#magically transported me into that room right now and told me to do it spontaneously i could

[scentofpines]

tomorrow is my first presentation in more than 8 years guyysss i'm nervous. but not quite as nervous as i expected to be?? maybe it is the calm before the storm? who knows. if i am not back on here by the early afternoon tomorrow you will know that i turned into a little puddle of sweat and tears in the basement of my uni. if that is going to be the case, i bid you farewell

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

A regal gyroid adventure

What a wonderful day for gyroid hunting! The crisp air and the cool breeze makes me want to sit by a tree and snuggle up with a cup of tea. I think this is by far my favorite type of weather - slightly cloudy skies with sunlight creeping through and gentle breezes with a slight chill.  

We’ve got some old friends from Rosevine with us - Almie and Pippa! Daisy Jane and Almie were the unlikely pair in high school - as in you wouldn’t think that they were close friends based on their personalities. Almie’s very much an extrovert, one who jumps into things without really thinking it through, someone who’s always looking for excitement and adventure. He tends to get in over his head sometimes but that’s what we love about him. Pippa, on the other hand, is a total introvert, the kind of person who likes to stay in her comfort zone and stick with what works. Although they’re almost total opposites, Almie and Pippa are very close - even more so after what they’ve been through.

There’s also another Medina sibling - Alon - who’s absolutely nothing like his family. While Almie and Daisy Jane are the unlikely duo, Alon and Mae are two sides of the same coin. Let’s just say that if Alon or Mae were here, most of us wouldn’t be having a good time.

This gyroid event is a regal themed one. The designs were a collaborative thing between Daisy Jane, Celinda, and Manda. It’s a mix of baroque, rococo, and vintage with a touch of modern - a totally fresh and unique spin on regal themed furniture. Having Daisy Jane help design gyroid items was the best thing to ever happen at the camp.

Almie’s been meaning to visit the camp for a while and he was going to help Daisy Jane move into the cabin until a family emergency pulled him away at the last minute. It’s been a rough year for the Medinas, especially for Pippa. The trip was kinda spontaneous but Almie felt that his sister really needed an escape - specifically a low-key one that won’t put her health in danger or wear her out. Dropping by in the middle of a gyroid event worked out perfectly - also the regal theme is something that Almie and Pippa totally dig so that makes it even better!

In between gyroid hunting, we took the time to enjoy the weather. Pippa was content lying the grass and collecting little treasures to put in her memory book. It’s good seeing her again after what she’s been through. Daisy Jane and I were kept up to date either by Almie or Abbey, but it’s not the same as being there for Pippa. Almie’s certain that Pippa’s gonna beat the cancer and knowing him and Pippa, I know that no matter what, she won’t go down without a fight.

This year was supposed to be a big year for Pippa. She was gonna practice driving and learn how to use her magic - a trait she and Alon inherited from their dad’s side. It was also the year Pippa wanted to get out of her shell, so she made a list of things she wanted to accomplish on her sixteenth year. While Almie wanted Pippa to be more adventurous and carefree like him, Alon wanted her to consider her future seriously and start climbing her way up to success by training to be a powerful wizard.

So Pippa tagged along with Almie on his little adventures much to Alon’s dismay. Alon’s similar to Mae as they are super ambitious and strive to be the best of the best. They’re good at what they do but sometimes they get arrogant about it to the point where they actively make others feel bad for not being as accomplished or busy as they are. To appease Alon, Pippa agreed to vigorous training, which ended up taking a toll on her physically and mentally. It didn’t help that around the same time Pippa was feeling off, which she initially attributed to being pulled by her brothers.

Eventually it became obvious that something was wrong. Pippa started getting bruises and everyone blamed Alon as the way he was training her was not safe at all. He would shrug off Pippa’s complaints when she had trouble keeping up, so Pippa kept quiet around him. Almie suspected something was wrong but because Pippa didn’t bring any attention to it, he thought it wasn’t a big deal.

A trip to the ER followed by tests at the hospital revealed that Pippa had leukemia. They say that you don’t know who your true friends are until you go through something rough. Almie and Abbey stuck by Pippa’s side, Alon did not. Abbey was the rock, she was always the source of strength for her kids. Almie was the optimist, he was the one who helped everyone get through the days. Alon carried on doing his own thing, seeing Pippa’s illness as an unfortunate setback and was determined to get her back on track after she “got over it”, which shows how much he cares.

For the next few weeks Pippa went through chemo. She was released from the hospital and it seemed like things were slowly going back to normal. Except it wasn’t - not by a long shot. Pippa adjusted to the changes and Almie did his best to help her out. The whole ordeal made them closer in ways that they’d never imagined. 

Much to everyone’s surprise, Almie began to take on more responsibilities by helping Abbey out whenever he can, taking Pippa to the hospital for appointments, and applying to community colleges. He’s still the same old Almie, but more grown up now, as he likes to say.

Around the time Almie was gonna drop by the camp to help Daisy Jane move in, things were looking good for Pippa. She still wasn’t out of the woods yet but as long as she kept up with her meds and appointments and followed safety measures, Pippa was taking care of herself. Then Alon and Mae had to ruin it for her.

Basically, Alon had enough of Pippa “slacking off” and wanted her to resume training. On top of that Mae insisted that Pippa start looking for jobs and wanted to do a mock interview with her. So they both convinced Pippa to take the bus to visit them despite the fact that she shouldn’t take public transportation because she’s immunocompromised. 

So not only Pippa contracted pneumonia, her blood work was also showing concerning signs. Abbey and Almie were furious but Alon and Mae refused to take responsibility. Apparently Mae had a minor cold when she met up with Pippa so she got an earful from her mom - which thankfully Daisy Jane never had to witness but heard secondhand. As much as we want to give Mae the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to take her side because she was well aware about Pippa and made a really bad call.

Pippa hung on and pulled through after that harrowing experience. There was concern that she was going to relapse, which while it’s not a death sentence, it meant that her future was uncertain. It was a slow and complicated recovery, but she lived.

Almie and Alon haven’t spoken to each other in the months since Pippa’s hospitalization. The two used to have a good relationship but things went sour after Almie dropped out of college. With how manipulative and controlling Alon can be towards Almie, you’d think he was older. Almie’s willing to forgive if Alon admits that he fucked up badly but seeing that he never took Pippa’s health seriously, a reconciliation seems unlikely at the moment.

Right now, Pippa’s slowly getting back on her feet. She’s keeping up with her usual routine of meds and maintenance treatments. Things are still far from normal and she’s nowhere near where she was before the pneumonia but at least she’s getting there. All she can really do is take it one day at a time. While she and her family are optimistic, they’re well aware that while Pippa’s prognosis isn’t exactly poor, there are some unfavorable odds stacked against her.

Pippa later told me that picking gyroids was the most fun she’s had in forever. Turns out that going on a gyroid adventure and visiting the camp were on her list of things to do on her sixteenth year. The list was something she picked up again during her hospitalization as a way to pass the time and give her something to look forward to when she got home. She might not be able to get her driver’s license or go on a rollercoaster, but at least she can cross off gyroids, camping, and going off on an adventure with Almie.

Along with hunting for gyroids, I taught Pippa and Almie how to fish and catch bugs. Almie enjoyed chasing butterflies while Pippa had a great time wading in the ocean and picking up seashells. The good thing about coming in the middle of a gyroid event is that the items that take the longest to craft are out of the way so by now the stuff we have left to make take a couple hours at the most. Pippa was fascinated by the whole process and it looks like there’s talk about Pippa and Daisy Jane designing furniture for a future gyroid event!

On days like this, it’s great to slow down and take your time. As much as I like gyroid events, sometimes it feels a bit stressful, especially at the beginning when you want to get the big stuff out of the way. Later on it’s more chill as there’s not as much pressure to get things done within a time limit. Pippa managed to cross off a lot of things from her list - as well as add a bunch of stuff that will be crossed off later - so overall, it was a good day!

Pippa gave me a copy of her to-do list that’s up to date as of today. It seems like a lot to accomplish in a couple days but I’m sure we can do it! Here’s what she wrote down:

Take a class at Happy Room Academy

Dig up gems at Shovelstrike Quarry

Cross-pollinate flowers

Bake cookies

Take a hike in the forest

Go berry picking

Sail around with Gulliver

Make hats and scarves with the Able sisters

Go stargazing

Attempt latte art

Learn how to play a KK Slider song on guitar

[musicallisto]

Hi! I’m glad to see your ship pairings back💜 I’m bi, she/her, and I would like to have a ship from HP/Marvel! I’m a pretty outgoing person, I definitely fit Gryffindor traits. Love to go on spontaneous adventures with people, but I can get awkward when people don’t share the same viBeS with me. I’m a true chaotic neutral and I would do anything for my friends. People think I’m very strong but usually I need their reassurance and alone time to cry lol. That’s it I think! Thank you💜

I Ship You With…

Ginny Weasley

Now that sure is one fiery union… and one that, truth be told, not many ever imagined working out in the end. You both have such textbook Gryffindor personalities that the popular opinion around Hogwarts when word spread that you began dating was that you would grow sick of each other’s fierceness, headbutt a lot, and eventually your personalities would clash so often that you would have an epic, melodramatic falling out in the middle of the Great Hall. Fear not - that’s very far from the truth of what happened!

Actually, Ginny asking you on your first date was very lowkey, uncharacteristically lowkey for your cheerful classmate of many years. You were quitely working in the Gryffindor common room, finding the library a little too cold for your liking in the early days of December, and you saw a crumpled piece of parchment land on the table, right before your eyes. Unfolding it, you discovered little moving doodles of Ginny and you chasing each other on your brooms near the Quidditch field, with the inscription ‘Saturday, 2 p.m.? I’ll make you fly.’

(That cheeky yet incredibly intimidated and shy smile of hers when you turned your head at her with your eyebrows frowned… the passing thought of how pretty she was and how much you’d like to hold her had crossed your mind, but at that moment you saw her in a totally different light, and eagerly, before your brain could register what you were doing, you had nodded.)

She’d totally be a reassuring presence if you ever need to vent or cry on her shoulder. She’s not necessarily the best adviser, because it does not do well with an attitude as impetuous as hers, and she’ll at times get a little awkward, not knowing how to react to your breakdowns and your sudden sadness, but she’ll respect that you need some alone time to process everything and feel better. She’ll try to ask you what she can do to help, because it doesn’t come naturally to her - when she’s faced with her own deal of problems and drama she shrugs it off and hopes for the best.

(Most of the time there’s nothing much, really, that she can actively do to alleviate the problem at hand. In such instances, you just ask her to be there and keep your hands in hers and your head to her shoulder, your breaths in synch, and somehow the world around you feels gradually a little less grim.)

Did you say that you like spontaneity? Because she is the exact definition of the term. Wait until you mention offhandedly that you enjoy going on adventures with people on a whim, and she’ll be absolutely wooed. You’ll then go on the most random and unplanned adventures just because you feel like it one day, and because there’s nothing else interesting to do around. Ginny, with the upbringing she’s had and especially the presence of her father, mostly knows about modest, Muggle escapades, but whether you are a Pureblood, a Half-Blood or a muggleborn, you enjoy getting away from the magic world for a little while and connect with the more down-to-earth side of the world… even if your own adventure, the adventure of your love, debuted in the sky.

(Your favorite thing to do is going on a roadtrip with Ginny. Supposing that it was salvageable after Ron’s little escapade, you once more or less borrowed Mr. Weasley’s flying car, even though it isn’t exactly the most Muggle and discreet mode of transportation, and flew it across the Highlands, taking in all the beauty of the North and stopping from time to time in a wide field to have a picnic or swim in a freezing lake. These adventures, you would never trade them for anything.)

Peter Parker

Now, listen. One man-child is already a tough creature to handle on the daily, surely Tony Stark will tell you this. But two? Together? In a relationship? There have been cataclysms and mass extinctions in the history of the Earth that have liberated less energy than the two of you do. You would probably be childhood best friends and lifelong crushes, at least on one part, if not on both, before one confesses (more likely you), or, possibly, an exterior interference forces you to confess.

I am guessing it would be something like prom. Close to being canceled because of the recent attacks and threats that plague New York City, your high school prom represents, in spite of everything, a beacon of hope and normalcy in the decadent world. Especially since you discovered that your best friend is inherently part of the whole mess, what with being a superhero gifted with the powers of a spider and all that. You would imagine he would be frightened of nothing or no one… but you discover that there is one danger he still doesn’t know how to tackle: social engagements, and, God bless him, relationships. That much is clear when you notice him circling around you as D-Day grows near, growing considerably cheesier, shier, and clingier. You may have never seen Peter as a love interest before, but you’re not blind. And you understand. And it strikes you. Okay. You kind of… like him. As in, like like. What to do now?

(What to do now is precisely what you choose to do, despite every instance of your brain advising you against it: you bluntly ask him to be your prom date. He blushes, swallows, tries to play it casual. In his eyes, though, his familiar, warm, yet still a little unsure eyes, you read it, clear as day. Oh, you’ve got that boy whipped, and by some miracle or twist of fate you never noticed.)

Although you both are particularly energetic, sometimes you need a little time off, and enjoy hanging out in each other’s company on your bed in your flat, listening to some 80′s music and lounging together, talking about anything and everything, stealing kisses and tickling each other. One time, though, a hazard of the shuffle mode of your playlist, your favorite song at the moment, Girlfriend by Trevor Something, comes on, and you jump off the bed, dancing ridiculously and swaying your hips, mouthing every single word. Peter watches you, slightly confused and yet touched by your half-suggestive, half-humorous improvised dance. He’s a tad intimidated by your advances, especially when you gesture for him to come join him and let loose on the dancefloor of your fluffy rug. However, every last glint of fright disappears when he finally dares to feel the music pulse all around him, bob his head to the rhythm, and eventually give in like he’s got no care in the world - and truly he does, because you are here, and you are together, and New York City seems so far away with your hand in his.

(A few weeks later, you have a friend night with Ned at a karaoke bar, which so casually happens to host for the night the theme of ‘music from the 80′s’. When Peter takes the stage and whispers his request in the ear of the owner of the bar, you recognize immediately the first powerful notes and the piercing bass that are so familiar to you, and that you never would have guessed he would have remembered. But he did, and he motions for you to come join him onstage, handing you a microphone. He barely remembered the tune, or the lyrics for that matter, but he never got the eponymous line wrong - ‘You should be my girlfriend, I’ll love you forever baby’.)

[skyestones-and-up]

Heroic Tales and Less Heroic Exploits

An au where Izuku Midoriya dies in his second year of Yuuei, and is reincarnated as James Potter. Shenanigans and changes to the timeline ensue. 

It wasn’t anywhere close to immediate; his memories of his past life came back to him slowly at first, then all at once as soon as he was old enough to even slightly comprehend them. But by the time his fifth birthday rolled around, James Potter knew with absolute certainty that he was once called Izuku Midoriya (or rather, Midoriya Izuku).

He’d felt like crying later that evening, when Euphemia Potter tucked him into bed and kissed him goodnight. Not because he’d had a bad birthday, or gotten presents he didn’t like, or hated his bedtime. No, he cried because that was the night it had truly hit him; he’d died young, in only his second year of Yuuei, and had left everyone behind, including his classmates, friends, All Might, and his original mom.

Euphemia was a wonderful mother. But Izuku had had Inko Midoriya as his mom for far longer, and he missed her dearly. He’d never be able to see her again.

As soon as his new mother left the room, he finally let the tears roll down his cheeks, splashing onto the silk bed sheets.

(James Potter would never be wanting for anything material. Izuku Midoriya would never get the things he truly wanted.)

———————————————————

It didn’t take long for Izuku to realize he was in a very different world than the one he had inhabited in his previous life. For starters, when he had glanced over at the newspapers his mother and dad liked to read, he’d learned that the date was several centuries in the past. That was the first clue, as who’d ever heard of a person reincarnating backwards? A far more logical answer was that this world was simply younger than the one he’d come from.

The kicker, though, had come the day after all of his memories had settled in. Sixteen years for Izuku had quickly crowded out his far younger memories in this life, most likely because he’d really been to young to retain them for long anyways. If he’d had, Izuku might not have been as shocked when his mother made the toy trains he was playing with come to life and zoom around the room all on their own. He’d chalked it up to being her quirk at first, but then watched her flick a wooden stick (her wand, his memories supplied), and saw the toys react by flying up in the air and traveling across the room, before settling neatly right where they were usually stored.

Izuku’s little mouth fell open. “How did you do that?” He asked, astonished. Animating toys and levitating objects were two different quirks! Well, he supposed they could possibly fall under a single quirks category of controlling a certain type of object, but it was still pretty wild.

His mother smiled and patted his head. “Levitating charms, sweet. They’re one of the first things you’ll learn when you go off to Hogwarts. But that’s for when you’re older.”

Levitating charms? That sounded like some sort of magic. If this really was a new world, was magic real here? It didn’t seem possible, but then again, a new world could probably have new rules.

Izuku had so many questions, he didn’t know where to begin. If he decided for the moment that magic was real, then it would make sense for there to be a place to learn it, which lead to that ‘Hogwarts’ mother had mentioned. So if he asked about that, he could also know if his theory about magic was correct.

So that was the question he would start with. “Is Hogwarts a magic school?”

“Yes, and a very good one at that,” Mother affirmed. “Your father and I both went there when we were young adults. It’s one of the best magic schools in the world.”

Izuku’s eyes went as wide as the cucumber slices his dad liked to munch on. That had answered a few of his questions, but had also generated about fifty more of them. “Can you show me more magic?”

��Of course!” Mother indulged him. She pulled out her wand again and swished it gently. Small golden lights appeared wherever her wand had been, hovering in the air and shimmering softly. Another wave, and they started changing colors, the ground around them lit up by the glow.

Izuku may have had the memories of a teenager, but at the same time, he was still just as childish as his current physical age would have people believe. Out of curiosity and pure five year old instinct, he reached out and tried to grab one of the lights in his fist. 

Warmth spread from his hand out to the rest of his body, like sitting next to a roaring fireplace, except the fizzling was inside of him and not surrounded by stone. “It tickles!” He giggled.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Euphemia agreed, smiling indulgently. Izuku let go and she waved her wand once more, causing the lights to vanish and leaving Izuku with a faint sense of disappointment. “Come now, it’s bedtime.”

Izuku allowed himself to be picked up in her arms. “When do I get to go to Hogwarts? I want to learn how to do that!” He paused, years of bullying for being quirkless flashing through his head. “Do I have magic?” He whispered, almost too softly for her to hear. “What if I don’t? What will happen to me then?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that,” Mother chuckled. “Do you remember a couple weeks ago, when that painting burst into flames? Or when the cookies somehow ended up in your room, even though your father and I had been with you the whole night?”

Izuku did remember those things. He’d hated that weird painting from the minute dad had brought it home, and had wanted it out of the house. Just as he’d been glaring at it from across the hall, it had spontaneously burst into flames. There hadn’t been enough to salvage, so dad had thrown it out. With the cookies, he’d been craving them all afternoon, but with his parents around, hadn’t been able to sneak one. Yet they’d somehow shown up in his bedroom that evening. Luckily his parents had found the situation funny, and they’d all shared the cookies that night.

He nodded in response to his mother’s questions. “Well,” Mother continued, “Those were bits of accidental magic you performed. You’ve been doing things like that since you were a little baby. There’s no doubt that you grow to be a fine wizard.”

So those were little acts of magic he’d done? Izuku’s head spun at the implications. Setting a painting on fire with his mind was very different than somehow transporting cookies to his room. Then again, levitation and little balls of light were also two very different types of powers. Was magic anything like quirks were, or was it as unpredictable as it was in some books?

“How does accidental magic work exactly?” He asked. “I mean, do people generally do specific types of accidental magic based on what they end up being best at? Around when does it usually develop? Is there any way to control it before you go to Hogwarts?”

Mother laughed. “So many questions, I love it! Maybe you’ll be in Ravenclaw once your at Hogwarts. Fleamont has been so sure you’d be a cinch for Gryffindor.”

“What’s Ravenclaw? And what’s a Gryffindor?”

“They’re Hogwarts houses, sweet.”

“Houses? Like places to stay in?”

“That’s right.” She was carrying him up the back staircase, holding him tightly so he didn’t bounce around too much. Their house was really, really big. “They’re dormitories, where all the students sleep.”

“Oh, okay.” Izuku was reminded of the Yuuei dorms. This had obviously been around for a long time, however. “How many houses are there? And what does asking a lot of questions have to do with being in the Ravenclaw dorm - I mean - house?”

They had reached Izuku’s room. Mother took one hand away from him to open the door and they walked inside. It was almost as big as the entire bottom floor of his old house, with its own comfy blue couch and chairs, soft gold carpeting, and a giant four-poster bed, the curtains and sheets made of red and gold.

Mother sat him down on the bed, and Izuku crawled under the covers. “There are four houses,” She answered patiently. “Really, you can ask a lot of questions and be in any house, but it’s more of a Ravenclaw trait, because people are sorted into houses based on what they value the most.”

Izuku frowned, pulling the expensive bed sheets up. “And Ravenclaw is the house of valuing questions?”

Mother laughed. “Sort of.” She went to smooth out his hair. “How about your father and I tell you about all of the houses another day. It’s bedtime for you right now.”

Izuku pouted, as five year olds are want to do. “Aww man.” He brightened up. “Can you answer my first question though? About how old I need to be to go to Hogwarts? I really want to know the answer to that one.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “Kids start Hogwarts when they’re eleven years old. So you’ve got six more years before it’s time for you to go.”

“That’s a really long time.” He wasn’t sure if he could stand not being able to properly learn and understand magic for another six years. Then again, maybe he didn’t have to. His own home had a library, and his mother and dad seemed perfectly willing to answer any questions he had. Izuku promised to himself that by the time he went to Hogwarts, he’d be more than prepared. 

“It goes by fast,” Mother assured him, kissing him on the forehead. “Trust me, I’ve been where you are.”

———————————————————

It was much easier to think of Fleamont Potter as his dad than Mother as his mom, hence the terms Mother and Dad respectively. While he loved Mother a lot, and she was a wonderful parent - even if he did recognize that she spoiled him more than a bit - the term “Mom” would always belong to Inko Midoriya, no matter what. She had been there for him at the hardest times of his life, and while there were some times when he wished she had been more supportive of his dreams and aspirations, he couldn’t think of a better mother.

On the other hand, Hisashi Midoriya hadn’t been around in years. He’d been gone when Mom had taken him to the doctor that had told him he was quirkless, he’d been gone when Izuku had found All Might and was given the power to be a hero, and he’d never once showed up in either of Izuku’s years at Yuuei. He was almost always overseas on work, stopping by every few years for a few weeks, then leaving again. Izuku hardly remembered anything about his father's interests or personality, and had only a vague idea of what he looked like.

Dad, on the other hand, was a constant presence in his life, and it made everything so much better. He also worked hard on hair potions that could fix peoples hair the way they wanted in seconds, but he always made time for his wife and only child. He had a nice, if very dad-like, sense of humor, and was always willing to drop whatever book or paper he was reading to play with Izuku and answer his endless questions.

One day, while Dad was reading the paper and Mother was just coming home from brunch with some of her friends, Izuku opened up the line of questioning he had been sitting on ever since his talk with his mother about accidental magic and Hogwarts houses. “Dad? Mother? A few weeks ago, Mother told me about Hogwarts houses, and how different houses value different things. Could you tell me more about that?”

“Of course kiddo,” His dad grinned at him, eyes twinkling. “Learning more about the houses so you know to try for Gryffindor?”

“Don’t pressure him, Fleamont,” Mother pulled her handkerchief out of her coat and tossed it lightly at him. It landed square on his face. Dad chuckled and pulled it off, tossing it back to her. “I think he’s just as likely to end up in Ravenclaw anyways.”

Their son shifted impatiently. “I still don’t know what each house values,” he reminded them.

“Of course.” Dad set his paper down, and Izuku caught a glimpse of the moving photos that had been the subject of his fascination for the last couple weeks (and the reason he had left this line of questioning until today; he’d been far to busy asking how they worked).

“Well for starters,” Dad said, “Gryffindor is the house I was in when I was a boy. Gryffindors value bravery and chivalry above all others. It’s a house that always fights for what’s right.”

“That sounds like a really good place to go,” Izuku noted. He imagined that if All Might were here, that would be the house he’d end up in. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that made a lot of sense. But could Izuku get into a house like that?

“Don’t count the other houses out,” Mother laughed lightly. “I was in Ravenclaw, for instance. We value wit, wisdom, and creativity. That was why I said it was the house for asking lots of questions. I think, with your curiosity, you’d do very well there.” 

He probably would. But who could blame him? Magic was fascinating! Really, Izuku wondered why every wizard didn’t end up in Ravenclaw. Who could look at this world and not want to know everything about it?

“That’s pretty fair.” Dad squeezed his hand. “But most kids aren’t like you, Kiddo. Especially those from wizarding families, they aren’t that interested in how magic works, just what it can do for them.” Izuku winced slightly, he must’ve been mumbling again. While he didn’t do it nearly as much in this life, it still came out now and again. 

“There are two other houses, of course,” Mother continued. “The students in Hufflepuff value things like honesty, loyalty, kindness, and hard work. They’re generally a very nice group of people.”

“I like the sound of that.” Izuku wondered which of his friends would end up there. Kirishima, definitely. Maybe Tsyu? No, she was probably a Gryffindor. Now that he thought about it, Aizawa valued those things more than anything else, so he’d probably be a Hufflepuff. “It sounds like a good house.”

“It is,” Dad agreed, “even if they aren’t always taken seriously.” He sighed dramatically. “And then there are the Slytherins.” 

“Fleamont,” Mother admonished, looking more amused than anything. “Please don’t bring your personal bias into this.” She turned to Izuku. “Slytherin values ambition and cunning above the others.”

Izuku frowned. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” Were Slytherins and Gryffindors rivals?

“You got it,” Dad admitted, somewhat chastised. “And it isn’t bad, per say. Everyone needs some ambition to get places in life. But would you honestly trust someone who made it clear they value ambition itself over things like kindness or bravery?”

Surprisingly, it wasn’t a villain that popped into Izuku’s head, but Endeavor, who valued his own status as a hero over being a hero itself, so much so that he forced his own child to be someone he could live vicariously through, and neglected his other kids. He gritted his teeth at the thought of that man.

“Yeah,” he managed to get out. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound very nice.”

“There are some very nice Slytherins,” Mother pointed out, sitting down beside Izuku at the table. “A few of my school friends were from that house, and they were good people.”

“You just couldn’t trust them,” Dad snarked.

“Fleamont!” Mother chided. Izuku could tell it was teasing on both sides, but he vowed right then that he wouldn’t be in Slytherin. He wanted to be better than that.

But to be better, he had to know how one’s house got chosen, so that he could aim for one of the other three. “How do you get into each house?” He questioned his parents, who were still gently teasing each other.

“Ah,” Dad forced himself to stop laughing. “That’s a secret Kiddo, sorry. School tradition.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” Mother smiled down on him. “Wherever you go, we’ll be proud of you. We may not be able to tell you what the sorting process is, but we can tell you neither of us have heard of an instance where someone was sorted wrong.” Izuku nodded, feeling reassured.

Still, he’d try to find out more later. He didn’t want to go into this at all unprepared. 

———————————————————

“James, sweet, it’s bedtime.” Mother poked her head around the door to their library. “Still reading all those books, I see. You haven’t come out of there all day, save for meals. What are you reading that has you so interested?”

“Lots of things!” Izuku picked his head up from the current volume he was reading. Scattered around him were many other books of varying sizes, containing all sorts of different subjects. “Did you know that no one ever figured out a pattern to how accidental magic manifests itself? It can appear at any age, in tons of different ways. But why? Why does it do that?”

“It’s magic, Sweet.” Mother sat down next to him, gently stacking the books up and sending them away with her wand. “Magic does what it wants, it seems. Every magic user is different, so it appears in many different ways.”

“So is magic sentient then?” Izuku wondered aloud. “Is it okay to use it then?”

His mother gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t call it sentient, so much as unpredictable. But with proper learning, it becomes more and more predictable, and easier to use. That is why we have schools like Hogwarts, after all.” 

“I was wondering about that too,” Izuku admitted. “How does one get accepted into Hogwarts? I mean, how do the teachers know who’s magical, and who isn’t? Especially with muggleborns and squibs.” He’d done research into that subject, and like everything else, found frustratingly little on the subject. It seemed some people were born with magic, and some weren’t. Although the idea of people possibly being exiled from their communities for not having magic was uncomfortably familiar.

Mother folded her hands on her lap. “If what I’ve heard is true, there’s a magical quill and book, charmed by the founders of Hogwarts themselves, that are able to detect when a child is magical, and write their names down. Apparently, they haven’t been wrong yet.”

“Wow.” Izuku thought about that. “I wonder what sort of charm they used to do that?”

“That I don’t know.” Mother shook her head, smiling. “But what I do know is that you can continue your reading tomorrow. For now, it really is bedtime.”

Izuku pouted. 

———————————————————

Izuku always knew technology had been held back by the appearance of quirks, but now that he was so far in the past, he was seeing it firsthand, and the shock of it was even greater.

While technology hadn’t progressed to the point it was at in his past life, it was actually pretty close, with similar cars, radios, and television. Cell phones and the internet weren’t a thing yet, but with the way things were improving, it would only be a matter of time.

Even more interesting than that, however, was the fact that wizards were way way far behind when it came to technology. Sure, they had radio and trains, and could replace things like phones with talking through fires, but wizarding society as a whole was still super far behind!

Izuku had searched their library for information on wizarding technology, but couldn’t find anything. He decided to ask his dad about it. 

“Technology, hmm?” Dad stroked his chin, pondering the question. “That’s a very interesting question. Sorry we don’t have any books on it.” He brightened, and lifted his head up. “Oh, I know! How about we go to the London Public Library, and see if they have anything there?”

“Isn’t that a muggle library?” It hadn’t been a big shock to find out he was now living in England; he’d been speaking English this whole life, after all. Still, it was a big weird, walking out of the house and into the English countryside, like something out of a storybook.

“Sure it is,” Dad agreed. “But there’s a magical section hidden from muggle eyes there as well.”

“That sounds so awesome!” Izuku couldn't help but bounce up and down. “Yeah, let’s go there and see if they have anything.”

They took floo powder to get to London, which was still both neat and somewhat terrifying. Once there, they walked the few blocks to the library, Dad holding Izuku’s hand the whole way there. Izuku looked around at the rows and rows of books, itching to get his hands on them. However, his dad led him to a door in the back, which everyone else seemed to be overlooking.

They entered to find even more shelves filled with books. These ones, however, were flying off the shelves and into people’s hands of their own accord. The people reading the books were wearing robes of all sorts of bright colors, some of which almost hurt to look that.

That was okay, of course. Izuku would much rather look at the books than the people reading them.

A wizard with a bright green robed glanced up as they approached, looking somewhat disinterested. “Can I help you two?”

Dad smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. We’re looking into wizarding history, technology more specifically. My son’s interested in the topic.” Izuku waved at the man.

The man’s bored expression morphed into one of surprise. “Huh. Not many wizards or witches look into that sort of thing. Usually just as a passing curiosity, or to write some sort of article. Follow me then.” He lead them off into a corner, where the books all looked dusty and less used. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks!” Izuku waved at him. He gave a short nod back and walked away. 

———————————————————

When Izuku was six, he finally decided to test out One for All, to see if he still had his quirk or not. It was obvious that quirks as a whole didn’t exist in this world, at least not yet. But he had to try and see if his still worked.

It was late at night when he decided to test if out, after Mother and Dad had both gone to sleep and he was alone in his room. Izuku slipped out of bed and onto the soft carpets that covered his room.

He focused as hard as he could on the feeling One for All gave him, how it felt with all of that power rushing through his veins. Izuku clenched his fists and waited.

At first, nothing happened. But slowly, green sparks started to fly around his body’s coursing through his veins like an old friend. It was light, weaker than it had even been before. But it was there. If Izuku had to guess, he was able to use less than one percent of One for All at the moment. But the fact that he could use it at all was encouraging.

———————————————————

Despite the equal feeling of being loved he received from each, were many differences between the Midoriya family and the Potter family. Besides the fact that he lived with two parents instead of one, and the fact that while Mom was making good money as a middle class citizen, the Potters were sitting pretty on a massive fortune, there was the parents themselves.

Euphemia Potter - Mother - was beautiful for her age, especially considering she’d had Izuku when she was around forty. She had long flowing dark red hair, speckled  with strands of gray. While she was equally kind, Mother was much more self assured than Mom had been, radiating confidence. More than a few times, Izuku wondered guiltily if that had to do with the fact that he was born magical in this world, but quirkless in the previous one. Pictures and stories, however, told a different story, one that said Mother had always been like this. He hoped it was just that.

Fleamont Potter was just a few years older than his wife, with smooth salt and pepper hair and sharp hazel eyes hidden behind glasses. Izuku couldn’t exactly compare him to his previous father, as he didn’t know the man, but a huge difference from his previous life was that while he had taken his looks from his mother then, now they came almost completely from Dad. It still shocked him everytime he looked in the mirror, expecting green hair but seeing messy black.

Another major thing that set the Potters apart from Mom, however, was that the Potters had lots of friends. Lots and Lots of friends.

“Come on Sweet.” Mother gently pulled him along. After weeks of pleading, She and Dad had agreed to take Izuku on a broomstick ride, which had proven to be even more of a thrill than he’d imagined. Now that they were at their destination, however, his nerves came rearing up, threatening to consume him.

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Izuku voiced his hesitant thoughts. “What if we get off on the wrong foot, what if I say something dumb and he thinks I’m an idiot, what if-“

“It won’t be like that Sweet, I promise,” Mother assured him. “I’ve met Frank before, he’s a very nice young boy, and only about a year older than you. I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly.”

That would be nice, except the anxieties wouldn’t leave him. They walked up to the front steps of the Longbottom’s house, a huge estate that almost rivaled their own. 

The door opened as they approached, and a small creature in rags appeared at the door. 

“Miss Augusta and master Frank are waiting for you, Sirs and Madam.” The thing spoke with a deep croaky voice, as it bowed them inside. Mother thanked it kindly as they passed.

“What was that?” Izuku wondered.

“A house elf,” Dad explained. “They work for some rich wizarding families.”

Izuku glanced back at the house elf. “Why’s he wearing rags?”

“They hate clothes. Giving a house elf clothes is essentially firing them, which they consider a great failure on their part. Ah, Augusta!” Dad spread his arms out wide as a sharp looking woman approached, kissing her on the cheek in greeting. The greeting she and Mother shared was equally warm.

“It’s about time you visited. Your son is already six, and I’ve barely met him.” Augusta Longbottom leaned down to meet Izuku’s eyes. “You must be James. You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

Izuku didn’t remember seeing her before, but he nodded his head politely anyways. “Thank you ma’am.”

“So polite! He and Frank will get along splendidly. Frank!” At his mother’s call, a boy came thumping down the stairs, and locked eyes with Izuku. Frank was tall for his age, with brown hair and curious eyes.

Izuku gave a shy wave. “Hi. I’m James.”

Frank smiled. “Hello! It’s nice to meet you.”

Mother gave his hand a squeeze. “Why don’t you two get to know each other better?”

“Right.” Augusta nodded firmly. “Frank, give him a tour of the estate. Be sure to ask what he wants to see the most.”

“Okay.” Frank gave Izuku a smile and motioned for him to follow. Izuku walked with him as their parents talked in the background. “Is there anything you want to see?”

Izuku rubbed the back of his head. “Well, what do you have? I mean, this is your house, after all. Well, actually if you have a lot of books I would love to see them. I’ve read almost all the books in my house, which is both great and frustrating because not many books talk about how magic actually works. And you’d think they’d have something on it in different magical libraries, but it’s like not many wizards seem to care how anything works, and isn’t that weird? I mean-” Izuku cut himself off when he saw Frank staring at him with wide eyes. He winced. So much for making a good first impression. “Sorry, I tend to ramble a lot.”

“It’s fine, that’s not-” Frank cut himself off. “Midoriya?” 

Oh. 

Well this just got a lot more interesting.

[fuwua]

haikyuu x reader | magic au

“Kageyama, stop trying to kill me with your arrows!” You yelled at him, “I am not, you are always in the way of my prey!”

“What are you hunting for, air?! If you need air, just holler at me, I can cast you a darn good spell.”

“You talk too much, that’s why enemies locate you.”

“Oh, and, yeah, you’re so great that you never miss that’s why you always end up 98% killing me!”

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima are observing the both of you from the top of a tree branch, “They’re bickering again.” Yamaguchi stated.

“One of them almost got dead because of the other, again.”

“Maybe it happened when Y/N was teleporting.”

“Who knows?” Tsukishima said as he postured for magic casting, “What are you doing, Tsukki?”

“They need a breather.” Tsukishima then casted a mini-tornado that swept both you and Kageyama’s feet and when it wore off, you teleported to get on your legs and Kageyama fell face flat.

“You casted magic again, Y/N!” Kageyama screamed, “It wasn’t me, doofus. If I casted a spell, I wouldn’t have included myself.”

Kageyama stood up and fixed himself, “We should head back, the guards will start patrolling now.”

“You finally used your head, huh, Kageyama?” He rolled his eyes at you and held you by the shoulders, “Just go ahead and teleport back to the-“

Yamaguchi watched at how the both of them disappeared into thin air, “Teleporting must be nice.”

“Let’s head back too.” Tsukishima then casted a portal leading to the guild. And, behold, the previous duo was bickering there already.

“Why are you so angry? We’re back in the guild, aren’t we?” You told Kageyama, “You didn’t even let me finish! I was midsentence and you disturbed me.”

“Whatever, loser.” You stuck your tongue out at him and teleported to your room, “Hey, get back here, Y/N!”

You then teleported a book on top of Kageyama which hit him, “Suga-san! Y/N’s teleporting inside the guild premises!”

“I’m not your mom, Kageyama.” Sugawara said as he placed his book of healing spells on the table, “Y/N, where are you, I haven’t seen you yet.”

You teleported back in the receiving area, Sugawara wasn’t looking at you but instead reading his book, “Y/N, please do use your bedroom door.”

You sighed and teleported back to your room, went outside and teleported back to the receiving area.

“And the stairs.”

You sighed in defeat as you did as you were told, you finally arrived the normal way, “Here I am, High Priest Sugawara.”

“Are you staying the night here?”

“No, I have to go back to Nekoma House. Kuroo wishes for me.”

“Alright, you’re free to go but no teleporting. Please do try and blend with the locals.” Sugawara requested you, “I will.”

Kageyama was proud that you received a small scolding from Sugawara, Kageyama was on his way back to his room upstairs until Sugawara spoke, “And Kageyama, you almost hit Y/N with an arrow again, didn’t you?”

You walked your way towards the Nekoma House which was a couple of blocks away from Karasuno House. You knocked on the door and entered the guild.

“Y/N, good to see you back.” Yaku welcomed you as he was fixing the contents of the bookcase.

“Hey, Yaku-san.” You replied to him while you made your way to sit down by the center table, Yaku stared at you for a while, “What happened to your cheek?”

“It was from training earlier.”

“Did you fall?”

“No, it was an arrow.”

“An arrow hit you?”

“Somehow.”

“How did that happen?!”

You were quiet as you looked sideways, “You were teleporting, weren’t you?” Kuroo then butted in you and Yaku’s conversation.

“Kuroo!”

“It wasn’t me, it was Kenma.” Kuroo grinned, “Is it true, Y/N?”

“Yes, I was teleporting.”

“Oh, goodness. Y/N, you shouldn’t teleport when you’re with a different house, you’re not in sync with them. What happens if something pierces through you?”

“It was nothing, it’s just a scratch.”

“A princess does not have a scratch on their face.”

You groaned, “Again with that princess thing!”

“It’s true!” Yaku interjected, “Try to at least act like a princess.”

“The people don’t know that I am a princess.”

“But that doesn’t mean you’re not one.”

“Gosh, Yaku! I’m a part of a guild!”

“You’re part royalty, Y/N.”

“What do you even want me to do?!” You yelled at him, Yaku then sighed and touched your cheek, “There; that will wear off the scar. Go get some rest, I readied your bed.”

“Thanks.” You closed your eyes to teleport but you weren’t going anywhere, you tried again and again, “Yaku, what did you do?”

“I cleansed your cheek.”

“What else did you do, Yaku?” You frustratingly asked him.

“You’re not allowed to teleport for a while.”

“Yaku!” You were upset, “It’s for your own good. Either that or you have to stay in the Nekoma House.”

You groaned and stomped your way to your room. Once you were seated on your bed, knocking came at your door, “Go away!”

The door opened, it was Kuroo, “Why is the princess upset?”

“None of your business, Kuroo.” You said as you tried casting a portal to transport Kuroo out of your room, “Yaku even took away the portal spell! I don’t believe it.”

“Try living a simpler life, princess.” Kuroo handed you a mask, “What’s this for?”

“Go and enjoy the nightlife. You have my approval.” You scoffed and wore the mask, you exited through the window and made your way towards the roofs, you were met with a tall figure with one of the roofs.

“Fancy meeting you here, princess.” Tsukishima told you, he was also wearing a mask, “You’re a part time vigilant as well?” You asked him.

“I cause danger, what does that make of me?”

“You’re a criminal.”

Tsukishima laughed, “Why are you being all sketchy? Rebelling finally? Wanting the whole town to know you’re the hiding princess?”

“Yaku took away my teleportation.”

“That sucks, where do you want to be right now?”

“I don’t know, I just like being spontaneous.”

Tsukishima then whipped out a portal and grabbed your hand, “Let’s go.”

You then arrived on top of another culture’s roof, “I think this is illegal, Tsukishima.”

“Just enjoy the festival below.”

[nancygduarteus]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/doctor-rapp/579634/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

Article source here:The Atlantic

[angelavengedinspo-blog]

“Forget about all that. You came here to get something from me—here it is.” Helen slipped an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Simon. Curious, he tore it open and pulled out a small piece of thick ivory stationery, inscribed with a familiar hand. Simon stopped breathing. Dear Simon, Izzy wrote. I know I’ve developed a habit of ambushing you at school. This was true. Isabelle had popped up more than once when he’d least expected her. Every time she showed up on campus, they fought; every time, he was sorry to see her go. I promised myself I’m not going to do that anymore. But there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. So this is me, giving you advance warning. If it’s okay for me to come for a visit, you can let Helen know, and she’ll get word to me. If it’s not okay, you can tell her that, too. Whatever.—Isabelle Simon read the brief note several times, trying to intuit the tone behind the words. Affectionate? Eager? Businesslike? Until this week he’d been only an e-mail or a phone call away—why wait until he was back at the Academy to reach out? Why reach out at all? Maybe because it would be easier to reject him for good when he was safely on another continent? But in that case, why Portal all the way to Idris to do it face-to-face? “Maybe you need some time to think about it?” Helen said finally. He’d forgotten she was there. “No!” Simon blurted out. “I mean, no, I don’t need time to think about it, but yes, yes, she can come visit. Of course. Please, tell her.” Stop babbling, he ordered himself. Bad enough he turned into a driveling fool every time Isabelle was in the room with him these days—was he now going to start doing so at the sound of her name? Helen laughed. “See, I told you so,” she said loudly. “Er, you told me what?” Simon asked. “You heard him, come out!” Helen called, even louder, and the bedroom door creaked open. Isabelle Lightwood didn’t have it in her to look sheepish. But her face was doing its best. “Surprise?” When Simon had regained his power of speech, there was only one word available in his brain. “Isabelle.” Whatever crackled and sizzled between them was apparently so palpable that Helen could sense it too, because she swiftly slid past Isabelle into the bedroom and shut the door. Leaving the two of them alone. “Hi, Simon.” “Hi, Izzy.” “You’re, uh, probably wondering what I’m doing here.” It wasn’t like her to sound so uncertain. Simon nodded. “You never called me,” she said. “I saved you from getting decapitated by an Eidolon demon, and you didn’t even call.” “You never called me, either,” Simon pointed out. “And . . . uh . . . also, I kind of felt like I should have been able to save myself.” Isabelle sighed. “I thought you might be thinking that.” “Because I should have, Izzy.” “Because you’re an idiot, Simon.” She brightened. “But this is your lucky day, because I’ve decided I’m not giving up yet. This is too important to give up just because of a bad date.” “Three bad dates,” he pointed out. “Like, really bad dates.” “The worst,” she agreed. “The worst? Jace told me you once went out with a merman who made you have dinner in the river,” Simon said. “Surely our dates weren’t as bad as—” “The worst,” she confirmed, and broke into laughter. Simon thought his heart would burst at the sound of it—there was something so carefree, so joyous in the music of her laugh, it was almost like a promise. That if they could navigate a path through all the awkwardness and pain and burden of expectations, if they could find their way back to each other, something that pure and joyful awaited them. “I don’t want to give up either,” Simon said, and the smile she rewarded him with was even better than the laughter. Isabelle settled beside him on the small couch. Simon was suddenly extremely conscious of the inches separating their thighs. Was he supposed to make a move right now? “I decided New York was too crowded,” she said. “With demons?” “With memories,” Isabelle clarified. “Too many memories is not exactly my problem.” Isabelle elbowed him. Even that made a spark. “You know what I mean.” He elbowed her back. To touch her like that, so casually, like it was no big deal . . . To have her back, so close, so willing . . . She wanted him. He wanted her. It should have been that easy. Simon cleared his throat and, without knowing why, rose to his feet. Then, like that wasn’t enough distance, retreated safely to the other side of the room. “So what do we do now?” he asked. She looked thrown, but only for a moment. Then she barreled ahead. “We’re going on another date,” she said. Not a request; a command. “In Alicante. Neutral territory.” “When?” “I was thinking . . . now.” It wasn’t what he expected—but then, why not? Classes were over for the day, and second-year students were allowed off campus. There was no reason not to go out with Isabelle immediately. Except that he’d had no time to prepare, no time to come up with a game plan, no time to obsess over his hair and his “casually rumpled” look, no time to brainstorm a list of discussion topics in case conversation flagged . . . but then, none of those things had saved their previous three dates from disaster. Maybe it was time to experiment with spontaneity. Especially since it didn’t seem like Isabelle was giving him much of a choice. “Now it is,” Simon agreed. “Should we invite Helen?” “On our date?” Idiot. He gave himself a mental slap upside the head. “Helen, you want to crash our romantic date?” Isabelle called. Helen emerged from the bedroom. “Nothing I would love more than being an awkward third wheel,” she said. “But I’m not actually allowed to leave.” “Excuse me?” Isabelle’s fingers played at the electrum whip wrapped around her left wrist. Simon couldn’t blame her for wanting to strike something. Or someone. “Please tell me you’re kidding.” “Catarina laid a circle of protection around the cabin,” Helen said. “It won’t stop you from coming and going, but I’m told it will be rather effective if I try to leave before I’m summoned.” “Catarina wouldn’t do that!” Simon protested, but Helen put out a hand to quiet him. “They didn’t give her much of a choice,” Helen said, “and I asked her to just go along. It was part of the deal.” “That is unacceptable,” Isabelle said with barely concealed fury. “Forget the date, we’re staying here with you.” She was lit up with a beautiful glow of righteous rage, and Simon wanted suddenly, desperately, to sweep her in his arms and kiss her until the end of the world. “You will most certainly not forget the date,” Helen said. “You’re not staying here a single second longer. No argument.” There was, in fact, plenty more argument, but Helen finally convinced them that being stuck there with them, knowing she’d ruined their day, would be even worse than being stuck there alone. “Now please, and I say this with love, get the hell out.” She gave Izzy a hug, and then embraced Simon in turn. “Don’t screw this up,” she whispered in his ear, then pushed them both out the door and closed it behind them. There were two white horses neighing by the front path, as if they were waiting for Isabelle. Simon supposed they were; animals in Idris behaved differently from how they did back home, almost as if they could understand what their humans wanted and, if you asked nicely enough, were willing to deliver. “So, where exactly are we going on this date?” Simon asked. It hadn’t occurred to him that they would ride into Alicante, but of course, this was Idris. No cars. No trains. Nothing but medieval or magical transportation, and he supposed a horse was better than a vampire motorcycle. Marginally. Isabelle grinned and swung herself up onto the saddle as easily as if she were mounting a bike. Simon, on the other hand, clumsily heaved himself onto his horse with enough grunting and sweating that he was afraid she’d take one look and call the whole thing off. “We’re going shopping,” Isabelle informed him. “It’s time you get yourself a sword.” 

[alisonfloresus]

Visit The Rubber Room For Innovative Business Changing Ideas

Efforts that make the biggest difference to your bottom line are the ones based on business changing ideas. No matter how well any plan is executed, it is those ideas that make the difference for exploding profits. Here is a great method for getting those innovative, business changing ideas.

Innovation … Is Different Than We Think

The process of innovation, especially the type needed to expand your business, is very different than most of us assume.

* Innovation costs a lot of money – NOT – Innovation is actually almost free. It requires only a few people and a very short time.

* We just need one really great idea – NOT TRUE – The difference between being the best and just average is a big surprise. It is the accumulation of small incremental innovations that make the largest contribution to success over time.

* It’s science, technology, and invention – FALSE AGAIN – Innovations can be technical but the purpose is always economic. Successful innovation makes some process more efficient, eases burdens, saves time or increases pleasure … and is purely an economic activity.

* We can’t plan it … innovation takes time – AGAIN FALSE – It takes very little time. What is required is the right environment for a spontaneous generation of good ideas.

Innovation is merely the solution to a defined need using what is already available. The biggest challenge is to understand the need. Once understood, innovative ideas just flow forth.

Great Ideas … For Exploding Profits

The “Rubber Room” concept has worked fabulously for me. It enables startling discoveries that would never have been possible otherwise. It triggers a “survival” response, which produces creative thought.

Take The Blinders Off

We limit our thinking because we concentrate too much on the problem we are trying to solve. Instead, if we transport ourselves mentally to another place where we have to solve an even bigger problem, the solution to our current problem is greatly simplified.

EXAMPLE

A few years ago, I was trying to understand how to automate the back office processes of a major insurance company. I talked to the business users and didn’t get much help. Their suggestions were helpful, but mostly trivial, as far as making a bottom line difference.

So, I gathered them all in a quiet room to just relax and think. I told them, “Imagine your company will grow three times in size. What’s more, your company will not hire any new people at your position. That means you will have three times the work you have now. However, you will have as much clerical help as you need. What would you have the clerical help do?”

They responded with a long list of tasks they would offload, in order to keep up. That became a great list of software features to decrease manual effort and increase efficiency.

That company actually did double its business, without hiring any new employees. Those are significant bottom line results. What do you think that would do for your company’s bottom line?

The “Rubber Room” … Works With Any Problem

Follow these simple steps to your own list of great business changing ideas …

* Gather a group of people who are very close to the problem

* Chose a quiet meeting place where they will not be disturbed

* Get their thinking totally out of reality and into an imaginary world where anything is possible

* Give them a problem, much like the current one, but wildly exaggerated

* Tell them they have to solve it but their solution doesn’t have to actually be doable; they can even use magic, they have an unlimited budget and unlimited resources

* Give them all the time they need, even several days, if needed

They will arrive at a list of very creative ideas and suggestions. The rubber room concept is a great way of stretching the imagination. And when it comes to ideas for business results, imagination is our only limitation.

from JournalsLINE http://journalsline.com/2017/05/22/visit-the-rubber-room-for-innovative-business-changing-ideas/ from Journals LINE https://journalsline.tumblr.com/post/160942588230