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theladyofdeath · 4 years ago

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In the Bleak Midwinter {15}

A Throne of Glass Period AU: 1920s.

Summary: 2 years after Arobynn Hammel is killed by Rowan Whitethorn, Maeve has returned from Eyllwe with a vengeance. Meanwhile, Rowan is getting married, Lorcan is a father, and Lysandra is finally ready to give her heart away. There’s been peace in The Cadre’s Orynth for 2 years, but peace never lasts.

A/N: I am so sorry it took me so long to update this! I have a lot of WIPs going on at once. I promise to update this again this week, though! Anyway, enjoy! I mean...if you can...

All characters belong to SJM. I am no more than a fan with a plot.

**Warning: mature content - language, alcohol use, drug use, sex, murders and shit.

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The Cadre - 1920s AU {TOG}

In the Bleak Midwinter {The Cadre, Part 2}

Lysandra rolled over to find Aedion watching her with tired eyes. She chuckled, quietly, before rolling herself on top of him and pressing her mouth to his.

“Good morning, husband.”

“Wife,” he mumbled, his deep voice raspy from sleep, his hands wandering down to her bare ass.

“I like that name on your lips,” she mumbled, rocking herself against his hardened cock.

He groaned, and flipped her over. Her back hit the mattress as he hovered over her, as his lips trailed down the side of her neck. With her fingers tangling into his long, golden hair, Lysandra’s eyes drifted shut as she allowed her husband to explore her body.

Those beautiful, soft lips trailed down her shoulder and across her collarbone, down to her breasts where he worshiped her, slowly, with his tongue, his lips. She never opened her eyes, she let herself get lost in his touch, and his touch alone. Aedion was always so gentle, so delicate, while being fully confident in everything he did to her. He wanted her to know that she was respected, adored, that he didn’t want to be like all the assholes she was forced to be with throughout the years. He never wanted her to feel degraded. And yet, at the same time, he had to let her know just how wild, how completely barbaric she made him.

As his lips trailed lower, he displayed just that.

His mouth wandered between her legs, his head disappeared beneath the sheets. Lysandra gripped onto the pillows that surrounded her as he stroked her in an agonizingly slow pace between her folds. She let loose a breath as her back arched, as his tongue took its sweet time tasting her.

“Is this how you’ll wake me up every morning?” Lysandra breathed.

Aedion hummed something against her sex that brought an entirely new sensation sweeping through her body.

She took it as a yes, and remained silent as he worked his charm. Silent enough, anyway. She couldn’t help the sounds she made as he sucked on her clit and held her ass down firmly against the mattress to keep her from writhing.

And when he leaned up and pushed his cock inside of her, Lysandra became undone, her voice unable to not be heard.

She didn’t care.

Let them hear.

She let them hear her joy, her triumph, her peace in the fact that she had married a man who loved her, respected her, a man who she was so madly in love with that it made her feel invincible, even in the chaos that was their lives.

~~~

Rowan hated having so many people in the house. He was on guard, even though it was broad daylight and plenty of innocent people were around. He liked to think that even Maeve had a slight inkling of morals inside of her, somewhere.

Aelin was loving it. She was loving the florists and the decorators and the caterers spread throughout the estate. His beautiful, pregnant wife was a people person, and she had been secluded for too long.

“The band will be showing up soon,” Aelin told him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He chuckled, and kissed her, softly.

“Can’t wait,” he lied, and when the doors to the ballroom opened, his hand went straight for his gun, out of habit, out of instinct.

It was only Gavriel and Natalia, and it was the latter who was talking and the former who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. He gave Rowan a pleading look, but Rowan only grinned.

Gavriel had gotten himself into that mess and Rowan was having too much fun watching the outcome to help him out of it.

“I wish you’d calm down,” Aelin said, quietly, running her hands down his forearms. “There’s going to be so many people here, Ro. And it actually feels normal for once. Haven’t you missed being normal?”

Rowan snorted. “When have our lives ever been normal?”

“Normal for us,” Aelin clarified.

“You should really be taking it easy, you know,” Rowan mumbled, cupping her face in his hands. “That baby needs to eat at some point. And rest. Maybe you should, you know, eat then rest instead of running around like a madwoman.”

“Calling me a madwoman only makes me crazier,” she said, pressing her lips to his before fluttering off, yet again.

He watched her go, smiling fondly after her. She didn’t take his advice, whatsoever. For the rest of the afternoon, all she did was make sure the estate was in pristine condition.

At least someone was doing it, he supposed.

He certainly didn’t want the job.

Lorcan seemed to be doing well. Rowan thought that even he was excited to be around a crowd again - and Lorcan hated crowds nearly as much as Rowan did. Elide loved crowds though, loved people, loved parties. Maybe the event reminded him of her. Maybe he was channeling her energy.

Even Rowan had to admit the sight of him chasing Lucy around the ballroom and through the halls was a sight to behold.

Elide would be proud.

By the time guests began to arrive, Rowan was dressed in his finest suit, per his wife’s request, and greeting each of them as they came in, encouraging them all to donate to the building of the new library, which he would also be doing.

Gavriel was the one who was truly good at talking to strangers. Rowan tended to scare most of them, Lorcan more so, and Fenrys was keeping himself hidden in the corner. Vaughan was good at smiling, and nodding thanks to those who came into the door, but it was Gavriel who had a true way with words, a warm welcoming.

It was because of that that Rowan made him stay close to the entryway.

His warm demeanor, and the fact that he could pick out a traitor, a fake, instantly, and had a great shot.

“You need to relax,” Aelin whispered into Rowan’s ear, when it was clear he was tense. “You said tonight was safe, and if everyone else sees you uneasy, they’re going to panic.”

Rowan nodded, but didn’t say a thing. All day all he could think about, the second people began to stream through the door, was that this was a mistake.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, though. Natalia floated around Gavriel with a drink in her hand, even though she never actually said a word to him, allowing him to do his job. Lorcan walked around with Lucy in his arms, showing her off to every swooning woman that looked his way. Lorcan may not have been good with people, but Lucy was a definite conversation starter in her little, red frilly dress. Vaughan was walking around the room, silently thanking everyone for coming. Lysandra and Aedion were obsessed with the world now knowing they were man and wife, and had already told the story of their wedding a hundred times.

Although Fenrys lingered in the corner, his foot tapped along with the beat of the band.

“Ro.” His eyes snapped down to Aelin, who was frowning. “You’re worrying me.”

“Why?” he asked, then forced a smile. “Go have fun, A. Enjoy your time. I’m alright, alright?”

Her smile was uncertain, but she nodded, nonetheless. After finding Lysandra and dragging her friend onto the dance floor, Rowan went to check all the posts, to make sure everything was secure.

~~~~

Aelin was exhausted.

Being pregnant and socializing with people for hours on end did not collide well. By the time ten rolled around, she was ready to be in her comfy clothes, in bed.

It seemed that Lucy thought the same, as she was sound asleep on Lorcan’s shoulder.

“Want me to bring her up with me?” Aelin asked, stifling her yawn. “Natalia’s drunk off her ass and I’m exhausted.”

Lorcan chuckled and looked around at the still bustling party. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Aelin smiled as she took Lucy from Lorcan’s arms. The toddler barely stirred as she settled against Aelin, her cheek resting on her aunt’s shoulder. After telling everyone goodnight, Aelin was walking up the stairs with a snoozing Lucy.

After getting into Lorcan’s bedroom, Aelin dug up a little nightgown and helped an exhausted Lucy into it before sitting in the corner rocking chair for a moment to help her settle back down. Once she was sleeping soundly with her mouth hanging open, Aelin carried her to her crib and laid her down. For a moment, she looked at the toddler, admiring the little miracle. She looked so much like her father, but so many things about Lucy reminded her of Elide. Her wild nature, her curiosity, her beautiful smile. Aelin missed her friend, missed the girl she had grown up with, but she was so grateful to have Lucy, someone Aelin could watch grow up, someone to remind Aelin everyday of the young life that was lost too soon.

She kissed the toddler’s forehead before settling onto Lorcan’s bed. With all the people downstairs, Aelin thought it best to stay close. Surprisingly, Lorcan’s bed smelled pretty good. It was definitely comfortable. With a yawn, Aelin closed her eyes and settled into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The next time she opened her eyes, though, she was met with a knife at her throat and malicious, violet eyes staring back at her in the darkness.

~~~~~

Lorcan was exhausted by the time the workers were breaking down the decor. They had raised a ton of money for the library, which was a good thing, but Lorcan could have done without the endless conversing with other people. Elide had always been the people person, not him.

As he padded up the stairs, all he wanted was to fall into his bed and sleep for days. With a yawn, he stumbled through his doorway, and strutted to the little hall in between his bedroom and Natalia’s that she shared with Lucy.

He was only a few feet away from the crib when he stilled. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, thought the darkness was messing with his mind. Then he took another step closer, and another, and another, until his fingers were gripping the side of the crib and his knuckles were turning white.

A panic began to rise in the pit of his stomach when the realization hit him.

The crib was empty.

He looked around as if Lucy had climbed out of her crib and began to discover the excitement of the room. As if she could have been hiding, Lorcan began to tear the room apart. Books fell to the ground, pillows flew across the room, everything inside of Natalia’s wardrobe was thrown out.

Lucy was nowhere,

“Lucille!” he yelled, knowing full well that his voice was full of terror. A thousand different scenarios ran through his mind, all with a different outcome, all unimaginable. “Lucy!”

With Natalia’s room a mess, he found nothing, and he was just about to tear the rest of the estate apart when he threw open the door.

Rowan stood there, his eyes wide.

Locan’s chest was heaving as he met his friend’s stare.

“Aelin’s gone,” Rowan whispered, holding up a note. The pristine cursive was all too familiar. “And she has Lucy, too.”

~~~~

@mariamuses @garnet-29 @writer-reader-traveller @rowaelin-cressworth @space-buns-arsinoe @negativenesta @empress-ofbloodshed @the-regal-warrior @starseternalnighttriumphant @westofmoon @sammyjojaaaa @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @carbconnoisseur @acer6437 @lorcansalvatearupmyheart @cool-ish-nerd @mynewdreamwasyou @mourning-razorlust @thespiritualrider @rowaelinforeverworld @didsomeonesayviolin @gloriouspaintercreatorbandit @yeah-just-ignore-me-thanks @queen-of-glass @the-dark-swan @http-itsrebecca @holdingon-21@babycardan @tswaney17 @mollycateoc @chemicha @bat-wing-rhys @exersize-me-i-dare-u @thespiritualrider @luna-the-little @morebooks-pls @shyvioletcat @hermajestyanna @a97girl @stardustsroses @queenofthemoon22 @alifletcher2012 @awkward-avocado-s @faerie-queen-fireheart @cwheart @lovemollywho @emilyrose111294 @nerdperson524 @sleeping-and-books @cursebreaker29 @flora-and-fae @feyrethedarklady @the-dark-swan @rowaelinforeverworld @sjmsstuff @januarystears @mis-lil-red @acourtofmoonlight @rowaelinforeverworld @courtofmaasdestruction @jjellybean @thewayshedreamed @wind-drinker @aelin-rowan-whitehorn @starseternalnighttriumphant @hurema @http-itsrebecca @lorcansalvatearupmyheart @cityofchelsea16 @januarystears @iliketoasterstrudels @lightitup-bryce @yikesitsmaddie @feyrethedarklady @i-love-all-books @keshavomit @sleeping-and-books @scarznstars @http-itsrebecca @cat5313 @moondancer-204 @booklover242 @belamoonbeam @they-call-me-cuatro @b00kworm @mu-si-ca-l @thegayerpotato @abraxos-is-toothless @keshavomit @musicdreamer003 @superspiritfestival @sailorsassley @mymultiversee @alxanxah @viviaannvu123 @mysweetvillain @theghostlyharrypooperfan @highqueenofelfhame @shyvioletcat @maastrash @the-third-me @rinad307

#tog #throne #of glass #period au #PB au #throne of glass #rowaelin #elorcan #lysaedion #sjm #fanfic #fanfiction

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apassionatearchive-blog · 8 years ago

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Vulcan Religious Sects

A common misconception among humans and other races is that all Vulcans are alike. Vulcans have a culture obsessed with logic, after all. Therefore, if face with a dilemma, all Vulcans would logically come to the same conclusion.

However, nothing could be further from the truth. To the Vulcan race, logic is almost a religion and like any other religion, it is filled with sects and schools of thought, each with wildly differing opinions on nearly every subject. Vulcan religion was born in the fires of Vulcan’s legendary and violent past, and it has transformed over the centuries.

Adepts of Seleya *

A religious sect that dates back to the pre-logical past, the Adepts of Seleya were led by a High Priestess who lived at the temp in Mount Seleya and was attended to by her cadre of unmarried females called the Unbonded. They were devoted to healing arts and tended the injuries of wounded Vulcans. And because of their acquaintance with injuries, it was claimed that they knew the precise moves required to kill an opponent. They held a close relationship with the Masters of Gol.

When Surak came to the adepts to ask them to help the Vulcan Space Initiative to send a number of their kind to the stars to preserve their ways against the constant hostilities, they refused as they were bound to the Mother World and were part of it. However, the High Priestess did gift Surak a Coronet that was developed by the Te-Vikram Brotherhood, as she saw it as an abomination of created by sorcery.

Followers of T’Shen

The Followers of T’Shen consist of a small commune who are devoted to the ways of healing and preserving life, as dictated in the Path of Shan. They also are known for the fact that they are willing to teach their ways to outsiders, including non-Vulcans.

Followers of T’Vet

They are a sect within Vulcan society that reject the teachings of Surak. Instead they prized physical strength and saw that the modern Vulcan civilization had encouraged weakness. They believed that every Vulcan child had to survive the kahs-wan maturity test and that those who failed either had to die or not be allowed to marry. Their argument for this was that when struggle was removed from life, the weak survive to old age and racial strength was diluted.

Despite this being the case, modern Vulcan had complete religious and political freedom which meant that the Followers of T’Vet where tolerated and even a few members of their sect were elected in every session of the Vulcan High Council. However, their beliefs also meant that they were outraged by those members of their race that took females of other species as mates whilst they were infuriated at the thought of Vulcan females mating with males of other species due to the fact that they felt a warrior had every right to win females of other clans through combat or trickery.

They advocated the racial purity of the race and removal of offworlder influence on Vulcan. By the 23rd century, the violent members of the sect were exiled to Vulcan Colony 9 in order for them to live out their traditionalist ways as they saw fit. And while they rejected the teachings of Surak, they are not to be confused with the V’tosh ka’tur, who sought to find balance between logic and emotion.

The Hakihr Way

Descended from a martial order of mindlords, the disciples of Hakihr (centered on the Tinsha Monastery in northern Khomi along with the Pakro) took to heart Surak’s famous saying: “The mind controls the body, control the mind and the body will follow.” They practice mind-body unification in the hope of preventing hormonal surges or limbic reactions that might involuntarily trigger an emotional response. Like the T’Shen, Hakihr adepts also teach the use of biofeedback to strengthen the mesiofrontaol cortex, that area of the brain associated with self-control. The Hakihr are famous for their psionic body control disciplines.

Kolinahr Path

Unlike other paths, which seek to repress emotions, the Kolinahr path attempts to rid the mind and soul of every emotion, be it joyful or wrathful. One by one, using the process known as t’san s’at, every emotion is mentally reconstructed and purged from the psyche, leaving only the Vulcan’s intellect.

The founder of Kolinahr was a strange hermit who called himself ‘Sanshiin’. He was believed to have been the leader of the Koliahru mindlords, a group capable of making the blood of their enemies literally boil in their veins through pyrokenesis. In fact, the legends of their wanton use of mind control still haunt Vulcan today. However, he converted to Cthia after hearing Surak speak. From then on Sanshiin taught that all emotion was a trick to keep us from seeing the universe as it truly was. Once emotion was cast away, a vulcan would be one with all creation.

It was the Kolinahru that developed the kolinahr discipline and remained in the monastery Sanshiin had built on a plateau in the Gol Province. They also followed the hallowed tradition where an anniversary was held over the death of a High Master, which was observed by all adepts. This was a sign of respect and honor for the dead High Master, who had trained. They also welcomed any visitors to their home who were seeking quiet retreat.

Masters of Gol **

Also known as the Adepts of Gol or the Acolytes of Gol, their body consisted of practitioners who sought to attain the kolinahr discipline through perfect mastery of emotion and often instructed others its attainment. They were noted to have spent much of their lives seeking to unravel the puzzle of how a living consciousness could at every moment be both part and All. The Adepts were known to have extremely heightened senses and a greater level of telepathic protection due to the defensive arts they had learnt to shield their minds from intruders. Some, however, believed that their conservative natures prohibited them from considering unconventional methods of treating psychological ailments.

They were led by a High Master and were known to have resided in the Plains of Gol, where they were known to have inahbited the Mountains of Gol for thousands of years, where the masters where known to live a life of complete isolation from civilization and generally accepted only one postulant a season.

The One Mind School

“All problems have already been solved. We only lack the vision to see.” - T’mor

One of the more esoteric schools, the One Mind School was founded by T’mor, another student of Surak. While her mentor sought a way to subdue all emotion, T’mor struggled with a way to remove emotion entirely. She found it in an ancient Vulcan belief, one centering around predestination, the belief that all actions and events are already pre-determined and cannot be changed. T’mor taught that emotion--specifically curiosity--clouded Vulcans sight, making it difficult to see the ways of the universe.

If the student could throw away emotion, he would able to see the grand pattern of the universe and watch it unfold. Despite T’mor’s dedication and many of thousands of years of development, The One Mind School is still considered one of the more ‘fringe schools’ of Vulcan thought.

Planfa *

A wandering sect of monks, they were one of the few that ‘plat-vok’ discipline from the Path of Plat. They were dedicated to promoting a deep and harmonious marriage, as well as friends, and only taught the plat-vok rite to either a pair of extremely close friends or lovers. They also knew the ‘Vhoshanta’ body reading art from the Path of Vhos and used it to help them when it came to dispensing advice and aid to those were in need.

Priests of Tel-Alep *

Residing at the Suta temple in the city of ShirKahr, they believe that by learning the truth of any situation, one was capable of accepting it calmly. During the time of Awakening, they were noted for allowing Surak and his disciples to preach their message of pacifism along with total logic to the masses. It is assumed that, at one point in their history, that they worshiped Tel-alep, the personification of curiosity.

School of Nirak

Nirak was one of Surak’s first students and perhaps, his greatest. He was also a great admirer of Jarok’s teachings, and tried to bring compromise to the two seemingly disparate schools. Whether he was successful or not could be (and has been) debated for generations.

While Nirak did not agree with Jarok’s “reveling”, he also didn’t agree with his own master’s unforgiving attitude toward failure and intolerance. He taught that the more violent emotions (most notably anger) we to be repressed, but virtue could be found in the less destructive passions, particularly curiosity and joy. However, he still maintained that a high degree of temperance was necessary to keep even the most encouraging of emotions in check.

According to Nirak, it is proper for Vulcans to feel joyful, but not ecstatic. Grief must be let go at Kal-ap-ton’s gates. More importantly, a Vulcan cannot drop his guard for even a moment. Nirak’s school is not as widespread as his mentor’s, but it down have a small following devoted to his philosophies.

Surakian

Believing in the attainment of the Kolinahr discipline through the strictest interpretation of Surak’s teachings, it was considered one of the many schools of logic on Vulcan. Typical characteristics that define a Surakian include the individual shaving their head, a disdain for any ornamentation of any kind, the renouncement of personal possessions and chose to live a fully communal existence. Their sole goal was the advancement of knowledge above all else. The Surakians never repeated, nor expected repetition, of information as they saw the behavior as illogical. They were also known to possess a near total control of their autonomic systems which rivalled that of the greatest Kolinahr masters.

The Surakians also believed that the Romulans to be an affront to the Vulcan psyche and until the ‘renegades’ had been returned to the fold, the insult their ancestors made against Sural would remain an unhealed wound to them, making reunification impossible.

Tu-Jarok

Also known as the Way of Jarok, it’s followers departed from the teachings of Tu-Surak in favor of his friend and rival, Jarok, who, himself, disagreed with the total suppression of Vulcan emotions and thus broke away from the strict teachings of logic Surak preached. Jarok believed that whilst Vulcans needed to control their emotions, they needed to have the opportunity to deal with them.

Thus, the adherents of the Path of Jarok were taken to the desert in order to join others, where they would then gather around a fire that they built from aromatic wood to heighten their consciousness. After days of meditation and fasting, the students encountered their inner chorus, whereupon they carried out a mental conversation with it in order to debate logic against the emotions of the chorus. By the end of it, the students had to either succeed or fail in coming to terms with themselves. However, failure was not seen as shameful as the process was considered a personal journey and the embracing of these chaotic voices was typically done alone.

The teachings of Tu-surak, Jarok taught three virtues to his followers on what to do in their lives, which made up the basic tenants of the Way of Jarok: compassion, temperance, and justice. In regards to compassion, it was believed that suffering was universal and not personal, which meant that one’s own suffering was no better or worse than anyone else’s. Understanding this was seen to help provide comfort to other’s with their pain. With temperance, it was believe that practicing came from understanding rather th’ He further argued that selflessness was the only way to find true inner peace. “Onece you have thrown away your pach-te, you have found the true center, the golden river, the lifeblood of he world.”

an total abstinence. And on just, it was taught that Vulcan needed to understand that they were part of a greater organism and , as such,had a duty to protect as well as seek justice for the greater good.

Tu-Surak ***

“The outcome of our actions is entirely out of our control. Only intent remains entirely within our control” - The Scrolls of Surak

The first major school of Vulcan thought is also the largest. Most Vulcans are part of the Surak sect, which is why so many people believe that Vulcans are devoid of emotion. The School of Surak teaches uncompromising repression of emotion. Even the slightest surrender to the voices of the Inner Chorus is considered a great failure.

To tame the voice, the way of Surak--called-Tu-Surak--teaches its students to divorce themselves completely from their egos, or, as the school’s namesake referred to them, the pach-te. The pach-te is the strongest of all desires and the root of emotion. To explain pach-te as “selfishness” is simplifying Surak’s philosophy, but it’s a good start.

Once the student has freed himself from pach-te, he will cease to be concerned with himself, focusing all of his concern on the welfare of others. Surak’s teachings has a profound effect on Vulcan philosophy and culture. His famous debates with his rival Jarok are some of the most important works of Vulcan literature.

Surak maintained that discipline could be enforced on others, it had to come from within. Peace, for Surak, was the foundation of everything worth achieving, both on a political level (”The spear in the enemy’s side is the spear in your own.”) and a rational level (”The calm mind is the one that truly knows”.). “The only noble desire,” he said, “is the desire to serve others.” He further argued that selflessness was the only way to find true inner peace. “once you have thrown away your pach-te, you have found true center, the golden river, the lifeblood of the world”.

Surak’s philosophy begins with the student learning deep meditations, prayers, and stories that remind him of the tragic power of emotion. He learned that morality--treason devoid of emotion--is often contrary to self-interest, and it is this self-interest that interefers with our ability to be better than what we are. In this way, the students begins to shed his pach-te.

Surak also told his students to cast away the traditional moral training of native Vulcan religion, which included a set of commandments not unlike the Ten Commandments of Earth’s history. Instead of teaching his students what not to do, he decided to teach them what to do. Surak’s virtues gave students a path to follow, rather than several paths not folllow.

The six virtues of Tu-Surak are: Courage (protect others), Temperance (exercise the will), Charity (give when you have too much), truthfulness (a virtue all Vulcan cling to, connected inextricably in Surak’s teaching with logical observation of what is and not what we wish), Just (the fair treatment of others), and finally Shame. This last virtue is the most controversial teaching in Surak’s school. When a student on Surak’s path fails, it is because he is weak and he should feel shameful for his weakness. Other schools feel Surak’s emphasis of shame is too extreme, but the followers of Surak’s path adamantly defended the unforgiving discipline the virtues teach. “Animals have no virtue,” Surak once said. “And if we are not careful, we shall degenerate into animals once again.”

Tral-Katra ****

Secretive keepers of the spirits of the past who resided at the Fal-lan-tran on Vulcan near Mount Seleya. The secrets of Tral Katra were never revealed to offworlders, though many rumors existed about them. Some rumors held that the Tral Katra were enormous crystals which held the wisdom of Vulcan’s departed while others stories claimed that they were Vulcan priestesses who sat in yearlong meditations as they held the katra of thousands of dead Vulcans.

Ulann

The Ulann sect emphasizes the power of deeds over words by encouraging the members of the sect to participate in perfoming useful works along with their studies. As such, the Vulcan holiday of Kal Rekk was derived from the teachings of the sect.

The Monastery of Ulann was located in the Kir province in a hillside province by the Thanor Sea coastline. Monks of the Ulann order took a vow of silence and, in ancient times, operated a lighthouse which adjoined to the property in order to aid seafarers in need. Yet, by the modern era, the lower floors of the monastery were retooled to have a printing plant and computer datanodes which were employed to help disseminate information on both the teachings of Surak and the Ulann sect.

NOTE: Since articles in question refer to a number of modern sects in the past tense, sects with questionable state of existence has been denoted with an asteriks ( * ).

** May be another term for the Kolinahru or a sect within the Kolinahru

*** Majority of information taken from Last Unicorn RPG module: The Way of Kolinahr: The Vulcans

**** Whether or not it is truly a sect or a set of crystals was left up to the reader’s decision.

#knowledge from the high masters ( references )#Again under the cut because it's long as fuck

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anthonybialy · 5 years ago

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Broken China

China is less popular than the zombie plague they inflicted on the globe. The prototypically brutal cabal's biggest export is a virus, which should bring great shame to the 100 percent untrustworthy power that contains about 20 percent of people. A bordered inveterate liar decided to go the obnoxious route by blaming everyone else for their germ warfare, and you almost have to admire the boldness.

Who wants to deal with such jerks? Daring other nations to take their business elsewhere is a sign grouchy commies still don't grasp commerce. Take some of the ample alone time the disease-spreaders provided to call their bluff and illustrate how markets work. Give them a struggle session.

Purchasers get to consider everything about a product. Sometimes, there's a low price for a reason. China's de facto disposable products aren't the value they appear. The lack of cash deducted from debit card use isn't the only factor. Each transaction requires someone else willing to purchase, and there may be too much of a discount.

Free trade means the chance to decline. Chinese adversaries don't appreciate how liberty means pondering every option possible. Price is merely one consideration. Subway might put their horrifying animal feed in a roll on sale, but the coupon savings aren't enough to justify a lunch of sadness.

Smart shoppers turn their carts away from false economy. Bargains can get costly if a confrontational regime acts up on behalf of their appalling interests. Supply chain disruption is the downside of buying goods from an austere hellhole that quite aggressively bitches about wholly valid criticism. China thinks they're getting away with something by threatening to cut off the endless supply of cheap goods, and not just in the sense they're inexpensive. Totalitarian impulses can't contain a virus.

Decline to deal with rotten commies who attack anyone pointing out their putzing aggression. The juvenile desire to lash out at truth is particularly appalling from such an ancient civilization. Mao's descendants have done everything they can to live in the past. They're not mining simple wisdom from elders, either.

Aggression is the professional authoritarians' only skill, and they can only appear to be semi-skilled at that through overwhelming quantity. It’s too bad China can’t be as efficient at anything as they are at attacking those who notice cause and effect.

The virus makes certain people think it's prejudiced to point out a country is ruled by horrific tyrants who are as diabolical as they are inept. A useless evil regime rather obviously attempts to compensate for glaring inadequacies. It’s apparently now bigotry to dare note just where our globe's biggest present concern began and spread.

The only way to make today’s circumstances worse is to conflate being ruled by a monstrous cadre of putzing villains with the individuals forced to live under it. Those who think the biggest victims of a pandemic are aggrieved staffers at the Beijing branch of the Legion of Doom will be shocked to learn who the real racists were all along.

A contagious disease originated under totally not suspicious circumstances before it became the opposite of contained. The outbreak is a sadly perfect example of how central planners can only maintain the appearance of control for so long. Basic competence is the one thing that eludes sadists obsessed with controlling lives. The only consolation prize is showing that communists aren't even good at lying.

Trade's tricky because of how hard it is to find something that meets every factor. We're relying on what companies offer, which only seems infinite if you're bored and on Amazon.

Even a world of seemingly limitless options features some drawbacks. Why can't things be closer to free? I'm typing this on a MacBook that I'd prefer Apple would have found somewhere else to manufacture. But there's a balance to principles not yet being fully realized in a rather imperfect world. It's fine to collect Social Security after getting socked for it even if you think it's a horrid retirement plan.

We could try choosing to buy items from a country that hasn't committed the most murders in human history. Corpse piles are the one thing the virus hub is good at creating. The world's most populous country should feel true pride for its ability to eke out a little cash from the simplest assembling.

Churning out someone else's goods is a good start, sort of. The best case for limiting our stupid government to its proper role is what China does with its pocket change. A widespread disease offers an ideal time to stop selling debt to a schemer that can at best be classified as an antagonist.

Unlike paying people to bring us food to tables in their decorated spaces, there are some things we don't want to bring back. Complaining that America doesn't manufacture things anymore ignores our high-quality output. We can surely afford to find someone else to perform menial tasks.

Those who twitch while referring to globalism are upset about products made with skills so low that even communists can perform them. Trade frees up Americans to do more useful work. Of course, we could buy from non-China nations. Otherwise, find robots or penguins that have undergone three weeks of training to assemble our simplest goods.

China should just be starting to suffer virus effects. They're going to be shocked when customers go elsewhere. It’s time to make control freaks pay for not learning the lessons of open commerce.

This is the perfect time for a slightly less tyrannical nation to offer factory space and entry-level workers. China has never grasped the basics of competition despite their superficial moves toward exchange. Anyone who misses the outside should give the Middle Kingdom the middle finger.

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ciathyzareposts · 5 years ago

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10 Years of Commenters

When I started this blog in February 2010, I immediately found that I enjoyed the blogging process–enjoyed it enough, I thought, that I would continue to do it even if I didn’t seem to have many readers, or any. After all, people enjoy writing in diaries with no expectation of external approval, and my blog was, if nothing else, an ongoing diary.

10 years later, I can’t imagine the past decade without all of the readers who have commented along the way. I’m sure I’ve said this before somewhere, but I regard my commenters as co-bloggers. There have been plenty of times that the best information about a game, or the most unique perspective, was found not in my entries but in the comments. My commenters offer alternate perspectives, fill in gaps, solve mysteries, correct errors, answer questions, offer hints, and make connections that I often miss. They have individually gotten me past several blocks and collectively have guided the direction of the blog.

I’ve often felt bad that I’ve never done anything like The Adventure Gamer’s Companion Assist Points and its associated leaderboard, constantly recognizing commenters for their service. For a while, I had a plan to start scoring comments and creating such a leaderboard. It’s something that I might still do in the future, but I think it needs to be lower on my priority list than a few other blog-related tasks. For now, the best I can do is publicly recognize some of the people who have helped the most over the 10 years of blogging.

Before I get into the actual data, let me clear up a few things. First, I obviously cannot know for sure when two handles belong to the same individual, so some people may not appear on the lists by virtue of having their comments split. Second, because of the way I pulled the data, dates are somewhat approximate (and end on 12/13/2019). Finally, the totals refer to the number of entries commented upon rather than the sheer number of comments.

My 10 Most Prolific Commenters

I don’t confuse quality with quantity, and plenty of the best comments on my blog have been anonymous or one-offs from people we’ve never seen again. But I’m lucky enough on my blog to have generally high-quality commenters, and so quantity does equal a certain aggregate quality. These are the 10 individuals who have contributed comments to the highest number of entries over the lifetime of the blog. Without them, the blog would be a very different place.

I like and appreciate all of the individuals below, so if any of my teasing comes across as having an edge to it, that’s a fault of my prose rather than my intent.

10. UbAh. Comments on 325 entries between 11 May 2011 and 1 April 2018.

UbAh, whose name sounds like someone from Maine ordering a rideshare, was so prolific that he makes the top 10 even though he’s only commented once since July 2015. A lover of roguelikes and (like many of my readers) skilled at obscure technical things, his comments are usually short and of the amiable, supplementary sort–rarely controversial, never rude–although there was one memorable moment where he took down a blowhard and almost immediately regretted it.

9. Alexander Sebastian Schulz. Comments on 336 entries between 30 September 2013 and 21 May 2019.

Alexander joined me after reading an article in Der Spiegel. (Why did every newspaper and magazine want to interview me during the first year, when my project seemed insane, but no one has contacted me in the last 5 years?) His comments show a certain universalism–a willingness to find value in every culture and every thing–a value that I (perhaps wrongly) associate with continental Europeans of my era. Alexander is always ready with a compliment and a congratulations and generally agrees with me about the games that I like. He was a big help with the translation of some German titles. Finest moment: waxing philosophical on how the world of Fallout reflects the modern world.

8. VK. Comments on 336 entries between 13 January 2013 and 5 December 2019.

Russian VK is one of my several–and I mean this affectionately!–“RPG nerd” commenters–the small cadre of people who have probably played more RPGs than me, particularly in the 1990s period. He’s been my advanced scout on upcoming titles since his earliest comments (just a couple months ago, he warned me about some quirks in Challenge of the Five Realms), and he’s frequently there to make connections that I missed and to offer defenses of games that I panned. He’s not afraid to argue but doesn’t seem to get overly worked up about his arguments.

7. Harland. Comments on 386 entries between 19 October 2012 and 15 December 2019.

To meet his full potential, a writer needs both champions and critics, and thus for every Alexander Sebastian Schulz, it’s nice to have a Harland–someone who’s always there to tell me what I did or said wrong. But he’s also always there to swat spoilers, as well as commenters who start to grumble when I haven’t posted in a while. And for all his grumpiness, I know he likes my blog. Maybe had a tough childhood because his parents gave him an Intellivision. His recent absolutist rants are a somewhat newer thing.

6. Raifield. Comments on 486 entries between 5 April 2011 and 12 December 2019.

Raifield is always polite, useful, cheerful, and to the point. And while I’ve covered 350 games in 10 years, he’s managed to spend nearly that long on just three. I have this theory that the next Elder Scrolls game won’t be out until he’s finished with Skyrim.

5. PetrusOctavianus. Comments on 643 entries between 14 January 2011 and 12 December 2019

Blend the “RPG nerd” credentials of VK and the bite of Harland, and you have PetrusOctavianus, one of only two of the “Top 10” to have been with me since the first year. His count is artificially low because when I caught him saying some negative things about me on RPGCodex, I renamed his Secret of the Silver Blades character “Brutus,” and he commented under that name for a while. Sometimes I get the feeling that he follows my blog more as a professional courtesy than because he actually likes it. But despite his obsession over something he calls “level design” and certain words that he finds problematic, his comments are invaluable for one major reason: He knows RPGs better than anyone.

4. Zenic Reverie. Comments on 697 entries between 14 January 2012 and 15 November 2019.

My counterpart at The RPG Consoler, Zenic puts me to shame by being much more active on my blog than I am on his. (Then again, one might say that he is more active on my blog than he is on his.) Despite his name, he admirably does not push the toy versions of various games on me, but instead simply offers perspectives on how games changed or adapted in their console ports. He seems to like non-console and adventure games, too, and he was a big help with Xoru last year.

3. Tristan Gall. Comments on 856 entries between 8 August 2012 and 15 December 2019

I’ve never told Tristan this, but I think he’d be the person I’d be most comfortable turning The CRPG Addict over to if I ever had to abandon it permanently–like if I was dying or something. I’d trust him to keep the tone and intent, while of course farming out most of the actual writing. He engages with other commenters as conversationally as he does with me. He has my dry humor. When he agrees with me, he often makes the point better than I do; when he disagrees, he often changes my mind. If he hadn’t been so intent on being “right” in that argument on gambling probabilities, I’d probably put him in my will.

2. Kenny McCormick. Comments on 1,040 entries between 23 March 2012 and 8 February 2019.

Kenny hasn’t commented in almost a year, and I worry that we may have lost him. What will we do without the master of the single entendre, the prince of puns, the great User of Exclamation Points! Without him, sure, I won’t have to moderate things quite as much (“do all of your comments have to involve male genitalia in some way,” I once had to ask him), nor scratch my head quite as often, but the comments section will have lost a lot of its life. Some of my favorite moments are when I tee something up and he knocks it out of the park.

1. Canageek. Comments on 1,266 entries between 2 January 2011 and 18 August 2019.

Canageek: the one commenter that I feel like if I ever meet him in real life, I’ll know immediately that it’s him. One so regular that I once heard from him more often than my wife, although for the past three years (since he started dating one of the Nine Divines) he’s mostly relegated himself to random comments on games I finished ages ago. Though clearly very smart (he’s a chemist), he’s also so guileless than when I made an account called “MexiFriki,” he had no idea I was sending him up. I particularly appreciate the comments that come from his perspective as a dedicated tabletop RPG player.

Honorable mentions: Helm (318 entries in 9 years); Gnoman (297 entries in 5 years); Gerry Quinn (292 entries in 8 years); JJ (290 entries in 10 years); PK Thunder (288 entries in 6 years); Amy K. (239 entries in 3 years); Joe Pranevich (238 entries in 7 years); Buck (231 entries in 4 years); william (223 entries in 9 years–you were never a “gadfly,” buddy); Mikrakov (216 entries in 8 years); Petri R. (213 entries in 6 years); HunterZ (213 entries in 9 years).

My 5 Oldest Commenters

They might not comment very often, but these individuals have been around since the beginning and have all posted within the last year. (Note: I excluded a few people who used handles so generic, like “Brad” and “Robert,” that I could never be sure if it was the same people.) These are sorted by the number of days between their first and most recent comments:

5. mprod. First comment on 8 October 2010, most recent on 5 December 2019. 20 total.

4. Boroth. First comment on 5 August 2010, most recent on 8 October 2019. 105 total.

3. Adamantyr. First comment on 8 September 2010, most recent on 3 December 2019. 137 total.

2. Andy_Panthro. First comment on 13 August 2010, most recent on 8 December 2019. 130 total.

1. Cerdric. First comment on 21 February 2010, most recent on 21 September 2019. 18 entries total.

Honorable mentions who have all commented before my first anniversary and in 2019 or 2020: Eugene (79), Georges (176), Jason Dyer (181), Dungy (64), Alan Twelve (44), JJ (290), Reiko (62), Malkav11 (103), PetrusOctavianus (643), Moonmonster (14), tormodh (7), Kyle Haight (55), Bunyip (54), Giauz (94), trudodyr (90), HunterZ (203), Canageek (1266), william (223), Helm (318).

10 People Who Have Helped Behind the Scenes

These individuals may not have commented a lot, but they’ve done a lot of work to make my blog function. These are not sorted in any particular order, and I am deliberately excluding game developers who responded to my inquires or commented on my blog; they’re a subject for another entry.

Abalieno kept sending me fixes for my Amiga problems until I ran out of excuses not to play games on it.

Adamantyr has been behind every successful run I’ve made at a TI-99 or TRS-80 game.

Buck made it possible for me to (vicariously) “play” Drachen von Laas and to win Seven Horror‘s.

Bunyip and Gabor both read my entries shortly after I publish them and send me typos and other problems. So if you’re in the habit of reading my entries more than 24 hours after initial publication, you’re reading better versions because of their help.

Joe Pranevich worked out my collaborations with “The Adventure Gamer,” basically co-blogging about the Quest for Glory titles.

Lance M has made it his personal crusade to clear everything off my “Missing & Mysteries” list. He’s also alerted me to a lot of typos and maintains my entries on HowLongToBeat.com

Laszlo Benyi and Nleseul. These two made it possible for me to play The Dragon & Princess (1982), the first Japanese RPG, and Laszlo has continued to help with my Japanese since then, he also got me a working version of the C64 Realms of Darkness, and he’s sent me a lot of typos to fix on past entries.

Marc Campbell made a random name generating application in 2010 that I still use today, and he’s helped me with a few Japanese RPGs.

OldWowBastard offered the site’s first guest post. I thought it worked out reasonably well and I’m honestly not sure why I haven’t followed up with more.

Sebastian from Switzerland made me a logo for Gimlet Publications. I haven’t had a chance to use it yet, but it’s coming!

I’m sure I’ve missed one or more people who deserved to be recognized, for which I’m sorry. I value all my commenters, and I look forward to 10 more years of analyzing RPGs with you!

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/10-years-of-commenters/

#retro games #dos games #retro #crpg #adventure #amiga #oldcomputers #8bit #16bit #blog #repost

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recentanimenews · 5 years ago

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How HEYBOT! Broke All The Rules Of Shows Designed To Sell You Toys

There's something vaguely dishonest about kids cartoons designed to sell toys. It's not that these shows can't be good -- PreCure and Gundam are two hugely popular franchises even among adults for a reason -- but they always exist within the same specific framework: Advances happen not because they make sense from a character or narrative perspective, but because the merchandising department demands it. Sure, the Super Mega Robot turning into the Super Mega BLASTER Robot might have helped push the plot along, but it also helps to push more Super Mega Blaster Robot toys off the shelf.

And while adults might be able to see the manipulative aspects of these series, kids can't. All they see is how cool it looks, and that they could own it. The deception is such an ingrained part of this breed of show that it's hard to imagine what an upfront version of it might look like. Luckily, we don't have to, as HEYBOT! exists.

On a surface level, HEYBOT! is a show about Prince Nejiru, who is obsessed with something called Vocascrews (which are all available for sale) and his Vocabot partner Heybot (also available for sale) who loves a snack called Imochin (again for sale). Vocabots can use combos of Vocascrews to perform surreal gags based primarily around really bad puns (this is exactly what the toys do) which they use to compete. It's an ad for the merch in an unusually direct fashion, and it's not even slightly subtle about it - especially because the fourth wall doesn't exist. When other shows settle for showing you cool things that you just happen to be able to buy, HEYBOT! flat-out says, "Hey! This is a thing you can buy in real life! Isn't that neat?" Which is both shockingly blunt and strangely honest.

More importantly, though, the presentation of HEYBOT! is deliberately anarchic to the point of bordering on Dadaism. FLCL at its most frenetic might be the best mainstream comparison, but HEYBOT! never turns off, and it's got a lot more fart jokes and gross faces and awful puns to boot. Characters switch between iterations of themselves with little rhyme or reason. Background characters are bizarre monstrosities. References range from fairly mainstream (Evangelion, Your Name) to absolutely incomprehensible for a Japanese kid's cartoon (Terror at 30,000 Feet, The Shadow Over Innsmouth).

The lack of a fourth wall means it's virtually impossible to tell what's actually happening in-universe and what's only perceptible to the viewers. The last episode involves HEYBOT! getting canceled for being an atrocity and replaced by a boring, wholesome version of itself. It's nonsense, pure and simple -- 50 episodes of the creators throwing every dumb idea they had all the wall to see what stuck.

It doesn't even seem to want to sell you on the merch, honestly. In most shows, where the toys are in-show items (like Precure), the people using them are cool and admirable, the type a viewer would look up to and want to emulate. Not so for HEYBOT! Nejiru is lazy and entitled, and his fixation with screws comes across less as an Ash Ketchum "Gotta Catch 'Em All!" and more as some kind of bizarre fetish -- and not just because "screw" is a euphemism in English, it's clearly very deliberate. You do not want to be like Nejiru.

There's a whole cadre of secondary cast members who have vowed to supplant him as protagonist -- that's how bad he is. It's the same with Imochin -- despite it being the official tie-in snack, the degree to which Nejiru and Heybot stuff their faces with it swings past making it look delicious and on to being kind of disgusting. This is the heart of HEYBOT! -- it might be obliged to sell things, but it's going to go about it in the most chaotic way imaginable.

The best example of this might be the episode with Sofbit -- a soft vinyl version of Heybot that's smaller than the original and doesn't have moving parts. The moral winds up being "you don't have to be jealous of others, because there are people who will love you for what you are" if you're being generous, or "just cause the soft vinyl Heybot toy doesn't have as many features doesn't mean you shouldn't buy it" if you're not, but the way it gets there is absolutely wild for a kids cartoon. Sofbit attempts to murder the original by pushing him into a trash compactor and takes his place (Nejiru is incapable of telling the difference between them, because he is an idiot), only for Heybot to be saved by a group of knockoffs that gladly consign themselves to death. It ends with Heybot and Sofbit reconciling and declaring that all Heybots are genuine -- except the knockoffs, obviously.

Or maybe the best example is the introduction of the new shiny piece of merch, Awesome Fine Screw. Unlike most screws in the show, which are just solid pieces of plastic, Awesome Fine Screw talks, lights up, has buttons you can press, and apparently feels so amazing to get screwed by that there's an entire episode dedicated entirely to every major character trying to get him to stick it in. Because why settle for something being merely appealing in-universe when you could make everyone so obsessed with it that it gets kind of weird?

There are genuinely good merch-driven cartoons that manage to work within the assigned framework to create something thoughtful, earnest, and poignant -- Go! Princess Precure and Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans, for instance. HEYBOT!, on the other hand, can't be called "good" by any conventional meaning of the word. But it's also strangely brilliant -- rather than simply being a show made to sell toys, the show itself is an interrogation of the very concept of a show made to sell toys. The toys know they're toys and the characters know they're characters, so of course they wind up vying for screentime. The overblown, almost sarcastic way the toys and tie-ins are presented as desirable not only makes it perfectly clear that yes, this is an ad, but it might even serve as a deterrent to buying them.

After all, do you want to be like Nejiru, salivating over screws? Or Heybot, shoveling Imochin into his mouth? How about joining Awesome Fine Screw's harem? The mere idea of a show designed around getting kids to buy things is ridiculous, says HEYBOT! (which is totally available on Crunchyroll.) Let's see how ridiculous it can get.

Have you watched HEYBOT!? Did it make you want to eat Imochin or never go into another toy store in your life? Let us know in the comments!

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

(This post was written by Sinclair August)

By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

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how2to18 · 7 years ago

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THE WORD “millennial” was first pressed into service as a noun in 1991 by William Strauss and Neil Howe in their book, Generations: The History of America’s Future, 1584 to 2069. (Strauss had, by the time of the book’s publication already left an indelible mark on American culture: in 1981, he helped to found The Capitol Steps, the live performance troupe that delivers light political satire through mildly bawdy musical parodies drawn from the American songbook — e.g., “Papa’s Got a Brand-New Baghdad,” “Springtime for Liberals,” “Unzipping My Dooh Dah.”)

Strauss and Howe introduced the term in the context of a grand theory of generational archetypes and sociohistorical progress. (You have to go back to 1584, apparently, in order to truly appreciate how inexorably fated America was to become the greatest country in the world.) The millennial generation, they prophesied — those born between 1980 and 2000 — would come of age in a period of urgent social crisis that would require them to “unite into a heroic and achieving cadre of rising adults.” In 2000, they announced with a further flourish that millennials are “special, sheltered, confident, team-oriented, conventional, pressured, and achieving.” Today the nearly oppressive dominance of the term and the persistent reiteration of this profile they simply made up suggests that Strauss and Howe, to put it in language a millennial would understand, made “fetch” happen.

Nearly 20 years later, as the youngest millennials reach adulthood, we’re stuck with the stereotypes Strauss and Howe proffered, and not much else. Millennials are said to be a generation of tech-obsessed narcissists whose failure to match, much less exceed, our parents’ economic success is evidence of poor moral fiber. We think we’re special; we’re too sheltered; we’re too conventional; and we certainly aren’t achieving enough to warrant our wild overconfidence. (Full disclosure: I’m a millennial.) If that’s so, says Malcolm Harris, it certainly didn’t happen by accident. In his new book Kids These Days: Human Capital and the Making of Millennials, he warns that we ought to take the historical formation of this cohort seriously, because it represents a single point of failure for a society veering toward oligarchy and/or dystopia. We will either become “the first generation of true American fascists” or “the first generation of successful American revolutionaries.”

No pressure, though.

In November 2011, just as the Occupy Wall Street protests were winding down, two progressive think tanks jointly published a study called “The Economic State of Young America,” which reported that millennials were likely to be the first generation of Americans who were less economically successful than their parents had been. This news unleashed something between a moral panic and a national identity crisis, one that’s only sort of about the material conditions of millennials’ daily lives or the documented effects of growing wealth inequality on the health of our democracy. Someone or something, it seems, had killed the American dream: the idea not only that hard work will be rewarded with social mobility and economic prosperity, but also that justly earned wealth will grow exponentially across generations.

But who was to blame? Was the problem that millennials have failed to live up to the economic challenges that previous generations of Americans had always met, or was it that their parents and grandparents had failed to deliver them a world in which success was possible? Harris, for his part, thinks the answer is clear: “Every authority from moms to presidents told Millennials to accumulate as much human capital as we could and we did, but the market hasn’t held up its side of the bargain. What gives? And why did we make this bargain in the first place?” (Human capital, in Harris’s usage, refers to “the present value of a person’s future earnings”; “the ‘capital’ part of ‘human capital’ means that, when we use this term, we’re thinking of people as tools in a larger production process.”)

Harris’s thesis is simple: young people are doing more and getting less in a society that that has incentivized their labor with the promise of a fair shake, and that older generations are profiting handsomely from the breach of contract. He doesn’t express it this clearly, though, in part because he is hamstrung by the book’s framing, which is detrimental to his argument (for reasons I’ll explain later). But it also makes Kids These Days an interesting artifact in its own right. It reveals something about how badly we want to believe that we all belong to a bigger American story, and about how essential that belief is to the maintenance of a capitalist regime that maximizes our labor and diminishes our lives.

Some of the analysis in Kids These Days is pretty impressive. In the book’s first two chapters, Harris maps the effects of a hyper-capitalized youth control complex that formed, he argues, in the last two decades of the 20th century. At every level, Harris thinks, the American education system is either a workplace or a profit machine. The highlight of the book is its admirably lucid précis of higher education, the student debt crisis, and the institutional wealth accumulation it fuels. Harris makes clear that higher ed has become a debt machine that profits everyone except students. While outsourcing and labor casualization have cut expenses, price tags at four-year schools have jumped 200 percent or more, and administrators seem to have multiplied like gerbils: an increase wildly out of proportion to the rollback of public funding over the last 30 years. That’s where student loans come in. They represent over $100 billion a year in government funding to schools and, over time, huge returns for the feds. The $140 billion in federal student loans issued in 2014, Harris says, will eventually net a $25 billion profit.

The strength of this argument is that Harris doesn’t try to frame the analysis in the context of the millennial generation. While he briefly discusses the federal government’s failure to offer meaningful relief for loans in repayment — including the observation that the Obama administration’s vaunted reforms amounted to very little — he doesn’t say all that much about the experiences of millennial student debtors, or how they’re distinct from those of Generation X or other cohorts. One can certainly imagine how that piece comes into play without his indulging in the generational grandstanding that otherwise appears throughout the book.

Another chapter argues persuasively that primary and secondary education actually involves processes of labor capitalization we’ve simply cloaked in a “pedagogical mask.” In school, he says, “When students are working, what they’re working on is their own ability to work.” Childhood is “the time to accumulate the skills and abilities necessary to compete in a tough adult job market,” an “arms race that pits kids and their families against each other in an ever-escalating battle for a competitive edge” (e.g., a kid takes music lessons primarily because it will look good on a college application). We’ve obscured the labor arrangement and its deferred profits with the language of child and adolescent development, as when, for example, a school tells parents that they’re canceling the annual kindergarten show because, as Harris puts it, “These kids could not spare two days off from their regularly scheduled work […] The implication is that the very children themselves aren’t good enough without some serious improvements.” He backs these claims up with a lot of research on time use; between 1981 and 2003, for example, kids between the ages of six and eight spent 20 percent more time in school and recorded a 178 percent increase in time spent studying. The growing numbers of students taking Advanced Placement courses or applying to college are reflections of a surge in labor productivity. Harris also tacks on a qualitative examination of “helicopter parents and vigilante moms” in lieu of a less hysterical exploration of his observation that parenting has become risk management: family life has been hijacked by the demands of maximizing the system’s investments.

The rest of the book, unfortunately, is more hit-or-miss. A chapter on how the state profits from making young people into human capital exemplifies the problem. Harris’s brief discussions of high-stakes testing, juvenile policing, and the school-to-prison pipeline are squeezed in with a fairly anemic analysis of the likely collapse of the entitlement system. The latter is a complicated topic that requires a far greater mastery of its historical context than Harris can muster. (I’ll spare you my pedantic digression into the history of the AARP and the difference between Social Security employment benefits and Supplemental Security Income; you’re welcome.) Similarly, a chapter on the workplace would be stronger if it focused more on how young people are trained to do the now-compulsory affective labor demanded in virtually every sector of the workforce — or, as Harris puts it, in “[a]ny job it’s impossible to do while sobbing” — and less on how we feel about it. More seriously, Harris fails to consider the fact that women and girls are also forced to do the work of managing how and whether and to what degree we project and perform sexual availability. This is compulsory labor, particularly in the workplace. Refusing to do it leaves women economically vulnerable and raises the risk of sexual harassment, violence, and assault. So, sure, a lot of affective labor once thought as “female labor” is now assigned to people of all genders. But not all of it.

Kids These Days is also a very white book, in ways that it might not have been if not for Harris’s insistence on capturing the experience of a monolithic millennial cohort. To his credit, his discussion of education and the justice system does foreground the system’s racial disparities. “Despite the media’s efforts to get us to picture generic Millennials as white, black victims of [zero-tolerance school discipline policies and the like] are no less ‘Millennial’ than their white peers,” Harris writes; “in fact, insofar as they are closer to the changes in policing, they are more Millennial.” Reading this, I was reminded that Michael Brown, killed by police, and Trayvon Martin and Renisha McBride, killed by vigilantes, were all millennials. So is CeCe McDonald, who plead to second-degree manslaughter for acting in self-defense.

Harris also discusses sociologist Victor Rios’s concept of “dignity work,” or the work that low-income young people of color must do in order to stay clear of the ever-present law enforcement apparatus. However, this and a section on college sports are the only places he addresses race, or any of the other identities that differentiate the supposedly monolithic bloc of Americans born between 1980 and 2000. We know that structural inequality produces disparate outcomes between millennials of color and their white counterparts across the board, not just in terms of the former cohort’s explicit criminalization. For example, it’s true that millennials are accumulating wealth at a rate that lags far behind our parents. But the 2008 recession also increased the already present racial disparity in wealth accumulation in our parents’ generation and therefore in inherited wealth. And that isn’t really a “Occupy Generation” problem, but a multigenerational one (and not in the Strauss and Howe way).

Likewise Harris’s chapter on higher education might have delved into how the student debt crisis has played out for historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs) and their students, or referenced Tressie McMillan Cottom’s recent work on the growth of for-profit colleges, which she describes as institutions that “exclusively, by definition, rely on persistent inequalities as a business model.” Such intersectional analysis is especially imperative for a book that aspires to chronicle “the making of Millennials”; without it, the generational conceit strikes me as fairly useless.

Ultimately, though, the most frustrating thing about Kids These Days is how Harris keeps coming back to that broken promise framing, encapsulated in those blunt rhetorical questions quoted above: “[T]he market hasn’t held up its side of the bargain. What gives? And why did we make this bargain in the first place?” As a millennial might say, great questions. But the answer to the first has very little to do with millennials per se and everything to do with a set of historical and economic forces that lurched into operation long before 1980. The game was rigged from the start, and the prize was never real. The answer to the second taps into a much, much bigger and more important problem about how the deceptive rhetoric of the American dream fuels our exploitation, and prompts a third question: why are we so surprised we got scammed?

Let me take a shot at that one. I read with incredulity Harris’s suggestion that “[a] look at the evidence shows that the curve we’re on is not the one we’ve been told about, the one that bends toward justice.” He’s referring, of course, to Martin Luther King Jr.’s much-quoted maxim about the arc of the moral universe, which apparently conflicts with some unspecified “evidence” demonstrating that millennials have been denied their rightful economic and cultural inheritance. But conflating matters of moral justice with rising material success implies a frankly impoverished vision of, and for, American life. Nor does this strike me as a book that’s especially concerned with economic justice in more than a facile way, unless you’re of the “rising tide lifts all boats” school.

To be fair, it’s not like Harris is alone here. “We were promised something and we didn’t get it” is not just a millennial refrain: it’s a shared American delusion. But a dream is not an entitlement. The idea that entry into a stable middle class is some sort of American national birthright is ahistorical; that it ever seemed possible may prove to be epiphenomenal. The American middle class to which we were supposed to aspire was vanishingly short-lived, and it was certainly never uniformly accessible.

More importantly (hold my pamplemousse LaCroix while I blow your mind), it was never real in the first place. The seductions of the postwar prosperity narrative have obscured the fact its spoils were never firmly secured. Those stable manufacturing jobs had an expiration date from the outset: the restructuralization of the industrial work force began in the 1950s. Unionization was never a bulwark for the American worker. Yes, public-sector unions flourished, but that’s a different story; in the private sector, corporations embraced a model of employer beneficence and welfare provision because it limited the range of benefits negotiated under collective bargaining agreements and eroded the commitment of the rank-and-file. The regressive taxation schemes favored by Nixon’s so-called silent majority all but ensured that millennials would come of age to find a badly battered system of public education. Investing in the middle-class prosperity narrative as a normative expectation in American life — for American life — doesn’t make a ton of sense. I’m not sure it ever really did. The past 18 months have certainly shown that it animates electoral politics in ways that are fundamentally toxic and corrosive to our democracy. Why, then, have we bought it? Because this is a consumer society, and it was sold to us like a product. Millennials are just another market segment.

Which brings us back to William Strauss and Neil Howe. It’s not incidental to Harris’s story that Generations was published in 1991. Millennialism was quite useful in selling us on the idea that what was happening to young people was simply a necessary stage in America’s manifest destiny, and Harris, for all his supposed disillusionment, apparently still buys it. In his conclusion, Harris paints millennials as a renegade version of the generation of heroes that Strauss and Howe prophesied, the ones bearing a responsibility to bring us through some clarifying fire. “If we find ourselves without luck or bravery,” he writes, “I fear it will seem in retrospect like we never had a choice. But, to paraphrase Emerson, we’ll have all there is. And it is up to the Millennial cohort to make something else of what’s been made of us.” But maybe what we need — and this isn’t something we can do alone — is to let the American dream die so something new can be born.

No pressure, though.

Jacqui Shine is a writer and historian. She lives in Chicago.

The post Won’t Get Fooled Again: Malcolm Harris’s “Kids These Days: Human Capital and the Making of Millennials” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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topmixtrends · 7 years ago

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No pressure, though.

Jacqui Shine is a writer and historian. She lives in Chicago.

The post Won’t Get Fooled Again: Malcolm Harris’s “Kids These Days: Human Capital and the Making of Millennials” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2Bd3XZ2

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thelifeofascholar-blog1 · 8 years ago

Text

In which the Scholar Detests a Beverage

It is the lamentable fate of all as educated as I am, however few may fit that description, to grow weary of worldly pastimes. My colleagues at the position I held prior to my current sabbatical met weekly for an hour of squash, and invited me to join them, but within the first outing I was left firmly in the doldrums. Upon my recommendation that we leave the game behind in favor of some less Neanderthal pursuit, they resisted like the hacks I knew them to be. Certainly, expending one’s precious caloric energy on endeavors not conducive to the betterment of the mental self is tantamount to idiocy, and the onus is upon me to shine as an example to the idiots that surround me, even those that appropriate the appellation of ‘academic’. Of course I cannot waste even a second upon trivialities like physical recreation or exercise, except for that minimum necessitated by man’s evolutionary incompatibility with the sedentary lifestyle.

I rather prefer to spend my leisure time, of which I have overly much, on the continual development of expertise. I have long since mastered my original field of study, that of comparative literature, and I have grown so weary with it that I dare not discuss it further for fear of fatally yawning. Since then I have attained varying competencies in harpsichord performance, post-impressionism, cartography, gastronomy, astronomy, metaphysics, geophysics, geodes, haberdashing, marshmallows, and checkers, to name just a few. But not all fields are worthy of my time, a fact that, sadly, I may only discover after having wasted precious hours thereon.

Take, for example, oenology, or the study of wine, as it is known to the etymologically challenged. Many would have you believe that the field is a time-honored pursuit steeped in tradition and culture, but these deceivers omit the central truth of the matter: the only culture to be found in winebibbery is the culture of toxigenic yeast in each barrel of decay, and the only tradition is hedonism. The venom of the vine usurps its post as a reverenced libation by literally controlling the minds of its imbibers. Having a mind as singular as my own, I cannot risk the integrity nor the vitality thereof by joining into the cursed bacchanalia, no matter how ubiquitous it may seem.

In case you doubt my authority on the matter, I do not speak purely from conjecture when I denounce the consumption of fermented grape essence. Indeed, in my younger, more impressionable formative years (which were, owing to slings of outrageous fortune suffered by my dear old mother, a time of parsimony and want), I regarded wine as the hallmark of high society. I never considered myself worthy of partaking until the day I attained my doctoral honors, and with the degree, the promise of an adjunct professorship. The graduation itself was a lonesome one; Mother hadn’t the funds to travel to Paris, and besides, I suspect Father was too busy banging wrenches into pipes or some other such nonsense. I had given no time to the forging of friendships during my studies, for what self-respecting literary comparativist associates with adherents to the postwar American school—but I must stop myself before boredom takes me.

Suffice to say, I was alone that evening, and I thought, “Methinks no occasion more worthy than this could be.” A street-side café stood just down the rue from the university; I had passed by the place for years, and now thought to symbolically punctuate my presence in Paris by stopping there on my last night for a fine glass of Merlot. I entered the café still in my doctoral regalia, robe, hood, mortarboard, and all. I ordered the wine in English, having never mastered the French tongue, not for lack of ability but for lack of interest in learning the language of the world’s rudest culture. After stumbling over my order more than any person should while employed to take orders, the barkeep poured the glass and placed it upon the counter before me.

The trauma that followed, dear reader, I can hardly express. While the prospect of crossing the barrier into high culture excited me in unspeakable ways, I had a jarring sense of alarm. I couldn’t initially identify the source of my subconscious concern, but I raised the glass with caution. As it came within inches of my lips, my apprehension coalesced and became all-out horror: it was the smell of the stuff. I had smelled it before, not in a café in Paris, nor at a high-class dinner, nor at a wedding or reception. It was the smell of that ghastly American pastime of football, the smell of my father and his cadre of ignorami on the annual night of that infamous superlative Bowl. The odors were not identical, but there was that same caustic suffocation, like a cloud of poison and acquiescence and dreams deprived. My vision blurred; my hands shook; my balance faltered; I heard a crash that I failed to realize at the time was myself tumbling to the floor. I awoke to the barkeep and another café patron standing over me. There was a bruise on my shoulder where it struck the ground, and a deep red stain on my doctoral hood where the glass struck me. I now carried that odor in my very clothes, which I could not shed due to a lack of appropriate foresight in dressing myself that morning. It was, perhaps, my moment of second greatest ignominy, and the pain was amplified by a rather circuitous argument with the barkeep over the price of the wine and the broken glass. The only good that came of the experience was the appreciation I developed that night for a good hot evening bath.

On the subsequent flight back to America, I sat in quiet and mournful rumination. High culture, it seemed, was not the golden palace in which I had hoped to reside; rather, it was (to my then naïve eyes) a façade, a whited sepulcher, an unsweetened rainbow. I alternated in my mind between rejecting it outright and fearing that perhaps (perish the thought!) I was not worthy of it. I reasoned, however, (and I reason exceptionally well) that a truly cultured individual is no less cultured whilst wearing a t-shirt, and a simpleton is no less simple whilst imbibing of the most expensive wine. It was clear to me: I could be better than the dilettantes. I could partake of the yet unsullied elements of high society, yet remain unseduced by its intoxicant of choice.

Nevertheless, the draw of the vile nectar is strong, even to one with my will. In the years following our first encounter, my guard against the stuff gradually began to fall. It was difficult to think ill of the beverage when even the colleagues I most admired served it at their social engagements. (I add, out of necessity, that I use the term “admire” rather loosely in this context; precious few have earned the honor of my true admiration, and none were colleagues. The best I had for the latter was a comparatively mild distaste.) In time, and across too many forced appearances at the receptions and soirees of those who would desire my friendship, I grew accustomed to the wafting musk of the alcohol, even observing that it contained a note of sophistication absent from my father’s barley rot. Little by little, my resolve weakened.

Thus when I happened upon an invitation to a wine-tasting a year ago, I chose to lay my curiosity to rest. I regretted not having more time to study the art of the sommelier before the event; my colleagues, in a characteristic lapse of social graces, had forgotten to invite me directly, and I only found out a day prior. As it happened, I only had time to develop a cursory understanding of the distinctions of regional provenance and grape variety, canonical meal pairings, serving temperatures, and historical origins of several common varieties. I nearly balked for fear of being labeled a Joe Sixpack; what if I couldn’t distinguish a Pinot Noir from a Sangiovese? Steeling myself against these fears, however, I reasoned that the doltish rabble I expected to see there would do no better.

My manservant, Chip, drove me to the event. He, being more experienced than myself in the consumption of alcohol (indeed, more experienced than any person not lacking in moral integrity could be), offered to accompany me. I turned him away, however, reminding him that the event was for the sipping of wine, not guzzling. He pressed, but I insisted, and away he reluctantly went, with instructions to retrieve me in one hour’s time.

The event was outdoors, and upon seeing how it was arrayed, I could tell that my fears were unfounded. My colleagues and the other unknown and unworthy of being known attendants were grossly underdressed for the occasion, wearing no more than slacks and button-down shirts with loafers. They might have been more at home in a common pornographic theater. I stood in stark and wonderful contrast in my tailed tuxedo under the afternoon sun, and all stared at me in veneration. The wine itself sat in glasses upon several tables in a gazebo, the glasses in an arrangement apparently calculated to drive the obsessive-compulsive to insanity. So emboldened was I by the miscalculated informality of the tasting, however, that I did not even point out the flawed glass arrangement to the help. Instead, I simply approached a glass of red, removed a white glove, and asked, “Mightn’t I?”

Nobody responded, I suppose because the servers were currently pouring glasses at the other end of the gazebo. I availed myself and drew up the glass. Hesitation momentarily paralyzed me, as my mind returned to Paris and that cursed glass of Merlot, but I overcame it by recalling the tasting process.

The first step was to note the color. Well, it was red. I was sure the nuances would come with practice. Next, I swirled the wine. I sought the legs, the streaks on the side of the glass of which I had read, but saw nothing. Perhaps I had missed them, or perhaps not. Again, I supposed expertise would come with practice. Following that was the step I most feared: sniffing the bouquet. It was this, though at that time inadvertently, that had floored me so many years ago. I raised the glass to my nose with the utmost caution and wafted with my other, still begloved hand. Again, the distinctive image of Father invaded my thoughts, with a bottle in hand, jovially lobbing his opinions at the remedial hulks throwing balls at each on a television screen. This time, however, I retained my consciousness. I attempted to sense anything else in the odor, and failing, saw my intact equilibrium as progress enough.

Finally, it was time to sip. After examining the red potable for a moment longer, I took a long breath and placed the glass to my lips. Horror of horrors! I can scarcely name a sensation more revolting than what I felt the moment that abhorrent fluid touched my tongue. Before my mind could process what I had just done, I felt a spasm begin in my netherest regions, traveling, rippling through my torso into my throat. The vomit came suddenly and quickly, overfilling my wine glass with half-digested truffles and oat cereal. Where there had been subdued chatter from the tasting participants and provisioners of the poison, there was now only the wind and the occasional birdsong. All looked upon me as before, but now I saw only shock and disgust in their eyes. Prematurely expelled foodstuffs ran down my sleeve, coating my shirt cuffs and the arm of my tuxedo jacket. I felt I had to say something, and I feebly attempted to appeal to my normally rapier wit. “What’s all the fuss with this wine about?”

And only then, with glass full of and arm covered with the contents of my stomach, as I processed the words I had just said, did I realize an even greater error. I had ended a sentence with a preposition! It was, perhaps, my moment of greatest ignominy.

I cannot to this day describe in detail the flavor of the filth that had provoked the violent reaction heretofore laid out. Clearly, the intoxication from even that first sip had impaired my faculties, preventing long term memory retention and turning me into a dithering blunderpot. I simply recall it as a moment of horror, of paralysis, of irretrievable discomfiture. After revealing my diet and committing that fatal grammatical error, I couldn’t face the mocking stares. As servers cleared away the other wine glasses caught in the bilious overspray, I took my leave from the dismal festivities and waited in mirthless contemplation for Chip’s return. As I had not the pecuniary luxury of affording a cellular device, I paged him every several minutes, but he forced me to stand for the full hour term I had originally requested.

When he finally arrived, I upbraided him severely for his delay and forbade him from speaking on the way home. I gazed out of the window in lamentation over the events of the day. The pretenders to enlightenment were still visible in the gazebo, having a debaucherous time. They held up their glasses to a toast while I pondered on how mankind could have arrived at such a sorry state, when what glitters may very well may be gilded excrement. I shed a tear for the state of affairs. I shed a tear for my own damaged psyche. I shed a tear for each culturally lost soul at the tasting as the gazebo vanished behind a wall of trees. “The poor fools,” I said. I then wiped away my tears and looked forward to the bath that awaited me at home.

#wine #super bowl #beer #imbibe #graduation #wine tasting #grammar #epsom salts #sophistication #dilettantes #tuxedo #squash #paris #france #merlot #oenology

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