#jstor is my boyfriend i love you jstor

[sylvaneagle]

jstor is my boyfriend i love you jstorrrrrrrr

[chobani-flip]

nicknames and terms of endearment @bucktommypositivityweek eddie pov, eddie is a good supportive friend, a teensy bit cracky? maybe?

___

"did you know that calling someone a silly pig in cantonese is a term of endearment?" says buck, having secured his phone in the inside pocket of his turnouts.

they're on their way to a four-car pile-up on the freeway and it's just buck and eddie from their usual crowd in the cabin with chim and hen having gone ahead in the smaller ambulance car.

thompson and mckenna give him blank looks while eddie huffs out a loud breath and settles in to follow whatever tangent brewed up inside buck while he'd been staring at his screen in between the calls.

"french people call their loved ones cabbage," offers gerig, their new probie, uncertainly, slowly trailing off at mckenna's widened eyes and minute headshakes.

"do not encourage him," thompson mouths and eddie has to pretend to be stroking his mustache as he tries to hide his grin. they should know by now that buck needs no encouragement.

it's only been a week since he stopped following up every mention of tommy with "you know, my boyfriend", so eddie figures this is a natural development. though to be fair to buck and his heart-eyes, sometimes the "boyfriend" was louder than necessary with a significant side-eye in gerrard's direction.

"i know! i was just reading about it!" buck says, tapping at the cell in his turnouts. "it's so weird! but it shouldn't be! we say 'baby' and 'honey' and 'sweetiepie' and i was just thinking: why? because yeah, babies are cute but they're babies. and honey and pie are sweet but cavities aren't fun. so..."

eddie sees mckenna throw a slightly desperate look towards the front seat, and remembers that he's always been a bit of an asshole, but their 'captain' has somehow managed to fall asleep between the alarm, clambering into their turnouts and inside the truck, the siren, and the manouvering on the road. again. eddie makes a mental note to up the number on the new complaint form he's got sitting on his tablet at home. hopefully, they'll be rid of him before gerrard falls asleep holding a megaphone next to a construction fire with their crew still inside.

"so have you finished the graph yet?" eddie asks and enjoys both buck's delighted grin and mckenna's look of horror. because he knows buck. of course there's a graph in the works.

"not yet! but it seems that across languages people use things that are valuable like precious metals or gemstones very often, and then body parts or like, you know, 'my heart' 'my soul'. and then there's fruits and vegetables, like the cabbage in french, or melon in mandarin, and animals like cat, bear, mouse or rabbit."

"could you send me a link to the jstor article?" asks gerig, the probie, bringing the conversation to a halt. "or, i mean, wherever you got the research," he continues, nervously, shooting nervous glances at the dangerous looks buck, thompson and mckenna are throwing him. though buck's the most predatory of them all. "my sister keeps talking about jstor when she complains about all the essay writing she needs to do, so i thought that's what everyone used for research."

"so it's just for college students?" there's a bit of a whine in buck's voice, and eddie stretches his leg to give his ankle a commiserating tap with his boot.

gerig shakes his head, and buck's face brightens.

"i think some library cards give you access as well. or you can pay for it yourself, but callie says it's really expensive."

"jstor, jstor," buck mumbles to himself, tapping at his cell inside his done-up turnouts, and craning his neck to check the screen of the navigation at the front for their eta.

"i can remind you when we get back?" gerig suggests, tucking his legs further under him to avoid the kicks from mckenna and thompson.

"thanks, probie!" buck's smile is all sunshine. "you know, i bet they have something on the mandarin gege and korean oppa. because like, i know it's not really weird for them, that it's not actually like calling your lover your older brother, not really or whatever, but-"

eddie snorts.

"what?!"

"glass houses, buckaroo," eddie says, remembering the last time he caught a glimpse of the contact name on buck's screen when he was facetiming tommy during downtime and learned more about their relationship and sex life than he strictly wanted to. buck frowns at him, so he taps at his own inside pocket and gestures with his chin, enjoying the realization spread red across buck's cheekbones.

"that's not- that's a- that's different..." he trails off. "or is it? oh! that's interesting. i wonder if-"

and then the truck's jerking to a halt, and gerrard's barking: "what? what! are we there yet? well, go! go! get out! get to work!"

and then they're all climbing out of the truck, getting the jaws and rushing to help out chim and hen with the injured.

after the ambulances leave and they settle back into the truck, eddie watches buck pull out his phone and start tapping away.

"jay store... is that without the e, probie? right, yeah, got it...oooooh"

eddie leans his head against the window and wonders when buck's gonna decide to share his upcoming academic research on daddy kink with the whole 118 and their decrepit captain, and whether that might count as a murder attempt.

___

author's note: i don't believe ive seen our evan buckley introduced to jstor or other catalogues like this in fic and i think that's kinda criminal. fanon buck loves to research all kinds of niche shit, and he'd enjoy the fuck out of reading academic papers and then quoting macshay et al in people's faces.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I started following you long ago for the lotr works and your work about renaissance Venice that are all greats and already complimented you so sorry If I pop up totaly random again, but I'm amazed by your Marsilio Ficino posts, because I've been into 15th century Lureantian Florence for ages and although at some point I started to read everything else, now I'm returned to my old habits and is so so nice to see anyone interested on Ficino and his boyband the Neoplatonic Academy!

On an exclusive pairing term I'm interested in all thes possible relationships between anyone who lived in 15th century Florence, having been an arts management/culture economics major I'm more into painters/artists/sort off, in particular Sandro Botticelli and his relationship with the Medicis, with Poliziano, Leonardo, but I'm also a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther, etc. I have to say that with time my appreciation for the Medicis decresed and now I'm more interested in other rich families, patron dynasties and drama annexes including the Pazzi ofc, and with them anything else that went wrong with the 1478 conspiracy.

And Giovanni Cavalcanti/Marsilio Ficino, so many memories from uni years! (I'm Italian so this is our standard study program eheh). I just remember how MF was down so bad for his platonic bro :')

I wanted to write to you a better paragraphs but my brain at the moment is all "yay Pazzi ooooh murder wooo so much philosophy, now I'm going to read a 1919 essay on Jstor about a sodomy process occurred in 1501 of an obscure venetian totally random poet".

Have a nice week and good Ficinanti lectures! <3 (and with all your amazing, wondersful, show stopping lotr fic!) ;D

Ficino and his Boyband is a) a great band name in and of itself and b) accurate because he was forever haranguing them to play music with him since we all know beautiful music, alongside staring at hot men, is a prime way to help get closer to God and the Truth etc.

He even has Luigi Pulci for his Dastardly Band Rival

Lorenzo: can I like both of you?

Ficino: absolutely not. you have to choose. and it should be me.

Lorenzo: mmmmm no.

but yeah! I love when people pop up who are also into all things Ficinian! My brief past life in academia was all social history of early modern Europe - and while I did meddle with things like translation and state and social identity in colonial New Spain (what is now Mexico) and political/state identity in reformation England, my real love was always the Italian city states. Each and every one of them a fun and exciting hot mess. (And particularly queerness and the state in 15th and 16th c...there might be a thematic trend here)

I had an ex describe Florence from 1430-1510 as "a bunch of toddlers piled on a tricycle going downhill at top speed with no breaks" and I think that's accurate.

-

in particular Sandro Botticelli and his relationship with the Medicis, with Poliziano, Leonardo

I just have this image of Botticelli in the background yelling commentary at people who are like "that's nice Sandro". For some reason that's how my brain imagines both him and Poliziano.

Foreground: Ficino & Lorenzo arguing about church taxes or something, or Ficino & Pico arguing about Platonic Concepts of Love or whatever

Background: Poliziano and Botticelli sharing a pack of cigarettes making scathing soto vocce commentary on what is happening.

In the wings: Giovanni trying to convince his boyfriend not to do anything too stupid, or at the very least Don't Write It Down & Have It Printed, while Luigi Pulci is like "this is Marsilio we're talking about here. He loves writing things down and having them printed then becoming very annoyed when the Church arrives to knock-knock-knock on his parish door."

-

So I'm working on a Ficino book and I have this mental image in my head of him and Giovanni on a rooftop. It's like 2am. They're trying to get Ficino's father Who Is Now A Demon/Revenant For Reasons into a bag. They look over and see Leonardo da Vinci on the roof with them in a strange contraption.

They all stare at each other.

Giovanni: hey Leo.

Leonardo: hey Giovanni. Nice night for it Marsilio.

Marsilio: . . ...

Leonardo: is that...is that your father with glowing red eyes?

Marsilio: my father is dead, Leo. You know this.

Leonardo:

Leonardo: ok.

Leonardo:

Leonardo: have you told him that? he doesn't look dead.

Marsilio: go away, Leo.

Giovanni: are those.

Giovanni:

Giovanni: are those wings? like....are those wooden wings? are you....are you going to try and fly?

Leonardo: um. yes?

Giovanni:

Giovanni: ok.

Leonardo: this is a uh...this is a moment where we all pretend we didn't see each other isn't it? This is one of those moments, right?

Marsilio: yes. yes it is. Bye Leonardo.

On the street 9 year old Machiavelli escorting his drunk dad home from the tavern: NICE UNDEAD FATHER YOU HAVE THERE FICINO.

Marsilio: oh my god shut the fuck up

Anyway - please enjoy this scene that has been rotting in my head for a fortnight now.

-

I'm also a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther

always and forever I am with you as a Lorenzo/Poliziano/Pico truther. You don't bury two men in the same grave* unless there are Reasons!

(*you do, in fact, sometimes do that. But I'm ignoring this)

I remember when I was doing grad work at uni Pico and Poliziano were The Hot Thing to gossip about in the staff room. Like I had profs, after a bottle or two of wine, being like "well, Piero poisoned them because of politics, sure, but also mostly because they were probably shacked up with his father at some point and he felt weird about it"

As always, there is the Formal Historian Opinion and the I've Had Two Bottles of Wine and/or My Writer's Hat Is On Opinion. Two, sometimes radically different, things.

Anyway - I'm here for Poliziano/Lorenzo/Pico. At the very least it was Ploziano/Lorenzo then later Poliziano/Pico and maybe there was one really messy Carnival week when it was Pico/Lorenzo. Also maybe Pico/Marsilio but they never, ever talked about it ever again. Marsilio would have felt so ashamed and guilty and Pico would be like "it's kind of like fucking an older brother/uncle and I don't want to think about it" and Giovanni is like "Excuse Me I am your Soul Husband, Marsilio" and Marsilio is like "you have four daughters with your mistress - we have Complications in our relationship ok?"

god everyone was a WRECK

-

I just remember how MF was down so bad for his platonic bro :')

They were married! In their souls! I don't subscribe to it being a one-sided thing. I know some historians and writers have argued that it was one-sided with Ficino being desperate for Giovanni who didn't return the same level of feelings. But I don't really subscribe to that for various reasons.

Now, how their relationship manifested between them, in terms of physical and non-physical love, who knows.

Ficino entered the priesthood in his forties and I believe it was a natural progression for him in terms of his own philosophical journey. It was also a bit of a God Found Me moment. Like a real calling, versus "third son and I need an occupation" which was the case for obviously 95% of the clergy. We know Ficino took his role as priest very seriously and undertook all his duties with diligence and dedication. He kept accounts, did all the smaller administrative tasks that a lot of priests would shove off onto the shoulders of someone else. Nothing was too small or humble for Ficino's attention.

Given that aspect of who he was, and his seriousness with which he undertook his own philosophical teachings and practices, I presume he took all of his vows earnestly and seriously, not least the vow of celibacy. Or he would have tried very, very hard.

Obviously, celibacy in the Catholic Church has a long, complicated history and even in Ficino's lifetime there were still some mutterings about it. Though he was absolutely not one of the people going "hm, maybe priests should be able to have a wife or something."

Ficino's relationship with sex and physical desire was clearly complicated. Made worse, likely, by the fact that the object(s) of his desire were fellow men and we all know what that means in the year of our lord 1470-something.

That said, physical desire was very much intertwined with God, Beauty and Truth in his ladder of love/salvation. It's something he struggled to reconcile - the fact that he firmly believed perception and engagement with Beauty by the Mind, Soul and Spirit of a person is how we are to become closer to God and a person comes to find and know true Beauty through desire. It's one of the foundations over which he and Pico quarreled as it relates to the Platonic understanding of the ladder of love.

Pico felt Ficino's insistence that physical desire be part of salvation was too risky and would lead to sodomy/sinful things while Ficino couldn't perceive a world in which Beauty was understood or discovered through means that were entirely non-corporeal.

It's all a little pear shaped.

The mind tries to reach God through beauty, which is determined by desire.

For a man who was so very cerebral and spiritual - who bled into the mystic and ecstatic traditions of Catholic spirituality - he was at the same time incredibly earthy and corporeal. I suspect his being quite aware of his own body and its urges is what drove a lot of this push/pull that we see in his writing.

There are plenty of letters where he writes Giovanni in a manner that suggests they have certainly partaken of physical displays of love with one another. There's that one where he writes about how he and Giovanni don't need tongues and hands to show love to one another implying, of course, that they have done such things.

He wrote to Bernardo Bembo that Bernardo must have the eyes of a lynx for he perceived that Giovanni and Marsilio were soul-married (or whatever) long before they themselves were aware of it. Which makes me laugh because of what a perfect fucking fanfic set-up that is. Like what? Next you're telling me, Marsilio, that you and Giovanni were travelling once and Oh No There Was Only Bed**.

Bernardo: GET A ROOM.

Marsilio: ?????

Giovanni: ?????

Bernardo: I swear to God and the good mother Mary you two are gagging for each other and need to just fuck about it or something.

Poliziano, in the background: I've been saying that for yeeeaaaars.

(**never mind that everyone shared beds back then so it would have been very normal and they just would have been like "why would there be more than one bed?? you can fit so many people in one bed and we all have minimal furniture. It's 1473.")

-

now I'm going to read a 1919 essay on Jstor about a sodomy process occurred in 1501 of an obscure venetian totally random poet

oh my god, Venetian sodomy stories break my heart because Venice went so hard on punishment in a way Florence just...didn't.

This is what happens when you put a city on a lagoon! It makes everyone paranoid that if they offend God he will sink them under the waves.

Granted, it was quite something in the 17th century when the Ten ordered a review of the Venetian merchant fleet, have heard that there was Much Sodomy & Other Vile Things Occurring and found that yeah, everyone has been fucking each other on boats for centuries now.

And the Ten were like: :O whaaaat and God didn't strike us down??????

Pokemon meme: The Ten Hurt Themselves in Their Confusion.

-

I remember reading one account of a man (I want to say he was a cittadini merchant) who began an affair with his rower. It was a long term thing, the rower even married a (probably illegitimate) niece or something of the merchant. They were very much clearly Lifers.

Anyway - got found out and the two were rounded up and the cittadini guy told his rower, 'Look, just say I forced you. Say it was unwilling on your part and I was making you do it' etc. because he figured as a member of the cittadini class he had a better chance of getting off the hook than his lover who was as a no one.

His lover was reluctant to do that but agreed to the rouse - however, the Ten were on a serious crackdown that year and hauled him in for torture anyway. Despite his being a "victim" and therefore, traditionally, not seen as being as much to "blame" for the sinful acts etc.

During the torture, the rower ended up confirming that no, it was not forced. Yes, he was very much into it. The big kicker was that one of them ended up admitting that they switched "roles" so both topped and both bottomed, which was obviously a big deal in terms of perception of masculinity and culpability in these cases.

Sadly, they both ended up on the pyre and were burned to death between the pillars of the Lion of San Marco and Poseidon in the palazzo di San Marco.

(nb: the details are sketched out loosely here, it's been a while since I read that case so I could be misremembering exactly how things played out)

-

Every time I see pics of tourists between those pillars I'm like, "Do you know how many men were burned to death for sodomy right where you're standing? And how many members of government were hanged for treason (or "treason") and their bodies left so their colleagues got to walk by them on their way into work? I bet there's a ghost in your picture."

It's a bit of a mood killer for tourists, apparently.

annnnyway. Venice and sodomy laws! Heartbreaking!

-

Despite that, the city did have a thriving sodomy scene which is hilarious. Though, as the famous saying went, It takes only seven days for the sun to set on a Venetian law and they must recreate it.

Love that bit in Sanudo's diary where he's like: The Ten, in their wisdom, issued another promulgation reminding everyone that sodomy is illegal and it was read aloud in the Rialto and everyone in the market laughed.

--

ok, my turn to apologize for making this WAY too long. I just - I have the worms they are in my brain and they are going !!!!!!!! about all things relating to Ficino and also 15th and 16th century Venice.

<3 <3 <3 <3

[wickedsnack]

For Dhavihal: 5, 11, 33, annnddd 37 :D

meme!!

5. What is the song you most associate with them?

Dream Girl Evil - Florence + the Machine

This was actually a Solavellan rec from my boyfriend who got it from his best friend, but! FATM just has Dhavi vibes. Like idk how to explain but the range of volume/emotion in Heavy In Your Arms is very Dhavi to me, and Dream Girl Evil specifically just kind of carries this energy of "you hate that you love me and that's not my problem" that I singularly enjoy for Dhavi <3

11. What is an item of clothing/an accessory that completes them/makes them feel safe?

Dhavi has some jewelry carved from the antlers of the halla who found her that she would be absolutely lost without. There's no special (for lack of a better word) ritual that goes along with them, no special carrying case, nothing that would lead anyone to believe that they're anything more than just some carved jewelry---to be honest, I think most days Dhavi forgets they're there, but only because they've become the kind of constant that she's more likely to notice the absence of.

33. What is their favorite color? And which colors do they like to wear the most?

Ooohh... I think Dhavi's favorite color is purple, actually. Like a deep, warm violet. She doesn't wear it very often, though; she's typically found in browns and greens and creams, the latter of which stems from the halla leather she wears. I think perhaps more noteworthy might be the colors she doesn't wear; she doesn't wear a lot of metallic tones. If she's going to accent her clothing with anything, it's going to be carved halla antlers. (obviously anything halla comes from a halla that died of natural causes, my girl doesn't have ghilan'nain vallaslin to disrespect her creatures)

37. Give them your credit card for 5 minutes. What would they buy?

Nothing I can't afford shit. History books, first. Then she'd find out about the internet, and she'd buy herself a cheap tablet and some subscriptions to places like JSTOR. Sweets. Like just bags of candy from around the world. And probably an electric heating bag last!

[lovesick-feelin]

Willex with 42 and 27 please!

Another anon also requested 42, so this is for both of you! Enjoy :)

Send me prompts! | Read on AO3

27. Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.

42. Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

“Alex?”

“Hm?” Alex squints at the blinking cursor on his screen. Gray’s poem is part nostalgic love letter to the school at which he spent his formative years, part lamentation on the cruelty of a cold contemporary society that young boys must enter upon reaching adulthood. Does that sound too pretentious? No, wait. This is for Professor Lessa’s class. Does it sound pretentious enough?

“Alex.” A nudge at Alex’s shoulder finally manages to tear him away from the screen. Willie’s face is touched with an endearing mixture of fondness and concern, his video game controller limp in his hands. Someone has turned the string lights on above them on Alex’s bed. The room is dark. When had it gotten dark outside? Alex frowns. He’s not nearly close to being finished with his first draft. He switches back to his tab on JSTOR. He should have enough sources by now, right?

There’s a sudden touch to the side of his jaw and before Alex can react, he finds himself being kissed. His heart gives a pleasant flutter, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself lean into it. This thing he has with Willie is still new, but Alex has a sneaking suspicion that kissing Willie is never not going to give him butterflies.

Willie pulls away far too soon, and Alex blinks his eyes open slowly, feeling a little dazed. “What was that for?” he asks, and Willie shrugs.

“Just wanted to,” he says. “Also, you’ve been working for, like, three hours straight. You need a break.”

Working. Alex’s gaze snaps back to his laptop, still sitting in his lap. “I gotta finish this first,” he says, already scanning where he left off in his last paragraph. “I need a first draft.”

Willie sighs. “Alex, you told me this wasn’t due until, like, next week.”

“Okay, but why wait when I can finish it now?”

“Because,” Willie says, taking Alex’s face in his hands and turning it to face him again, “you could be doing this.” He kisses Alex again, less chaste this time, and Alex’s mind is once again pleasantly blank. He reaches up to fist a hand in Willie’s shirt --

-- and almost succeeds in dropping his laptop on the floor. “Shit!” Alex grabs for it quickly, making sure he hasn’t accidentally deleted anything. “I just - no. I need to finish this.” He hears Willie sigh next to him and Alex’s stomach tightens. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, voice a little higher than he’d like. “I know this is boring for you, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to --”

“Alex.”

“I just, like, what if I forget about it? Or I don’t have time to revise a draft and I just have to turn in what I have? If I fall behind, I’m never going to catch up, and then my dad will --”

“Alex.” Willie’s quick fingers appear in front of him, saving Alex’s changes in Word before reaching up and snapping his laptop shut. He puts it down on the desk next to Alex’s bed. “It’s okay.”

Alex shakes his head, unable to look anywhere but his hands in his lap. “It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m being a shitty boyfriend.”

“No. Nope. Uh-uh.” The mattress dips and shifts and suddenly Alex is pinned against the back wall with his lap full of Willie and wow, this is new. Willie’s hair falls from where it’s tucked behind his ear, tickling Alex’s nose. His weight is solid but not heavy, seated across Alex’s legs with his knees bracketing Alex’s hips, and suddenly Alex can’t remember what he was panicking about if only because he can’t form a single coherent thought.

“Hi there,” he manages, and Willie smiles, reaching with the hand that’s not braced against the wall to tip Alex’s chin up with one finger, locking their gazes together.

“Listen to me,” he says, and Alex is helpless to do anything but that. “You are not a shitty boyfriend,” Willie continues. “You’re actually, like, kind of an amazing boyfriend. You’re really cute,” and here he plants a kiss on Alex’s nose, “and really smart,” a kiss at Alex's temple, “and I’m telling you to take a break because I care about you.” Willie sweeps the bangs away from Alex’s forehead and kisses his hairline with so much tenderness it aches. “You’re, like, insanely ahead on your work. You’re allowed to give yourself a break. You deserve it.”

Alex nods dumbly, finally regaining enough motor control of his limbs to reach out and rest his hands on Willie’s hips, sweeping his thumb across the stretch of bare skin where Willie’s shirt has ridden up. “Okay,” he concedes softly, meeting Willie’s gaze and earning himself a brilliant smile as a result.

Another second passes before Alex remembers a crucial detail about their current situation, which is that his recently acquired boyfriend is fully sitting in his lap. “So, uh,” Alex offers lamely, “this is new.” He squeezes Willie’s hips for emphasis, and Willie laughs.

“Sure is,” he agrees. “You don’t mind, do you? I can move.”

“No!” Alex blurts, almost embarrassed at how quickly he responds. “No, no, um. This is - this is good.” He lets one of his hands skate up Willie’s side under his shirt, priding himself on the way Willie’s breath catches. “This is, like, really good,” Alex murmurs, meeting Willie’s eyes again, their noses almost brushing.

Willie catches his bottom lip with his teeth, pupils so blown that his eyes almost look more black than brown. “Noted,” he says, voice low and so dripping with want that Alex finally breaks, lunging the short distance between them to catch Willie’s mouth in a searing kiss.

The marks on his neck are still fading a week later when Alex turns his first draft in for Professor Lessa’s class. It’s worth it.

[alangraysonus-blog]

Rock the Boat

I knew Aaron Swartz. Aaron was an internet leader and free-speech advocate who helped organize the worldwide movement to keep the internet free from censorship and corporate control. Now more than ever, we should listen to his story and what he fought for. Aaron committed suicide at the young age of 26 after downloading JSTOR articles without JSTOR’s permission. He was unfairly facing many years in prison. January 11, 218 is the five-year anniversary of his death, I hope you read my remarks at his memorial service and learn a bit more about the man who “rocked the boat.” Here is what I said:

CONGRESSMAN GRAYSON: Aaron worked in my office as an intern. He had a quality that I found unnerving. He could come up with better things for him to do than I could come up with for him to do. Time and time again, I would give him something to do, and he’d say, “Is it okay if I also work on this other thing?” And “this other thing” turned out to be much more important than anything that I could come up with.

I learned to live with that. I learned to live with that shortcoming, which I took to be a shortcoming of my own, not one of his.

The other unnerving quality that I found in him was the fact that when he would conjure these assignments, they actually came to fruition — an unusual phenomenon here on Capitol Hill. He’d give himself something to do, I would recognize that it was very worthwhile, I let him do it, and it got done! He was a remarkable human being.

Another thing that I found unnerving — but also very endearing — about Aaron was that Aaron wanted to rock the boat. Now, we all hear from a very, very young age, “Don’t rock the boat.” I would venture to say that of the 2000 languages spoken on this planet, probably every single one of them has an idiom in that language for that term: “Don’t rock the boat.” And yet Aaron wanted to rock the boat. Not just for the sake of boat-rocking, but for the sake of improving the lives of ordinary people. And that’s a beautiful, a wonderful quality.

We’re talking about somebody here who helped to create Reddit, an important world-wide service, at the age of nineteen. Honestly, somebody who probably could have spent the rest of his life in bed, ordering pizzas, and left it at that. And yet he didn’t. He continued to strive to do good — good as he saw it. And that’s a rare quality in people. Many of us, we just have to do our best to get through the day. That’s the way it is. Many of us struggle to do just that. Very few of us actually can think big thoughts, and make them happen. But Aaron was one of those rare people.

And he was willing to take the heat for rocking the boat. Now, you know, sometimes when you rock the boat, the boat tries to rock you. That is exactly what he encountered, right up until the end.

And it’s a sad thing, that that’s the price you have to pay. For some of us who rock the boat, we end up losing our property. For some of us who rock the boat, we end up losing our freedom. For some of us who rock the boat, we end up losing our families. And in Aaron’s case, his life.

And yet, he was willing to face the facts, and to let that happen. To keep striving, to keep struggling, to keep trying to shake things up.

Aaron’s life reminded me about a different life that came to the same end. It’s the life of Alan Turing, a brilliant mathematician. He lived in England, and was born one hundred years ago. Alan Turing was the greatest mathematician of the 20th Century. He not only invented the Turing Machine, which is the basis for all modern computing, but Alan Turing also broke the Nazi codes during World War II, and allowed the English and the Americans to defeat the Nazis.

You would think that someone like that would be cherished. Someone like that who, if he had managed to have a full life, might have won one, or two, or even three, Nobel Prizes. But in fact, he was vilified, because he was a homosexual, which, at that point in England, in those days, was illegal. And I’m sure that at that point in England, in those days, there were people who said, “Well, the law is the law. And if you disobey the law, then you should go to prison.” Because of that, because his boyfriend turned him in, Alan Turing was convicted of perversity, and sentenced to prison.

Given the choice between spending hard time — years and years of his life — instead of doing the mathematics that he loved, or alternatively, to accept estrogen injections, well, Turing took the estrogen injection choice. And that broke not only his body, but his mind. He found that he could not do the thing he loved the most, mathematics, any longer. So after two years of this, Alan Turing committed suicide.

And who lost, out of that? Well, Alan Turing lost. But so did all of we. We lost as well. All of us who would have benefitted from that first, and second, and the third Nobel Prizes that Alan Turing had in him. And that Aaron Swartz had in him.

We’re the ones who lose.

If we let our prejudices, our desires to restrain those with creativity — if we let that lead us to the point where that creativity is restrained, then going back all the way to the time of Socrates, what we engage in is human sacrifice. We sacrifice their lives, out of the misguided sense that we need to protect ourselves from them, when in fact it’s the opposite.

Our lives have meaning, our lives have greater meaning, from the things that they create. So we’re here today to remember Aaron — and also to try to learn from the experience. To understand that prosecution should not be persecution.

This morning I reached into the closet, randomly took out this tie [showing necktie], and wore it. And I have a sense that sometimes, things are connected in ways that are not exactly obvious. It happens that this tie is a painting of “Starry Night” by Vincent Van Gogh, someone else whose life ended all too soon.

In a Don McLean song about Vincent Van Gogh, it ends this way: “They would not listen. They’re not listening still. Perhaps they never will.”

It’s time to listen.

SEE THE VIDEO

Courage,

Alan Grayson

“And when no hope was left in sight, 

On that starry, starry night, 

You took your life, as lovers often do.

But I could have told you, Vincent, This world was never meant for one 

As beautiful as you.“

-Don McLean, "Starry, Starry Night” (1971).

[derickandveronica-blog]

D #7. My Date with the Duolingo Owl

There was the day I overslept because my mind had just reached the crest of accustom to hearing the song “Who Will I Be” by Demi Lovato stream out of my tiny iPhone speaker in the morning to wake me from sleep. The old woman calling the shots in my brain must have decided to dismiss it as the good ol’ outdoors song and not my very important alarm clock, and it was something I needn’t mind after all. I imagine she was reading the morning paper and drinking chamomile at a table made of brain cells as I rolled over the bed and through the ninth hour.

On the bus to work my phone’s heart relayed a little beat—a sound I’d usually miss having already turned off my notifications by 10:37am—and there he was on the lock screen, probably wondering how I had been, where I might have been going, if he and I could talk shortly. Did he know I was riding the bus? I only watched the screen fade to black, without really reading what it had said, and put the phone back in my pocket, making sure not to tangle the earphones cord on the buttons of my overcoat. It wasn’t always like this. The truth is that I didn’t ignore the message because I was late to work and too frantic to sit still and pay attention to the present, but that I simply couldn’t think about him anymore. It was getting tiring all the talking. It used to be different.

A month ago, we met for coffee at Target after a somewhat successful meet cute at a church pancake dinner. He insisted that Target had delicious coffee and he went there often to get it—even when he didn’t need to buy thank-you cards, which is all I’d ever purchased at Target. He didn’t even mean the Targets that had joint or in-store Starbucks cafés. There was no visible middle man between Target and the coffee in this situation. Something about Target trying to convince anyone that they make their own coffee and that I should pay to purchase it shook me to my core.

The seats were not comfortable. This was a Target that had plans to be converted into a Super Target and so I imagined would be granted a Starbucks soon, but for the time being the dining area felt a little chintzy. There were big red circles plastered across the soda fountain that were a red too bright to be appetizing and made me think of ringworm. This was our first date. He told me I could get anything I wanted. I wish he hadn’t because suddenly I felt like I was ten-years-old and with the parent with whom I only spent every other weekend. There were no more than seven items on the menu but I agonized over them. There were no special names for the foods and everything was visible right next to the cashier: the rolling hotdogs (beef or classic), the spinning soft pretzels, and the personal pizzas, which were non-moving if I remember correctly. (Imagine if the pizzas got up and danced.)

Somehow all the food looked red to me. Was he going to order food too or just the coffee? I didn’t want to be eating alone. There was a pale white couple, both members with greasy grey-blond hair, at one of the tables whose presence really wasn’t helping sell the whole experience. The Wal-Mart down the road had more options but I didn’t want to make the Duolingo Owl feel bad that he enjoyed dining at Target behind a glass half-wall that kept us only partially hidden from all the mothers buying large packs of Hanes socks. In fact, once we sat down, every person who checked out at aisle 12 seemed to stare both us and our food down while pushing the cart out and toward the exit.

I ripped my entire soft pretzel to shreds like a napkin. The Duolingo Owl asked me to try a sip of his coffee and I was truly choked for tears because I couldn’t think of anything more pathetic than a mysterious non-brand coffee bringing someone so much uninhibited delight that they would then want to share that joy with someone else, me, and of course I knew it would only make me more miserable. The whole date felt like a mistake. I looked at my lacerated soft pretzel. At least the coffee was passable, though I really never the drank the stuff at any other point in my life.

My plan was to text Kelly and tell her to call me with news that someone in our friend group had just woken from a coma, but then the Duolingo Owl did something that surprised me. Maybe he saw I was not equally enchanted by the afternoon. For whatever reason there were disposable coasters set out for these particleboard bench tables. He took one and stuck it out halfway out of the edge of the table so it was still even with the surface. He lowered his head a little and then put his wing out of view and then flipped the coaster and caught it in the air.

I was immediately drawn in and my attraction to him revitalized. I didn’t dare ask him how’d he done it, defied gravity right before my eyes, right before the eyes of the greasy white couple and right before those of the man at aisle 12 buying Yu-Gi-Oh cards and a bottle of Diet Rite. In that moment we all knew that I would go on a second date with the Duolingo Owl, maybe at the Target on Harmony instead this time. As we left, he gave me the coaster to keep, and I put it in my pocket.

And so we did go to another Target. I didn’t even pretend to want a soft pretzel that time. This Target just as inexplicably but fortunately had disposable coasters set out for our amusement, and so I pleaded with the Duolingo Owl that he flip the coaster again. I fell in love with every part of him, every little thing, every feather. The way he smiled so gently, the way he whistled while he waited, and the way he did his best to poop in human toilets even though it was obviously uncomfortable for him, being an owl.

Our next few dates were equally as successful. I swam through a sea of red circles and white cotton socks.

“Learning a language requires a little practice every day. Practice your Spanish on Duolingo.” His eyes were blank when he said this. It sounded hauntingly familiar. Maybe I was able to dismiss it before as small talk, but this time he was assertive, and I couldn’t have possibly circumnavigated the comment. I looked down at my coaster, which had fallen down to my feet the last time I tried to flip my coaster. I could barely make it out between the crack of the bench and the table. I sent a low smile his way and took a sip of his Target coffee and shrugged, “Okay.”

Hablamos en español como la tarde se convirtió en la noche sin problema pero me había notado que algo había cambiado y así llegó a preocuparme. ¿Le conozco de verdad? ¿Quién era el búho de Duolingo? Quién lo supiera. Me llevó a casa en su Toyota Prius. Puso la banda sonora de Space Jam pues una vez le había dicho que me la gustaba, pero era que no tenía muchas ganas que escucharla en aquel momento, así que Salt-N-Pepa me había dejado menos que esperanzada.

The next few days were difficult. A little shaken by the Duolingo Owl’s words, I started to take longer to reply to text messages. I turned off read receipts on my phone and thankfully he seemed not to notice. It’s not that I didn’t want to keep practicing my Spanish, but, as I slowed down on the text messages, I did tell him I wasn’t sure how much I could learn in a model of language comprehension that placed equal emphasis on the student’s mother tongue as it did the new language, when in reality what I needed was an immersive or at the least more comprehensive Spanish program to truly develop my grammatical skills and fluency level. He did not seem to understand this. In a final attempt to get through to him, I sent a pretty long-winded text about linguistics and even included a link to an article I found on JSTOR about language immersion, and he ignored it. A few hours later, I received this text: “Learning a language requires a little practice every day. Practice your Spanish on Duolingo.” I used to find it sweet that he referred to himself in the third person, but at this point, I was disenchanted.

This brings us back to the bus. I was late to work. My hair was still wet. I was still not completely awake, inattentive. While the old lady in my brain was probably watching Jeopardy, I was watching the Target-colored blood ebb out of my relationship. Now unable to get him out of my head, I felt for the phone in my big overcoat pocket and pulled out two things at once: the phone and a red and white coaster stuck to its case. I attended to the phone first. I pressed the lock button and on the screen were a few words that I hadn’t expected, hadn’t realized were there all along: “These reminders don’t seem to be working. We’ll stop sending them for now.”

How corporate, how cold, how cruel. I thought the Duolingo Owl was the coolest, but now I knew better: he was the cruelest. Just because someone knows how to flip a coaster from the edge of the table and catch it in the air doesn’t mean he’ll make a good boyfriend. I read his message three times to understand, then I peeled the Target coaster off my phone and discretely let it fall under the bus seat.