twisted yet still sing beauty to my warped soul, Romeo serenading Juliette, Napoleon invading wet Josephine, Eve giving sight to blind Adam. He requires deep concentration to extract meaning. Mostly, I play in the imagery because much of the meaning is beyond my comprehension. That should get my mind off the internal machinations driving me to agitation.

Considering I’m living a pseudo surrealistic life what with a talking Rattlesnake and now an animal voice translating Babel Gecko tucked in my ear, surreal is on par with my mindset. I expect my near future will be steeped in a warm tea of melting clocks and fish on tethers.

In the pavilion, I sit at the table designated ours by the hotel staff. It is roped off by a small sign bearing my wife’s name, an invisible, inviolate border. It is situated between two oscillating fans mounted high on the rafters at a ninety-degree angle ensuring a constant breeze from one side or the other. A breeze clearing mosquitoes and keeping me cool, sorta.

Fish Soup

Red Crabs and Rice!

When we first arrived and lunched at the pavilion, we were not enamored with our assigned table. We staged a coup and conquered another’s territory. We illegally immigrated to someone else’s table and squatted. And, you know what, we were comfy. The other couple was comfy. The world did not end.

I turn the fans on, open my Kindle. The backlight is too bright. I scale it down to a soft glow until the backlit display casts a gentle light, just right for reading.

I chose to sit in the pavilion hoping the return of Tukó, hoping the Spirit Being would forgive the accidental death of the yucca worm and speak the wisdom I needed to hear. I wait and wait. No reappearance nor would it show those golden eyes to me for the duration of our trip.

I read for a couple of hours, read until the thick, misty air glows dim gray-white, no apricot/tangerine sunrise this far into the jungle. I read until I hear the door click open and see my wife floating across the grounds her eye waving to and fro scanning for snakes with every step. We saw a nice grass snake our first day here. It crossed our path and slithered off into the taller grasses. She was not amused. Just out of bed, she is still as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes upon her in a Chicago restaurant and felt a tingling in my loins.

We eat the buffet breakfast, lots of scrambled eggs overcooked for me, peeled fruits, toast. She has a few cups of coffee, me another tea. A satisfying meal before heading out to the wet market to buy some freshly caught fish and the huge prawns our boatmen would cook a few hours later, food they would serve us while we rejoiced on the pearly beaches and swam beneath a cerulean sky in impossibly turquoise waters. Would Babel Gecko tag along for the adventure or take leave before we plunged into the depths?

Swimming with the Fishes

Our hotel is in the jungle, a twenty-minute van ride to the jumping off point for the water adventures. As much as I try to prod, and will Babel Gecko into a woke state, there is no movement in my ear canal.

At the wet market, the flies buzz, a few near dead fish gasp a spasm through their scaly bodies as they slowly drown in the thick air. It is the perfect time to expose my psyche to the pained fish. What were their final thoughts? No translation was forthcoming.

I know Babel Gecko is still there. I can feel the coolness of its tiny miniscule, cold-blooded body against my eardrum. Yet, I can neither hear nor feel breathing. Is it dead? Alive? Sleeping?

We will be snorkeling in the next hour and swimming most of the day. Dare I participate? It might drown and sever any possibility of guiding me. But, what’s to sever if non-reactive Babel Gecko is possibly dead? I send thoughts and prayers to it the entire boat ride.

The boats are traditional, double outrigger and sloooowww. One of our guides stands on the prow watching for submerged rocks.

I catch the boat crew sneaking looks at me speaking out loud to no one in particular. I’m sure it looks like I am spouting incantations the way a priest mumbles through a mass ritually performed a thousand times without variation. The thoughts and prayers did no good. Didn’t think they would. Thoughts and prayers are an illusory phrase spoke to assuage the guilt of people who won’t offer any real help but want others to view them as caring and helpful. More than anything, it is a shout to “Look at wonderful me!”

Our first stop, Siete Pescados, Seven fishes, an area rich in corals, a haven for mobile and stationary sea life.

I am not a fan of cold water except to drink and then prefer water that is as much solid as liquid. This intense dislike keeps me out of pools, lakes, and oceans. I learned yesterday this was not the case with the beach water. Today, we are further out. I tentatively descend the ladder into the ocean bay. The shock I experience when plunging in? The temperature is temperate. Not too cold, not cold at all. Perfect for a bubble bath after a long, long bike ride when on fire muscles need soothing.

The saltiness means buoyancy means no life jacket required…for me. I much prefer the mobility of swimming unencumbered. Irene, on the other hand, is less confident especially nervous when the bottom is more than twelve feet. She always wears a life jacket and uses me as a second flotation device. At times, it feels I am swimming for two. Mostly, I don’t mind the added work. It’s far better than two years ago when I had to snorkel alone in Belize because she was terrified of any water over her head. She has learned to swim with her next goal of learning to scuba dive. I am looking forward to that day. I love Scuba. I wonder, though, how she will take to more water above her than below.

Most of the time we snorkel, I am fumbling with my GoPro camera. I forgot the buoyant stick so must concentrate not to drop it. The floor is thick with coral. The GoPro would sink like a rock and disappear. I don’t like sticking my hands in places I cannot see when in the ocean. Too many critters with spikes and sharp teeth.

Her confidence grows. Short forays on her own become more common. I make sure to keep an eye out so I, in my fish searching excitement, don’t wander too far. Why excited? So many colorful fish. Some only previously seen on television and in professional aquariums.

There is stick, fan, and brain corals, all beautiful, each attracting their own fish species. The fish forage around the coral branches or, like the parrot fish, nibbling algae formed on the coral. Most exciting for me, aside from my wife discovering and showing me a striped sea snake later in the day, is the bulbous puffer fish with the tiny fins looking more like an overstuffed condom than a denizen of the deep. By color, it is nondescript.

It swims like a dirigible. Slowish. Not very linear. The bulky head resembling more a battering ram than a sleek, slicing missile. I follow hoping it will puff up balloonish. No luck. No predator to strike fear in its heart. Nor does this hairy hominid seem threat enough to trigger the instinct for self-preservation.

“Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I spot a Dory fish or a fish similar in shape and color to Dory. Possibly a blue tang. Not being a tropical fish expert, I can’t say for sure. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I realize I am hearing a fish speaking. “Just keep swimming.” Babel Gecko is obviously awake and translating.

“Yes, David, I am.”

“You am? You are? You are what”

“Just am. I am.”

The Old and New Testament God’s used the phrase, “I Am”, to hint at their existence pre-time. It is interpreted by Christian scholars as a declaration of divinity. Here I am, a snorkeling human immersed in a world of water breathers, salt-water breathers enjoying the otherworldly experience. My focus is on simple enjoyment. It seemed Babel Gecko is gearing up for philosophical sparring.

I simply want to be deep under not to think deep while under. I enjoy floating, partially submerged with a mask and a mouthpiece stuffed into my speaking hole with a tube extending into the air. Perhaps I can just ignore the distraction. physically, speech is impossible. I can just keep swimming pretending to be oblivious.

“Wait for it?”

“Wait for…shit.” We already had a brief conversation. Babel Gecko is plugged into my head. Verbal words are unnecessary.

“There you go man, keep as cool as you can. Face piles and piles…”

“… of trials with smiles. It riles them to believe that you perceive the web they weave and keep on thinking free.” The little bugger is quoting song lyrics now. “Why the Moody Blues?”

“Do you remember the opening lyrics to that song?”

“Of course I do. ‘I think, I think I am, therefore I am, I think.'”

“Yes, my bright little star. You think therefore You are. Or, You am as I are.”

I looked back to find my wife. She is a few meters away and seems to be enjoying herself. There is no fear in her body language.

“Because we both are, David, I am able to connect with you at the thought level. Words are so primitive, a waste of energy, and enslaved to a specific language. Thoughts are universal, exist outside the limits of language. Only the simplest thoughts can be dumbed down to words. Except for the poets. Poets extended words beyond mere scratches on a page. They are able to create a bouquet of images, layers of meaning, nuanced implications with a sparsity of words, imagery dense forests with desert symbolism.”

“I enjoy poetry, too. But, I must admit, much of what I read is beyond my comprehension.” I think back to Octavio and the challenge of finding coherence in his imagery.

“That’s because of your propensity to interpret poetry with logic. One can’t think poetry. It must be felt. Poetry is an experience. Allow it to wash over you like the apricot rays of sunrise. Feel poetry don’t think poetry.”

I’m an engineer. Logic is everything. Am I an Engineer because I was born thinking logical or do I depend upon logic for because I am educated in Engineering? “How does one suspend logic?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been human, never been constrained by words or logic. We in the non-human space are fully aware logic is illogical.”

“How, then, do you survive?”

“How do we survive? It’s a wonder any of you humans survive. Logic is used to manipulate thinking thus beguile humans. Human logic says my side needs enough ‘defensive’ nuclear weaponry to blow up the world 10 times because the other side can do it three times. If both sides can destroy Earth one time then there is enough to destroy earth twice. Why is more needed? To line the silk undershorts of the greedy powerful who already possess more money than they can use in twenty lifetimes. It’s all about ego stroking.”

“I always, always knew nuclear escalation was warped thinking, twisted logic.”

“We animals survive by instinct. Emotion. Connection to the Collective Consciousness allows us to experience the energy of all life forms, including humans. The closest word in your language is empathy but our universal web is an amplifier making it broader and deeper.”

“For example?”

“Remember the balloon fish you were following?”

“Balloon fish?” In my mind, I saw Puffer fluttering near the coral. “Do you mean Pufferfish?

“Yes. Pufferfish. You were trying to spook it so it would inflate its body.”

“Um…ya.”

“I was still in a state of semi-consciousness yet felt it screaming in distress.”

“Distress?”

“Of course, distress. How would you feel with a hairy alien one hundred times your size following you around?”

“Ok. I get your point.”

“I have not made my point. For Puffer to puff requires significant energy use. Energy must be replenished by food. A short while ago it expanded to ward off a hungry eel. Eel induced stress then you added to the stress nudging our friend toward a nervous breakdown. I smelled the stress in the water, felt the fear-tension radiating through Universal Consciousness. All beings near Puffer experienced the stress, all except you and the other humans preferring to think in thought. Sharks are drawn to the stress lines and the implication of weakened, easy prey. To protect us all, including you, I distracted you with this conversation. Puffer was free to bumblebee swim away on those tiny fins dissipating stress. We are all connected. It is just you fool humans have ignored it for so long it seems to be erased from your DNA. Or your logical thinking has blinded you from our interconnectedness. You are welcome, by the way.”

“Welcome?”

“Yes, the shortest path between the sharks and the stress nucleus radiator was through your wife.”

“Huh? Oh. Oh! Thank You!”

“De nada, mon ami.”

“You just mixed Spanish and French. Are you multilingual?”

“No. Thought communicators don’t need to speak in any specific language. Have you not been paying attention? You interpreted my thoughts with words in your comfort zone.”

“The bounce between human languages, Daveed, shows a sensitivity to Universal Consciousness. Perhaps Rattlesnake was correct and there is hope, a plan for your life. Perhaps you are not just aimlessly wandering between birth and death.”

For part of our conversation, I was feeling stupid.”Of course, I’m not wandering aimlessly.” How quickly it changed to pissed when my worldview was challenged. “My life has a purpose. I have always sensed a greater calling, a heightened sense of the spiritual, a visceral connection with creation centered in the power emanating from the rocks around Moab. My struggle has always been understanding why I am sensitive to the spiritual and how I am supposed to serve the world. In other words, my purpose for being born. Rattlesnake gave me hope. He told me you held the answers.”

“I am not here to tell. I don’t have answers. My role is to give you a key with which you will open doors. I hint at possibilities. I point toward futures. I…I…I need a rest. Filtering through your mind gyrations trying to find coherence is exhausting. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Maintain sanity.”

With those words hanging in the water. Babel Gecko stopped talking presumably to nap leaving me to ponder the soundness of my thinking and mental life.

Fun in The Sun

We, Irene and I, spend the remainder of the day basking in the glorious Philippines taking advantage of the beautiful weather, idyllic waters, and the serenity of the most beautiful white sand beaches in our world. The water and beaches in greater Coron. We choose to limit our movement on this second-day of island hopping. Day one we hit five different sites. Today, only two. There is a lot to be said for deep experience over wide. Both have their place. Today we needed deep tissue massage.

We spend the majority of our time at Malcapuya Island. The boat parked in a beautiful bay. We take a short walk to the shaded huts looking over a stunning bay. What’s the difference between beautiful and stunning? The angle of the sun glinting off the gentle waves singing when they brush over the sand. The texture of cool sand beneath bare feet too long encumbered by shoes, and the way the ivory whiteness kisses the incoming waves. The turquoise water against a backdrop of an impossibly blue sky sliced with wispy clouds high above cottony cumulus. Seeing my bronzed wife in a sexy one-piece emerging from the ocean looking more mermaid than a human. And many other subtleties felt deep in the soul.

We eat a leisurely lunch. A dirty white dog visits coaxed in by Irene. It looks halfway between fox and dog with the pointed ears and long, narrow snout, and bushy tail. She has elongated, swollen teats, a nursing mother. Where were her pups? I feel the word thirsty. Is Babel Gecko sleeping or has our connection become so intertwined translation supersedes Babel Gecko sleep? Irene gives the fox-dog water from our supply. “You’re giving our water to the dog? What if we run short? It’s very hot.”

“She’s thirsty.” Squatting next to the dog pouring water into her cupped hand which the dog eagerly laps. “She has puppies and needs the water more than we do.”

“How did you know she was thirsty?” It was a dumb question I should not have bothered to ask. She has a connection with dogs that shames my connection with humans. Dog empathy. Animal empathy.

“I could feel it.”

The dog consumes the better part of a liter and chowed down on the leftover fish heads and skeleton ensuring not a morsel goes to waste. Energy ensuring milk will flow and puppies have a chance to become dogs.

There is a big clam a ways out. Locals are giving rides where one has to hang onto the outriggers in the water while they putt-putt to the location. My preference is to swim and see it. We opt for neither. There is enough to explore nearer shore and we only have enough pisos remaining to tip our boatmen.

Our final stop before the hour-long, slow boat back to Coron is a sandbar. We can see the connected island across the strait. Deep massage or wider massage? I am so relaxed, either suits me. We cross to the sandbar. Only, it isn’t just a sandbar. It was but it isn’t now. Best of all, we are the only ones visiting. Peace and solitude.

It is later afternoon, tide on the rise. What was an exposed sandbar in the morning is now a submerged beach bar. A bar without drinks. A Mai Tai would be perfect. We walk on the submerged beach bar. The water is barely above our knees. In the center, an isolated rock outcropping attracts small fish the way light attracts moths only these thrive on algae instead of being cooked when touching the light.

Around the back of the island, rocks and coral abound as do fish. Not nearly the variety we enjoyed at Siete Pescado but equal in quantity. I see another parrot fish notable for their almost fluorescent coloration. The fish swim in mixed color, mixed species clusters, choosing to intermingle without the small-minded prejudice plaguing humanity. Inter-species harmony. My guess is they are not burdened by religiosity and the division wrought by practitioners of the faiths. They come together based on the content of each others character.

The Last Conversation with Tukó

“You are partially correct, David.” Babel Gecko speaks.

“Partially correct about what?”

“The fish people, all peoples but humans, exist in a perpetual state of worship. This is different than humans who set apart a designated time to honor the creator, a begrudging hour a week. Even that pittance is enough to win the label ‘zealot’ or ‘pious’. Each being exists in harmony with their creator never trying to impose their way of life. Parrotfish does not demand Shark become a vegan. Unlike your ilk believing it is a godly faith to ball gag your truth into the souls of those believing differently. Deep-throating others inevitably leads to retribution and the puking of holy wars.”

“How are the other beings different when Shark eats Parrotfish? Isn’t that ball gagging belief too? I’m sure Parrotfish doesn’t believe being eaten allows it to pursue Parrotfish faith.” I had Babel Gecko this time. Logic turned against diatribe.

“No.” Subtle chuckle. “That is each being existing true to their unique design.”

“And just how is that different?”

“To begin with, humans put their own faces on the gods. The Catholic god is white. The Islamic god is swarthy. You all carve division out of harmony. It should be obvious that each human religion creates god in their own images. We don’t put a mask on Universal Consciousness, ultimate reality, whatever you want to call it. Every other being from Rock to Microbe to the ancient Tree people are in a continuous state of worship every moment of their existence. There is no division between life and worship. They wake in worship. Sleep in worship. Dream in worship. Eat and procreate as an act of worship. An elephant never wishes to be a bird or even another elephant. Each exists in their moment, in the present maximizing their uniqueness.”

“Hmm…this sounds kinda Buddhist?”

“Yes. The Buddha was approaching Universal Consciousness but it was still an oblique angle mostly missing the crux. Each being exists as itself. Accepts the uniqueness of all others. None seek to be another. They exist within their purpose. Outside of man, there is never any animal, despite the anthropomorphized stories in your fairy tale books, that seeks to be something outside themselves, their purpose.

“Their purpose? They have a purpose?”

“Yes, purpose. The essence you are so desperate to discover. Do you know, you embodied your purpose at birth? But, like most humans, you lost it seeking joy and contentment outside yourself. Your journey is not one of discovery. It’s about reconnecting with your inner self, unweaving your own craziness.”

“I guess that makes sense.” It actually is more logical than I am willing to admit to a lizard. Inwardly, I have always felt restless, disconnected. It makes sense that I am on a quest to find a lost part of myself. But I don’t relay this to the Babel Gecko. I don’t want to endure another soliloquy on the illogic of human logic.

“Young David, you are on a journey.”

“I’m not young.” I’m feeling smug and annoyed.

“Before you were, I was. I’m older than Methuselah, was a witness to creation itself.”

I felt my head tilt like an inquisitive dog.

“I sense it is dawning on you. Yes, I am the Spirit Gecko, the Tukó foretold by Rattlesnake.”

“But…but…you are so tiny? How? How? What about the worm eater?”

“You foolish humans always thinking bigger is better. Sometimes, I wonder why we bother to protect your race. The worm eater was a pretender. The woman you encountered when arriving at Tacloban, as you correctly surmised, was a decoy. Worm eater and the woman are small ‘s’ spirit geckos. Did you not see the woman lick her eyes?”

“Hmmm. Protect our race? The human race?”

“Yes, but that is a topic for another time. I have been around since the beginning…”

“Beginning of what??”

“…the beginning of the beginning. By comparison you, young David, have existed for less than one one-hundred-thousandth the tick of a clock.”

“By that reckoning, I have less than the one-thousand-thousandth before I die. I guess I am both old and young relative to you.” I couldn’t help but be a smartass.

“What makes you think life ends with death? Have you considered death is the beginning and birth an end?”

“Riddles! You are as frustrating as Rattlesnake was before he wooshed back into his rock leaving a scar chiseled into its surface. Let’s rewind. You said I am on a journey?!?!” half question, half declaration.

“Yes. A long journey and I am, as was Rattlesnake, but a link in a disjointed chain wrapped through history connecting discontiguous time passages. I can see all the links back to before the beginning of your great, great grandparents and a few into your future. You, David, are on a hero’s journey. I am one of many advisors.”

“Many advisors? How man… Hold on. A hero’s journey?” Joseph Campbell wrote extensively about the mythology of the hero’s journey underpinning many world faiths. Is Babel Gecko telling me I’m to be the founder of a new faith? A prophet? A god? What shall I call my faith system? But there are issues. “A hero’s journey needs a hero and a dragon to slay.”

“Your quest is to rediscover the purpose you lost after toddlerhood. In that context, you are both hero and dragon. To slay the dragon is to slay yourself. Game over?”

“Wait. You said death is the beginning.”

“Correction, A beginning.”

“A beginning. If I slay myself I would be both dead and at a new beginning simultaneously. A Shroedinger’s cat paradox and I’m the pussy in the box. I would be dead to this life and alive to a new life. Like The Christ, resurrected into God.”

“Correction, a god. Are you able to retain any information? Why do I bother? There are many, many gods and Gods.”

“Again, you sound like Rattlesnake. Are you the same Sprint only shapeshifted?”

“What is Snake but Lizard without legs? By and by, never trust the words slipping off the fork tongues. They split truth. Rattlesnake is the definition of dichotomy. I think I already explained this.”

“Let’s back up,” I said. “You danced around my question. If I slay the dragon thus myself and death is a new beginning, am I to die and resurrect a God?”

“I said to consider the possibility. Compare it with water and ice. When water is warmed to 32 degrees it begins to melt. Cool water to 32 degrees and freezing starts. As one dies, the other is birthed. Death equals life. Life equals death. At 32 degrees is the coexistence of life and death, a perfect balance of living stabilizing dying, death stabilizing life.”

“Are you saying, if I slay my dragon, I will birth myself? But that means I have always been the dragon and the hero never was. Or am I in an equilibrium environment so I am both dragon and hero at this moment? Damn, this is confusing.”

“You are confused because you persist with thinking in thoughts. There is understanding that cannot be explained by primitive human thought. This is one of them.”

“Primitive thought? Human thought is the essence of intelligence. It is by thinking and thought that we ascended….”

“Your kind are so enthralled with thought you have lost the balance of empathic feeling. Need I remind you, it is thinking and thought that devised the atomic bomb. It is thinking and thought that kills for pleasure beyond the need for food. It is being handcuffed by thinking in thought that warps human philosophy until destroying the very habitat sustaining you is rationalized as logical. Because you refuse to experience life outside of thought, you are bringing destruction to many of the plant people and animal people not to mention the pending obliteration of the human people. How the Fu-Quuuuuu does that pass for intelligence?”

No snappy comebacks come to mind. No red herrings to derail Tukó allowing me a face-saving coup de gras and exit stage left. What to do? Simple. Do nothing, no thing. Remain silent. Terminate thinking. Halt thought. Float away on the thin ice of a new day. I unfocus my eyes and hover face down, submerged ears connected to the ebb and flow murmuring of Ocean’s soul brushing against my eardrums, a one-inch diameter breathing tube connecting me to sweet air. Yin-yang. Fish and human. Ommmm. Ommmm.

“David.”

“Huh? What?”

I am not sure how long I dwelt outside of thought in the amniotic paradise. Was it seconds? Minutes? Longer? Nine months? Whatever the duration, I return to awareness feeling relaxed, freshly emerged from a chrysalis after a long, restful sleep. I would like to say transformed physically but I am still an aging redhead carrying too much weight around my midsection. The caterpillar stayed a caterpillar.

“David, can you sense me?

“I can hear you.”

“I haven’t been talking”

“You’re not talking? Then, I am tuned into your thought waves. I guess I am sensing you.”

“Before I go….”

“Go? Go where?”

“Away. I’m leaving.

“Nooo!”

“You should be used to separations by now. Did you not tell Rattlesnake everyone leaves you?

“Ya. Doesn’t mean I like being abandoned.”

“I have imparted to you what I had to impart.”

“Whatever…how can you leave when I’m still a mess.”

“A mess?”

“Yes. You asked how I maintain sanity. I am out of order and will not find my peace until harmony is attained. Harmony with what? Harmony with everything. Including myself. I’m thinking Nirvana on earth. Peace in my soul.”

“What you desire is not a one-time event. Order, itself is an illusion. Harmony, on the other hand, once found requires maintenance to sustain the beauty state.”

“How will I know when I enter the beauty state?”

“The natural world will accept you as one of them. You will be able to understand their essence without the need of an intermediary like me. You will be outside of mere thought and sense the universality of all life. You will be comfortable existing in both the thought and empathy.”

“What about my purpose? How will I know.”

“David, you are on a vision quest. Neither snake nor I can reveal your purpose because it is hidden from us as well. Purpose is not a single destination. It’s a series of destinations. Purpose evolves over time. Rattlesnake was able to point you toward me because I was a near future. Your next future is beyond my vision and my dreams. But my dreaming of future events is imaginary. There is no future as there is no past. It is always present. Always I am. Always you are. I can tell you this..be open. The next spirit may be very large or very small, tree or insect or any being between including rock. It may be nonambulatory requiring you to sit still for days. Keep your spirit open so you don’t miss the sign. There is no saying how many guides hold links in your chain.”

“Sure, I will remain open, leave my spirit raw flapping in the breeze.”

Gecko popped out of my ear. It floundered in the water’s great strength. The ocean was pushing me around and I was infinitely heavier than tiny Tukó. I tried to reach for it but the waves pushed and pulled us in different directions. I thought it might drown. Until it’s tiny tail grew into a fishtail. Scales flipped out of the lizard skin on the bottom half the body. The upper changed into a woman, the spitting image of the raggedy lady at the chicken stand. Still gecko green but definitely the woman. It grew as long as my leg. Shapeshifter. With a few strong flicks of its tail, it disappeared into the distance. But not before singing in a high, melodious voice, “Remember…Spirit Beings come in all shapes and sizes…some are not ambulatory…”

That was the last I saw or heard from Tukó. The boat trip back to Coron took us into a squall of dark clouds, eventually releasing a heavy rain. It rained through the evening and the next day causing a slight delay in our Palawan-Manila flight.

Aside from the reason taking us to the Philippines, it was a good trip. We had space away from tourism to experience untarnished native life and for Irene to reconnect with childhood memories and the people making them special. And we had a couple days of tourism visiting some of the most beautiful beaches and waters the world has to offer.

The next day, Chicago via Taiwan. Most of the trip I mulled over and over the conversations with Tukó. Sticking like a barbed hook in my craw was the phrase that not all Spirit Beings are ambulatory. In my opaqueness, I sensed a clue. The second leg, the long leg was on a Hello Kitty themed plane from the flight attendant aprons to the eating utensils topped with Kitty. I found it trite, childish. Irene thought it cute. I didn’t touch the Ambien.

The Fat Tailed Lizard in the Philippines (Seeking Tukó) Awakened by a Demon The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

There’s a lot you may have missed in Donald Glover’s ‘This Is America’ we’ve got you covered

Donald Glover premiere two brand-new sungs on Saturday Night Live this weekend, and while he was on place, he also fell a music video for one of the singles — “This Is America.” The video, choreographed by Sherrie Silver and directed against Hiro Murai, has a lot jammed into it for a four-minute video. It’s an expertly packaged analysis of what’s really happening in the United States. Here’s what you might have missed: SEE ALSO: Donald Glover undertakes gun cruelty in strong video for ‘This Is America, ‘ his new single 1. That’s not Trayvon Martin’s dad Some Twitter useds initially belief the man dallying guitar at the beginning of the video was Tracy Martin — leader of Trayvon Martin, the young son who was killed by George Zimmerman in 2012. Grows out it’s actually Calvin II, a musician are stationed in Los Angeles. You can listen to more of his labor @CalvinTheII. Wait that’s Trayvon Martin’s daddy toy the guitar ok Donald…I see ya #ThisIsAmerica — courtside shawty (@ SO_Am_bitious) May 6, 2018 YO THAT’S TRAYVON MARTIN’S DAD PLAYING THE GUITAR IN THE NEW GAMBINO VIDEO ?! #Shook #ThisIsAmerica — Matthew G Brown (@ ItsMrMGB) May 6, 2018 2. The grease-gun are treated with more respect than human lives Image: donaldglover/ youtube Soon after each artillery is brandished in the video — it happens twice — Glover gently places the artillery on a red cloth held by well-dressed adult. The hitting scapegoat is then dragged off-screen by two similarly dressed men. 3. What the choir represents Image: DONALDGLOVER/ YOUTUBE One interpretation of this moment is that the choir could be seen as representing the folks “whos” shot down while inside a church during the 2015 filmingin Charleston, South Carolina. Their ten fronts are clear as period and cordial. Glover strolls in, photographs, and saunter apart nonchalantly and untouched. Sound familiar? 4. Pay attention to the background ….but also pay attention to the hops. As the video changes, the background activity intensifies. Riotings are breaking out and vehicles are on fire — all while Glover and a group of teenagers jig. It’s a pretty clear analogy — the dancing, or the ethnic contributions of pitch-black entertainers, draw applauses from all corners of civilization while ethnic violence and unfairnes continues to be an everyday and oft-ignored aspect of life. Incorporated throughout the video are many moves — everything from viral video was taking steps to Blocboy JB’s shoot hop to the Southern african Gwara Gwara. These all have different inceptions but blend together to constitute something unique, that is very much a part of our American lore. As Forbes unpacked, these dance figures have multiple presentations: To some, these instants of rapture, be learned from the most recent viral jigs or videos, provide a brief, amusing interval. To others, they might be a way to gain a immediate horse or a few adherents. Image: Donald glover/ youtube The “dancing” around things like police inhumanity and artillery brutality could be seen as a metaphor for how in its own country — politicians often dance around these issues. Additionally, the facts of the case that the dancing is front-and-center requires another lens of interpreting: that this, and same culture, is all America meets when they hear black people. Glover often attains exaggerated facial expressions while moving in the video, which can perhaps be seen as a insidious nod to the caricatures made during the Jim Crow epoch. 5. Phones are out and recording Image: DONALDGLOVER/ YOUTUBE In the video, a cluster of kinfolks( that appear to be girls) are hanging from the balcony with phones out and aspect masks on, entering specific actions below. Whether their phones are pointing to the dancers or the chaos beyond isn’t clear, but it’s a quick wash that strands up perfectly with Glover rapping the melodics “This a celly/ That’s a tool, ” which references two things: the cell phone — not a tool — that Stephon Clark was containing before he was killed by police officer in his own backyard; and the many instances cell phone have been used as tools to broadcast police shooting, rampaging against, or choking black people in its own country. 6. The white horse Image: donaldglover/ youtube In the background of one panorama, we construe a hooded illustration travelling a white horse. Twitter user @courtneysalvin pointed out that this could be a gesture to the Horseman of the Apocalypse, referenced in the “Book of Revelation” in the Bible. The first mare of the traditional four is white, as is the one razz in the video. ALSO( prolonged ): Could this be a Horseman of the Apocalypse rolling through the background? But also the facts of the case that it is able to miss it because of the jigging in the foreground further underlines the distractions of pop culture/ social media #ThisIsAmerica pic.twitter.com/ TPP7XswfGJ — Courtney Slavin (@ courtneyslavin) May 6, 2018 7. SZA’s cameo This is America . A post shared by SZA (@ sza) on May 6, 2018 at 1:16 am PDT All eyes are on Glover, which signifies SZA’s appearance in “This Is America” is easy to miss. The singer is roosted on a auto, and doesn’t have any ways — but perhaps it’s a teaser for a future alliance. It’s worth noting all the car representations seem to be from the ‘8 0s or ‘9 0s( in 2016, Philando Castile was killed by a police officer in a 1997 Oldsmobile ). 8. Is Glover loping from…the Sunken Place? Image: donaldglover/ youtube At the end of the video, Glover is appreciated ranging from a passage of darkness being chased by various categories of what seems to be non-black people, all while Young Thug sings in the background. Many on Twitter have theorized that Glover is in fact moving from the Sunken Place, a thought developed in Jordan Peele’s cinema Get Out . It’s worth noting here: Get Out wizard Daniel Kaluuya initiated Glover’s performance of “This Is America” on Saturday Night Live . One message of “This Is America” is relatively clear: We’ve nurtured a culture in which we accentuate the insignificant, while pulping life-or-death editions are all around us, unaddressed. Our priorities are messed up, Glover seems to be pronouncing. Repeat examines of this classic will , without doubt, uncover more things to unpack and investigate. Watch, do your homework, then watch again — that’s merely the pleasure that comes with Glover’s work. UPDATED May 6, 2018, 5:13 p.m. EDT to reflect that Tracy Martin is not peculiarity the music video. Want more inventive culture writing lighted immediately to your inbox? Sign up here for the twice-weekly Click Click Click newsletter. It’s fun- we promise . em> WATCH: No matter where you are in the galaxy, this placard contingency testifies you mean business Read more: https :// mashable.com/ 2018/05/ 06/ donald-glover-this-is-america-breakdown / http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/06/26/theres-a-lot-you-may-have-missed-in-donald-glovers-this-is-america-weve-got-you-covered/

[salafiera]

Should I Be Dieting?

Oh the New Year….a time of carefully calculated resolutions, married with the creation of unrealistic and unobtainable short-term goals. Your Facebook feed becomes inundated with pyramid scheme detoxes, cleanses and one-week “fat-loss” programs, all with false hopes of undoing your 3 month shame spiral of holiday binging and fat-assery.

We don’t have a problem with weight loss….people lose weight all the time, they diet, they drop 20 pounds in a month, they get shredded for a show or vacation…losing the weight isn’t the hard part necessarily….our problem is actually keeping the weight off! You lost 20 pounds great job, but now what, do you think it just magically stays off because you’ve done 10 hours of cardio a week and you figured out a way to lie to yourself saying how much you really enjoy eating cod and broccoli six times a day (no really you look super happy in all of your IG photos hope you get all the likes you want so you can use it for throw back Thursday when you rebound the sh*t out of that original weight). 

Before you lose your social life, mental sanity and metabolic health, think twice about what “diet” and “fitness” goals you are setting this year. Fitness and health goals are two totally different things. While you might look good on the outside (make sure that selfie lighting is good to go) your cellular health might be suffering on the inside, due to lack of nutrients, insufficient caloric intake, excessive oxidative stress (double-cardio sessions anyone..) high cortisol levels, and micronutrient decencies.

We should be thriving, not just surviving, when it comes to our health. Ask yourself, do I feel better (more energized, sleeping better, less GI distress, improved skin health, faster recovery time from the gym etc) or worse during and after your latest diet attempt?

Should I Diet?

There is a strong statistical correlation between dieting frequency and weight gain

-Fat gain throughout course of life is predicted by the number of times the person tries to diet

-Bouts of dieting leads to a multitude of adaptations such as decreased overall metabolic rate, decline in total energy expenditure, decrease expression of machinery for fat oxidation, decreased thyroid output, increased ghrelin (why you are always starving on your diet this is your hunger hormone), increased fat cell number, reduced sensitivity to feel full signals and last but not least WEIGHT GAIN…..womp womp  

Time and time again I find myself explaining to my clients that they have to trust the process and be patient with their body and its health….weight loss is a byproduct of being healthy, it will eventually come but first you must heal from a cellular and hormonal level. Bouts of yo-yo dieting or bro-science “coaching” might make you look good for some short time, but looking healthy and feeling and being physically (and even mentally) healthy are completely different things.

It’s partially our cultures fault as we live in a quick fix society, we want result imminently with little to no effort, we don’t want to put in the consistent work, we are addicted to social media’s highlight reels of peoples lives (which more times then not is an alerted perception) and spend more time picking a photo filter on IG then researching and learning about our bodies biochemical and nutritional needs and practicing present minded living.

Weight gain is a gradual process, as is fat loss….Consider fat loss to be a side effect or extra bonus for being healthy. If you want to achieve lifestyle changes and keep that weight that you lost well lost for a good portion of your life then ALL aspects of health must be addressed: this includes digestion, hormonal balance, nutritional status, food allergies, emotional issues and genetic tendencies. 

Focus on getting your body in balance, eliminate any contraindicating factors that may be contributing to your weight issue, and be gentle with your body.

 Ahh balance…

It’s right up there with patience, one of those lovely virtues that sounds nice on paper and in all of my Zen books but is much more difficult to apply on a daily and practical basis. So how does one go about having balance with their health and nutrition?

The ability to strike a perfect balance does not require one to have superior knowledge about calories or food values. Long before anything was known about the existence of carbohydrates, fat, proteins, minerals, etc. people were eating them in the right proportions.

Lets keep this sh*t simple…

-Eat whole real foods in their most natural state…you should be able to identify where things came from on your plate most of the time

-If it’s made in a processing plant try and keep that sh*t to a minimum

-If it comes from a plant or the ground go at it

-If you can’t pronounce it your body can’t digest it

-If you eat something and it makes you feel like crap chances are it doesn’t sit well with your body so maybe don’t eat it all the time and see if it’s an underlying food intolerance

-Get over yourself…you over ate peanut butter last night while you watched the Notebook…guess what so have a zillion other people…it’s not the first time it happened and it probably wont be the last…welcome to being a human

-Drink (flitered) water and lots of it …add some lemon for extra credit

-Motion is the lotion…so keep it moving…get outside (replenish your Vitamin D stores) rent a paddle board, hit the slopes, take a hike…seriously you don’t have to be inside of a gym to “burn fat”

-Stop being gluten free….for the wrong reasons! I have personally been gluten free for about 7 years, and encourage it with my clients, but replacing whole wheat pasta for gluten free pasta (or beer for vodka, or brownies for gluten free brownies) isn’t going to do much good for your health or waistline in the long run

-Understand the difference between a diet and lifestyle change! Ask yourself “can I see myself eating this way in 6 months from now?” If the thought of eating only cold tilapia and dry chicken with rice and broccoli makes you cringe then chances are you are on a bro-science diet and should focus on making lasting lifestyle changes….eat seasonally, support your local farmer, eat a variety of foods to encourage nutrient diversification and opt for organic, grass-fed, pasture raised when possible

This section would be called DOING IT WRONG…

One of the initial instincts that someone who is struggling to lose weight will have is to drastically cut calories, mainly from fat and carbs. Spoiler alert, but this weight loss method backfires.

Why this doesn’t work from an evolutionary standpoint…. In order to survive what your body perceives to be a famine (because you are living on ¼ cup of brown rice with 4oz of chicken and broccoli and some low-fat yogurt for 12 weeks), the body will slow down your metabolism as a protective mechanism to hold onto ANY nutrition it can get.

SIDE NOTE: **In fact research shows that within hours of restricting calories, the body will slow down and remain slow until the restriction is lifted.

The resulting slowdown of calorie burning results in the familiar post- diet rebound weight gain. Moreover, after the trauma of dieting, the body adds extra pounds to protect against what it perceives as the danger of future famines or diets.The bottom line, if you want to gain weight – diet!

This is also why you should stop wasting your money on a “coach” (ya sorry you did one show and have like 3,000 followers on IG I’m sure I saw you in some of my grad school classes) and invest in your education or at least do some research and work with someone who understands the science that is nutrition. No two people will need the same exact amount nor prefer the same types of foods. You and your nutritional, caloric and hormonal needs are unique can and most likely will change, even on a day-to-day basis. Nutrition is not static, have you ever stayed on the same exact workout routine for 16 weeks straight…negative so why would your nutritional needs be any different?

So what are the right foods to be eating for permanent weight loss? Pretty simply whole foods….this would include grass-fed meats, wild caught fish, pasture raised eggs (yes eat the yolk), raw dairy (if you can handle it), fruits and vegetables, nuts and seeds, gluten free grains, and some fun foods as well.

In Sum

Consider weight loss a side effect or extra bonus of being healthy. Focus on getting your body in balance, eliminate any factors that may be contributing to your weight issue, and be gentle with your body. First examine your diet and toxic exposure and make changes where appropriate. Also, look at your exercise and sleep patterns. Having a positive and accepting attitude is critical when it comes to weight loss. The mind is intimately connected with the body, which is also another reason that chronic stress can be a contributing factor for hindering fat loss. Explore your individual situation and determine what will work best for you for healthy, permanent weight loss…

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

There’s a lot you may have missed in Donald Glover’s ‘This Is America’ we’ve got you covered

Donald Glover premiere two brand-new sungs on Saturday Night Live this weekend, and while he was on place, he also fell a music video for one of the singles — “This Is America.”

The video, choreographed by Sherrie Silver and directed against Hiro Murai, has a lot jammed into it for a four-minute video. It’s an expertly packaged analysis of what’s really happening in the United States. Here’s what you might have missed:

SEE ALSO: Donald Glover undertakes gun cruelty in strong video for ‘This Is America, ‘ his new single

1. That’s not Trayvon Martin’s dad

Some Twitter useds initially belief the man dallying guitar at the beginning of the video was Tracy Martin — leader of Trayvon Martin, the young son who was killed by George Zimmerman in 2012. Grows out it’s actually Calvin II, a musician are stationed in Los Angeles. You can listen to more of his labor @CalvinTheII.

Wait that’s Trayvon Martin’s daddy toy the guitar ok Donald…I see ya #ThisIsAmerica

— courtside shawty (@ SO_Am_bitious) May 6, 2018

YO THAT’S TRAYVON MARTIN’S DAD PLAYING THE GUITAR IN THE NEW GAMBINO VIDEO ?! #Shook #ThisIsAmerica

— Matthew G Brown (@ ItsMrMGB) May 6, 2018

2. The grease-gun are treated with more respect than human lives

Image: donaldglover/ youtube

Soon after each artillery is brandished in the video — it happens twice — Glover gently places the artillery on a red cloth held by well-dressed adult. The hitting scapegoat is then dragged off-screen by two similarly dressed men.

3. What the choir represents

Image: DONALDGLOVER/ YOUTUBE

One interpretation of this moment is that the choir could be seen as representing the folks “whos” shot down while inside a church during the 2015 filmingin Charleston, South Carolina. Their ten fronts are clear as period and cordial. Glover strolls in, photographs, and saunter apart nonchalantly and untouched. Sound familiar?

4. Pay attention to the background ….but also pay attention to the hops.

As the video changes, the background activity intensifies. Riotings are breaking out and vehicles are on fire — all while Glover and a group of teenagers jig. It’s a pretty clear analogy — the dancing, or the ethnic contributions of pitch-black entertainers, draw applauses from all corners of civilization while ethnic violence and unfairnes continues to be an everyday and oft-ignored aspect of life.

Incorporated throughout the video are many moves — everything from viral video was taking steps to Blocboy JB’s shoot hop to the Southern african Gwara Gwara. These all have different inceptions but blend together to constitute something unique, that is very much a part of our American lore.

As Forbes unpacked, these dance figures have multiple presentations: To some, these instants of rapture, be learned from the most recent viral jigs or videos, provide a brief, amusing interval. To others, they might be a way to gain a immediate horse or a few adherents.

Image: Donald glover/ youtube

The “dancing” around things like police inhumanity and artillery brutality could be seen as a metaphor for how in its own country — politicians often dance around these issues.

Additionally, the facts of the case that the dancing is front-and-center requires another lens of interpreting: that this, and same culture, is all America meets when they hear black people. Glover often attains exaggerated facial expressions while moving in the video, which can perhaps be seen as a insidious nod to the caricatures made during the Jim Crow epoch.

5. Phones are out and recording

Image: DONALDGLOVER/ YOUTUBE

In the video, a cluster of kinfolks( that appear to be girls) are hanging from the balcony with phones out and aspect masks on, entering specific actions below.

Whether their phones are pointing to the dancers or the chaos beyond isn’t clear, but it’s a quick wash that strands up perfectly with Glover rapping the melodics “This a celly/ That’s a tool, ” which references two things: the cell phone — not a tool — that Stephon Clark was containing before he was killed by police officer in his own backyard; and the many instances cell phone have been used as tools to broadcast police shooting, rampaging against, or choking black people in its own country.

6. The white horse

Image: donaldglover/ youtube

In the background of one panorama, we construe a hooded illustration travelling a white horse. Twitter user @courtneysalvin pointed out that this could be a gesture to the Horseman of the Apocalypse, referenced in the “Book of Revelation” in the Bible. The first mare of the traditional four is white, as is the one razz in the video.

ALSO( prolonged ): Could this be a Horseman of the Apocalypse rolling through the background? But also the facts of the case that it is able to miss it because of the jigging in the foreground further underlines the distractions of pop culture/ social media #ThisIsAmerica pic.twitter.com/ TPP7XswfGJ

— Courtney Slavin (@ courtneyslavin) May 6, 2018

7. SZA’s cameo

This is America .

A post shared by SZA (@ sza) on May 6, 2018 at 1:16 am PDT

All eyes are on Glover, which signifies SZA’s appearance in “This Is America” is easy to miss. The singer is roosted on a auto, and doesn’t have any ways — but perhaps it’s a teaser for a future alliance. It’s worth noting all the car representations seem to be from the ‘8 0s or ‘9 0s( in 2016, Philando Castile was killed by a police officer in a 1997 Oldsmobile ).

8. Is Glover loping from…the Sunken Place?

Image: donaldglover/ youtube

At the end of the video, Glover is appreciated ranging from a passage of darkness being chased by various categories of what seems to be non-black people, all while Young Thug sings in the background. Many on Twitter have theorized that Glover is in fact moving from the Sunken Place, a thought developed in Jordan Peele’s cinema Get Out .

It’s worth noting here: Get Out wizard Daniel Kaluuya initiated Glover’s performance of “This Is America” on Saturday Night Live .

One message of “This Is America” is relatively clear: We’ve nurtured a culture in which we accentuate the insignificant, while pulping life-or-death editions are all around us, unaddressed. Our priorities are messed up, Glover seems to be pronouncing.

Repeat examines of this classic will , without doubt, uncover more things to unpack and investigate. Watch, do your homework, then watch again — that’s merely the pleasure that comes with Glover’s work.

UPDATED May 6, 2018, 5:13 p.m. EDT to reflect that Tracy Martin is not peculiarity the music video.

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