#most sincerely; crispin.

[outlying-hyppocrate]

Dearest Crispin:

I come to you with delightful news! I have possibly found a method in order to manually force Valerie into the mental steering wheel, so to speak. I won't go into the details but it does mean more consistent ramblings and a little less correspondence through notes and middlemen, so (if you don't have any issues with that sort of thing) expect a little less of the latter and a touch more for the former.

Kindly regards, Valerie

dearest valerie,

[v3lvieraven]

Crispin x [reader]

Note- this was requested in messages <3

You were a regular at the kitty cat cafe. The first time he actually talked with you was when he saw your clown keychain and phone case. He actually just stared at you for like five minutes straight until he came up to you.

“Hey… uh… where did you get that?”

He points to your keychain with an embarrassed look. You chuckle and explain to him that you actually make them! He was utterly infatuated that point on. When you saw his eyes light up you decide to give him your phone number, a goofy smile on his face as you leave. He didn’t want to seem desperate but he really wanted to talk to you soon, so he ended up just sending a simple text.

When you guys started to hangout, he NEVER allowed you to go home with him, his brothers were a lot to handle and he was a bit afraid. He’s told them great things about you though, and they know he has a crush because he isn’t exactly discreet. It’s actually quite funny because Howell and Wesley both helped him ask you out (in their own unique way). Wesley distracted him with a clownfish and Wallace stole Crispins phone. When he opens it he almost screams because YOU GUYS LITERALLY HAVE MATCHING PFPS?? After the deed is done, Howell sneaks the phone back into his pocket.

The next time crispin texts you (literally four minutes later) he sees “his” confession.

“Uh I like you a lot. Will you be my clown in crime?” Which is the most cheesy thing Howell ever thought of. The part that shocked him most though was the fact you said yes. He was sincerely debating on hitting Howell and Wesley with a bat or hugging them both.

So the first time he brings you home, Howell absolutely judges everything about you. Crispin punches him in the gut and storms into his room with you over his shoulder. The rest of the siblings are pretty chill with you, deckard likes cooking with you, and Cas enjoys her brother having someone who isn’t trying to punch her every minute.

He’s whiney and needy, very affectionate and likes making you little gifts. He won’t move in with you for a long long time but you practically live with them anyways so there’s no need. That’s until you actually move in with him, that’s when he realizes how attached he actually is to you. He realizes he actually loves all the weird nicknames you give him, and how you sass Howell back. He finds it weird whenever he wakes up to find you not next to him. He’s kinda a house husband except for the mechanics shop.

[sabertoothwhat]

The Cabinet of Curiosities' adaptation of Pickman's Model pretty clearly does not believe the original story can be stretched out into an hour (probably correct, honestly). The problem is that instead of trying to build on the source material, the show chooses to bolt on a completely unrelated concept, while still keeping the original twist. Like, this can either be a story about a painter of disturbing creatures who turns out to be using real references, or it can be a story about some cursed paintings. Trying to do both at the same time means they just undercut each other. Be honest with me, if you weren't already familiar with the original story, would Thurber picking up the photograph in the cellar even register to you? Or would you just assume Pickman's paintings were summoning monsters somehow?

Speaking of Thurber, this creates a pitfall for his character because it hinges on the original twist. Instead of having him be Pickman's supporter until he sees the photograph, the show has him turn on Pickman at the 10 minute mark which means we get 50 minutes of him whining about cursed paintings. No buildup, no change. And no, throwing in a time skip and some veiled references to his alcoholism and failed artistic endeavors does not help.

And since no discussion of this episode would be complete without mentioning Crispin Glover's crazy fucking accent: it is the most sincere recreation of Lovecraft's phonetic New England dialogue I've ever heard, 10/10. Out of respect for his commitment, I will ignore the fact that Pickman definitely doesn't talk like that in the story.

[infjtarot]

Judgement. Weiser Waite Smith Tarot

Jesus returns to Earth to judge the living and the dead. The dead rise from their graves, their bodily integrity restored. An angel of the Lord sounds a trumpet in the sky.

While certainly there are religious overtones to the name of the card and its imagery, religious feeling is not necessary to interpret the card. Most religions, from Egyptian to Christian, have had some sort of mechanism for judgment after life, and this merely mimics the idea. It is an accounting of your mistakes and the damage you have done, and a call for you to make amends. Judgment is at number twenty. How many of the world’s artists were terrible people? Oh, so many. The American writer Gertrude Stein was a Vichy France collaborator. French novelist Louis-Ferdinand Céline was a full-on Nazi. Arthur Koestler, the Hungarian-born writer, was a rapist. Legendary jazz trumpeter Miles Davis beat his wives, Michelangelo da Caravaggio, an Italian painter in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, was a murderer. And on and on. How many of them were able to fully understand and atone for their mistakes? Hardly any. I can think of one, though. Romania’s Emil Cioran, one of the greatest philosophers of the twentieth century, fell under the sway of the Nazis when they first rose to power. He got a little too swept up by their rhetoric of strength and power; a little too starry-eyed in regard to the control and order they brought to their country. Many intellectuals and thinkers, from Knut Hamsun to Martin Heidegger, fell under the same spell—the exact people who should have known better. Eventually Cioran was able to see the error in his thinking, and he used that mistake to think through a new round of philosophical thought. He atoned through philosophy. He was one of the few. That is the feeling of Judgment. The need for absolution. The subject on the card here is the return of Jesus Christ to earth to judge the living and the dead. But to believe in that, we’d need to believe in the concept of sin, and we’re beyond that, you and me. Still, the sensation is useful to us: this idea of judging your past wrongs, dealing with the ramifications, and making amends. Probably you don’t have Nazi worship in your past, but there are all sorts of other ways we hurt others and go wrong in our thinking.

Judgment is a difficult task, but it offers a karmic restart. In order to progress as people, or through a project, first we must find the moment that progress has stalled. There we will usually find an error. Instead of dealing with our misjudgments and the moments we were at our worst, we often just pile other things on top of them in the hopes they’ll go away. That time we betrayed a friend and caused her serious harm? We don’t talk about it or think about it; in fact, we don’t really even see that friend anymore.

It is a bit like the Alcoholics Anonymous idea of making amends by going through your past, and expressing ruthless honesty and sincere remorse. This card doesn’t necessarily have to do with your personal life; it could be a problem with your project that you are refusing to acknowledge and for which you are now just trying to compensate. Maybe you stole a part of someone else’s work? Maybe you took credit for something you did not do? Maybe you willfully hurt someone with your portrayal of him or her? Come clean. Make amends. It might not be a comfortable card, but Judgment does offer a new beginning. A life after death. But it’s a card that knows that in order to be reborn, you must die first. RECOMMENDED MATERIALS The New Gods, book by Emil Cioran The Cantos, epic poem by Ezra Pound Don Giovanni, opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Jessa Crispin

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

HELLO AGAIN: IT IS I, THE BUTTHOLE ENTHUSIAST.

Now, you've told us all about Aemond's pristine, silver-sheened balloon knot (that NEVER shits obviously, what a peasant thing to do). But what I need to know - with the yearning of a thousand suns, mind you - is centred around our favourite old coot with the ass that won't quit.

What is Daemon Targaryen's asshole like?

Firstly, does he shit? Does he smush that daddy dumper onto the privy hole, spread those enormous cheeks and sigh with sweet release as he pushes that almighty turd outta his cocoa canyon? Secondly, what does this perfect man's equally perfect chocolate starfish look like? Is it perfectly wrinkly to match his saggy GILF ballsack? Does it have those gorgeous silver curls encrusted of course with stray crud from his lordly logs? Is he partial to having that asspussy eaten like it's the last meal his plebian partner will ever eat? Tell me everything.

Sincerely, the Representative from DAWC

(Daemon's Ass Worshipping Cult)

I've had to make my way through this ask in stages. Every time I read a sentence I have to walk away to clutch my chest and stomach while my body is wracked by uncontrollable laughter. My throat hurts, my lungs hurt and my cheeks are sore. This in particular fucking winded me for a good five minutes:

Does he smush that daddy dumper onto the privy hole, spread those enormous cheeks and sigh with sweet release as he pushes that almighty turd outta his cocoa canyon?

Anyway, onwards to Daemon's asshole...

We'll address the most important issue first and that is that yes, Daemon does shit. Daemon does not possess that pristine facade that Aemond does, he is a man of depravity. Daemon not only shits, but he enjoys the act itself. If he's indulged in a particularly large meal the night before, he'll take a book or a scroll in with him, smush that juicy dumper around the privy hole and just make a fucking day of it. He especially enjoys making other people uncomfortable with his toilet exploits. Let's say, for instance, Ser Criston Cole is waiting to use the privy while Daemon is in there. This no fucks to give dom daddy will come out after he's had brown down, clap Criston on the back and say "I'd give it 5 minutes if I were you, Ser Crispin" while looking smug as fuck and dramatically wafting whatever reading material he's chosen to take in with him. What a hero.

Daemon's balloon knot is an abundance of wrinkles, that match his saggy old coot nutsack. This hole has seen some shit, quite literally. It has spent a life time pushing out the remnants of rich foods, had a myriad of whore tongues swipe across it and the occasional finger inserted, so it's well used. He's not loose by any means though - his farts still sound tight enough to know his anus is far from being a windsock. It's probably that weird brownish colour that old men's dick and balls seem to turn as they get older.

Daemon's ringpiece is has a few stray brown pubes around it (his carpet doesn't match the drapes), but they are dangleberry free - he ensures that the servants responsible for cleaning him up once he's finished dumping up the privy do a thorough job.

He is partial to anilingus. He'll be more vocal about it if his partner finds it squicky and uncomfortable, as he gets off on the power dynamic and taboo of having such an area serviced. On the other hand, if his partner is super into it and chowing down on his hole like it's a bowl of pudding then he'll let slip the occasional curse word while he pounds his cock like it owes him money.

I hope you have found my answer to be informative.

Give yourself a pat on the back if you've made it this far.

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s MateChapter 15

Gin was following like water as was male attention. Jaskier had placed her in front of him as he pranced around the stage he had made in front of the fire. It allowed him to serenade her with sweet song and have an overexcited member of the audience to crowd cheering. The soft siren-like voice eased her into a good mood.

Adva had to admit the bard was very good, there was a clumsy awkwardness to his lyrics, but they words fitted well in the theme of the song and with Jaskier overall character which made him a sensation. It was nice to be able to listen to him properly on the stage where he seems most at ease and confident. Adva had to admit it, she like Jaskier, his eternal boyishness was endearing, and his company was easy and fun, and he had a very good eye for fashion. Looking down, Adva was beginning to enjoy the dress she wore, the colour was very much suited to her, and despite her lack of confidence in her body, the dress emphasised her curves and softness. Many men and women had complimented her on her fashion, and she let herself be cheered by it. For once it was nice to be the centre of attention, and after all, it was only for one night to help Jaskier and to get away from Geralt.

Adva’s mind was distracted from the hulking Witcher when sauve and polished man approached. With all the civility of a knight honouring a fair maiden the man begged to keep her company.  He introduced himself as Earl Crispin Troyden, leaning against the chair with an easy smile. The Earl wore a silk doublet of a quilted design of a rich purple his jewelry dazzled in the firelight. The richest opals she had ever seen, so blue she could almost see the deep of the sea in them and hear the soft roar of the waves. Brown eyes radiated out from a chiselled face with a disarming smile that warmed the room as he observed her gaze with interest. With a soft giggle she forced her gaze away from the beautiful gems and on the bard instead.

‘Your friend, the bard, is very talented.... What brings you to the quiet hamlet?’ Crispin asked gently as he poured her some water, and called a serving boy to bring them some food and drinks. The smell of strawberry and rhubarb made her heady, and all shyness had melted away.

‘I am…taking instruction from a master, yourself? Adva answered she didn’t know why but wasn’t really comfortable discussing her training with the Mage to a stranger. There was something unsettling about the man, not in his manner or actions but in his eyes. They where bottomless, and of a captivating intensity that gave her an immense feeling of comfort. Yet they made her uncomfortable and wish she was staring into golden orbs instead.

‘Education is important. So many young women don’t care about such things; they keep their knowledge based solely on the home and fashion when there is so much more to try. I am here to browse some more books to add to my library collection’ the man smoothly added as he lifted his goblet to his lips. Breathing the smell of books and candle wax deeply invaded her senses, it was oddly comforting within soft undertones of musk and sea salt. The smell remaindered of the gentle ocean breeze that would roll off the dock on a sunny day. Despite its soothing nature, it didn’t very little compared to the of the spiced scent of Geralt, who smell she could drink in for days upon end.

‘You have a library? Tell me about it’ Adva gasped, the gin still flowing through her head.

Over dinner, the man regaled her about his library, the titles the authors. They discussed the finer points of several novelists and books on nature that Adva herself was aware of, it was nice to chat to someone who seemed genuinely interested in her for her not what she could do for them. Crispin even invited her to visit and use his collection to further her studies.

‘And you have no formal education; I find that hard to believe’ Crispin smiled as he poured her another cup of gin.

‘Never, I would just pick up anything and read.’ Adva laughed as she took another sip of gin. Was this her sixth or seventh cup or was it her tenth, she had lost count seven songs ago.

‘So your patron is very lucky to have awarded with such diligence. He must be very proud.’ Crispin causal commented, leaning back in his seat to fully observe her, something glistening darkly in his eyes.

‘It is hard to tell he is very…steely faced. Most of the time I think he helped me find Triss because he took pity on me’ Adva confessed, taking another sin of the fizzy gin.

‘Your Triss’s new student…then you must be very bright. I have known her for many years; the first time I have ever heard her take on a student. Don’t sell yourself short.’ The man cooed.

A small blush crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. When the meal was done, Crispin excused himself reluctantly to attend to business but not before he paid and left a generous tip for the meal; and gave a generous handful to the singing bard and shooting her a dazzling smile. The Earl didn’t go far; his meeting was only across the room with two older gentlemen in fine clothing. Now and then he would cast her a smothering look that made her turn a look away; he was very captivating. Intelligent and kind.

‘Seems you had found a suitable beau’ Jaskier purred and he slipped into the seat opposite that was vacate and pour the Earls handful of gold coin into his purse till it was ready to split at the seams. ‘If he attends all of my performance, I will be able to return to a little city holding and start publishing my collection of poems.’ Jaskier ordered his meal and paid with a flourish as he sank a tankard of ale.

‘If it isn’t my little brie lover’ The Cheesemonger mocked as he sauntered to the table. ‘I thought we were supposed to meet?’ the Cheesemonger was not bad looking but had a thin hooked nose from which he seemed to look down on everyone. It gave him a proud and arrogant appearance which he seems to like to live up to.

Rolling her eyes, she took another swig of gin; this on was mixed with rhubarb cordial and something fizzy that cause little bubbles to explode against her throat as she swallowed. Settling her cup in front of her she squared her shoulders as she turned to him.‘Look Smiggle; I have no idea what you are talking about…I don’t want to talk right now…I am enjoying an evening with someone.’ Adva smiled.

‘No-no-no. The Mage told me you desperately wanted to meet me in the tavern.’

Jaskier smiled into his cup. It was working; all he needed to was to keep a straight face and wait. Casting his eyes across him, Adva stared confused up at the rat-faced man and did her best to ignore it. The gin was giving her the confidence to try and ignore his constant demands; it seemed with gin all manners went out the window, replacing the quiet girl with a bemused woman. Jaskier watch with a masterful nonchalantness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar figure lurking in a dark corner. Triss was right, after all, a surge of triumph roared within him, and he readied himself to fulfil his part.

‘Must be some confusion good cheese seller’ Jaskier sung. ‘She is already married to a lovely kind man who provides her with an excellent education and has a very with a large sword’ he winked at her ‘so she is good.’ Jaskier beamed up at him, shooing him away with his hand.

‘Married? Bah! Do you expect me to believe it is to you! For the past few weeks, I have only seen her with that Mage and some one-hit Jester who I very much doubt has a ‘large sword’, but I am sure he provides her with more than an education’ The man snarled haughtily, and he bent down to glare into Jaskier face. From the other side of the table, Adva could smell the stale smell of brandy, and the fistful of betting slips tucked into his pockets, all torn and rip, properly from a very unsuccessful night betting with some high rollers. Misery and self-pity fuel the man blindly as he started to jab Jaskier doublet hard with his slimy finger. Casting her eye about she saw Crispin stare amusingly at Jaskier with a hint curiosity.

‘Firstly, it is pronounced Jaskier, Sir. And secondly, I never said I was her husband that is her husband.’ The bard cheekily declared, winking at her.

‘Jaskier stops it; enough I am not married. He is just drunk he’ll….’ Adva groaned in annoyance but stopped as a deadly hush fell over the tavern.

A large black shadow fell over the two men, and Jaskier looked over the other man shoulder smugly. Geralt stood in his undershirt with his sword in hand as he glared down. Adva gasped, she couldn’t help it. Geralt eyes were almost all black like a man possessed. Stood to his full height, the cheese seller barely came to mid chest.

‘See even the lady denies it…just because…’ The cheesemonger breath caught in his throat as he turned and cranked his neck as far back as he could to see the ominous Witcher hunching over him. ‘Are you propositioning my wife?’ Geralt low grunt trickled down the man's neck as he towered over the scrawny man.

Turning around sharply, the small man jumped back in fear, ‘Your…your Geralt of Rivia…. The Witcher…Butcher of Blaviken…I am sorry…I didn’t. I didn’t know that Witcher could get married. She said she…She led me on…’ The man's petty excuses died on his lip, as the Witcher stared unwaveringly at the man.

‘Get up we are leaving’ Geralt growled his eyes following the man who back out the room.

Adva made no move to leave. Instead, she folded her arms and scooted herself around the table. ‘No thank you Geralt I am spending the evening in the tavern.’

Geralt eyes slowly trailed down to her face, letting his dark eyes drink in her defiant feature. Adva stared up at him for what seemed like an age; she was taken about how feral he looked still. Hair wild and menacing sword glistening sincerely in his hand. The Witcher said nothing but his malted golden eye swirled with angry, body tense, a wave of power rippled from him.

‘Adva, are you okay? Is this man causing a problem?’Crispin cut in, eyeing the bard and the Witcher respectively.

‘Who the fuck is this?’Geralt glanced back over at the woman and did a double-take final taking in her form. Her breasts were pushed high up and spilt over the top of the bust, with her breath they flutter gently. Tight and fitted cut left nothing to the imagination ‘and what the fuck are you wearing?’ Geralt snapped and pulled a cloak from the back of Jaskier chair and flung it around her.

‘Geralt stop’ Adva stood and pushed the cloak off her.

‘I think you are making the lady uncomfortable, how a respectable lady dresses has nothing to do with you and I would appreciate it if you didn’t swear when a lady was present. Respectable men don’t.’ The Earl bite out, taking a step closer.

‘Or what’ The white wolf goaded as he advanced on the man.

‘Geralt….Stop it’ Adva push between the men, lips pressed into a tight line.

‘I said we are leaving,’ Geralt growled not taking his eyes off the other man, but a hand curled around her arm and pulled her behind him.

‘Or I will be a force to place the lady under my protection.’ Crispin stood toe to toe as they stared off at each other.

Even at full height, Crispin was still barley 6ft to Geratl massive 6ft 5. Jaskier was scribbling furiously into his journal and gazed a shrug as Adva glared desperately at him for help. She had seen the Witcher in action, and even without a sword, he could easily thrash Crispin without blinking.

‘Adva is under my protection, and if you so much as look at her again, I am going to cut you in two.’ Geralt spoke in deadly calm.

‘My duty is to keep defenceless women safe…I; therefore, place Lady Adva….’ Crispin fell to the floor mid-sentence. Geralt gave a growl in approval pulling back his fist before slinging her over his shoulder and matched from the tavern, ignoring the burst of chatter bubbled as he slammed the door behind him.

So what do you think? Thank you so much for all the pet name ideas! I have a very good idea what is going to happen next. But some of the characters are refusing to cooperate *face palms* But I have up to chapter 22 all planned out.

If you wished to be tagged please message me :)  Please leave a comment.

@broco8​ @introvertedmouse​ @threepupsinapuddle​ @shesthelastjedi​ @luxyash​ @wonderlandfandomkingdom​ @crazynocturnalkiki​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @whitespring21​

[kidlit]

The Important Thing About Margaret Wise Brown

Text by Mac Barnett, Art by Sarah Jacoby

I read a lot of children’s books. I read them published and unpublished, digital and physical, borrowed and bought. Most of the time I can (fairly accurately) judge a book by its cover, jacket copy, and a quick flip through the interior. The contents typically deliver on the promise set out by these parameters. 

Every now and then, my expectations are thrown. Sometimes delightfully, sometimes disappointingly so. 

I’ll let you guess which side this book came down on.

Margaret Wise Brown, first of all, is best known as the author of Goodnight Moon. This is an illustrated biography her life. But it’s so much more than a stodgy, stuffy, boring recounting of an adult’s life for kids. It’s so much better than a didactic, heavy-handed, moral-centric kid’s book *really* written for adults.

Author Mac Barnett succeeds, with this book, at something a lot of children’s authors strive for: a meta, nuanced, completely original, direct conversation with the reader. [And a nice tip of the hat to Brown’s The Important Book, one of my all-time faves.]

It starts, delightfully, with this line: “Maraget Wise Brown lived for 42 years. This book is 42 pages long. You can’t fit somebody’s life into 42 pages, so I am just going to tell you some important things.” 

And imagine this: the things Barnett focusses on are things kids might actually be interested in about an adult they don’t know! Things like “What colour was her hair? (Golden, the color of timothy hay.) “Did she have a dog?” (She had lots.) “What was her favorite dog’s name?” (His name was Crispin’s Crispian.) “Was he a good boy?” (She thought so, but he bit lots of people.)

This light touch is paired perfectly with the rather philosophical notion of the book. Namely: there are always going to be some people who disagree with what you’re doing, but you shouldn’t let that stop you. 

“No good book is loved by everyone, and any good book is bound to bother somebody. Because every good book is at least a little bit strange, and there are some people who do not like strange things in their worlds.”

Lots of people thought Margaret Wise Brown was odd. She had an affinity for rabbit fur and swam naked in cold water. With her first royalty cheque she bought hundreds of flowers from a cart on the street, decorated her house with them, and then threw a party.

It wasn’t just readers and reviewers who thought Margaret was strange. Well-respected librarians of the day disliked Margaret’s books and refused to stock them. Specifically Anne Carroll Moore, children’s librarian at the New York Public Library and staunch critic of any book for kids that wasn’t “sensible” and “moral.” 

You know...stuff kids love!

Barnett is careful to not bash Moore outright, but does gently point out that just because she didn’t like certain things in her books, it didn’t make those books bad.

To illustrate his point about marching to your own beat, Barnett gives the example of talks a tea party that was hosted at the library one afternoon, attended by authors, illustrators, and librarians (including Anne Carroll Moore). He describes how Margaret and her editor, the legendary Ursula Nordstrom, weren’t allowed inside. 

So they plopped down the steps and had their own tea party. Iconic, tbh.

The ending, as promised on page 42, is poignant about Margaret’s untimely death:

Lives are strange. And there are people who do not like strange stories, especially in books for children. 

But sometimes you find a book that feels as strange as life does. 

These books feel true. 

These books are important. 

Margaret Wise Brown wrote books like this, and she wrote them for children, because she believed children deserve important books.

A lovely, heartfelt, warm, sincere, odd, unexpected, delightful book about a woman who was all of those things and more. I highly recommend this one!

Buy it (in Canada) here >

[outlying-hyppocrate]

Dear Crispin: (A warning in advance as this will be long)

I write to you now at the edge of my consciousness, my body in a fugue state of transitional absentmindedness. Before long I will likely assume a different state, and as consequence lose my creative drive and passion for a short time. This is to say that I sympathise with your artist’s block, as something not so dissimilar blights me every few days.

Particularly, it centres around roughly a dozen individuals (separated into 3 stories) and their attempts to survive in this world. For the most part, this story and setting differs little from our own Earth, with the key difference of two things: the provable existence of the divine, and the existence of North and South Tasmia islands (existing in the stead of Australia).

These gods interact with the physical plane via two methods, each corresponding to their own methods of feeding. The gods grow in power as they are thought of more, growing in conceptual strength as they take up more space in the collective consciousness of mankind. So when they wish for good, consistent growth, they form contracts, granting mortals a fraction of a piece of a drop in their sea of power in return for a variety of sacrifices or rituals that bolster that god’s place in the common memory of humanity.

And when they are starved, seeking that rapid, growing, violent growth of fear and hatred. They create Saints, living, breathing conduits of their divine fury that render the earth asunder and fell cities in their footsteps. Both are methods of forcing more of humanity to think of them, and by cause grow in power, albeit one through love and the other through fear.

Gods exist for everything, hence their abundance. As Alek, a character in TLS once said,

“There is a god for everything. One for the chair your sitting on, one for the air you breath, one for the right root of your left upper premolar, like I said, for everything. As long as there is an idea for an object, like the idea that fire hurts, there is a god for it that can be worshipped and contracted.”

Furthermore, there exists the Lower Worlds, oft considered the realm of these gods, an infinite realm of infinite floors and no rules, each floor corresponding to a unique “frequency”, not unlike a radio, and each frequency applying to its given god.

But this very feeding method of the gods is the subject matter of my writing to you today, and explaining how it works. One of the many reoccurring concepts of TLS is the variety of explanations for these gods, how they so easily disrupt the laws of physics and why they function as they do.

Some argue that they are manifestations of some dormant force within the mind. Some argue that the Lower Worlds consist of a mirror matter, our minds paying off the entropic debt into this matter. Others that the gods are simply beings of a different dimension, poking their fingers in and spilling their rules into our own.

The issue is found, not in these solutions, but in the fact that each and every one of these interpretations works. They are all completely plausible explanations for every facet of the divine, each and every solution. This raises the question, which is the right one?

The answer, is all of them. You see, it is revealed late into the story that the Lower Worlds behave like quantum particles, their contents and rules existing in a superstate. If you are unfamiliar with the concept, it means that these worlds, and by extent the gods that are formed from them, are multiple things at once until observed, at which point they collapse into one possibility.

In other words, the Lower Worlds have no set rules, logic, or systems, only the ones we apply when we attempt to reconcile it. It is an amorphous sea of possibilities, collapsing into whatever form we grant it.

Like a liquid, it fills the container it is in, morphing to whatever people consider it to be. This is why the Lower Worlds lack the logic and reason of our world, for so many have differing views on its functions and logics, resulting in an ostensible lack of order.

This is why every solution to the gods works. This is why gods are intrinsically linked to concepts and how we apply to objects. This is why gods can so easily ignore our rules.

This dimension is one of undefined energy and possibility, a sea of potential superstates and wavelengths, collapsing in the exact moment a link between idea and thing is formed into one constant state, that state being a god.

When a god, or concept it thought of, it expands the definition and dimensions of that concept, granting it a “larger container” for it to inhabit, and by consequence granting it greater power.

If you link the ideas of fire and pain, as one so often does, a new god is birthed, one of painful flames. As more people grow to fear and love this god, more conceptual “mass” is granted to it, more access to the unending undefined energy within the Lower Worlds, expanding its reach into the infinite, explaining how they feed.

Apologies for both the length and strangeness of this rambling, as I had written this after many a month of conceptualising, and desperately desired some form of sharing this work of mine with a fellow mind.

Kind regards, Valerie

(PS: I truly pray non-religiously to whatever limbo of superstate energies hold power in our world that you may be free from that cursed block, and that the waters of creativity my flow in your fields once more)

dearest valerie,

[lit--bitch]

‘Hello’ by Crispin Best (2019)

(Disclosure, again: I don’t know Crispin Best, I know I’m “friends with him” on Facebook, but it’s one of those things where random poets/writers/artists add each other on social media platforms and there’s like a weird community in it but we still don’t actually speak to each other? That, basically. Hello is published by Partus Press, which is run by Vala Thorodds and Luke Allan. I don’t know either of them. They specialise in publishing Icelandic and international literature. Hello is a gorgeous book, the cover is like a pastel colour rainbow, I feel like it should taste of marshmallows. The paper is rich, the spine is strong af, it’s just a lovely, satisfying book. Also Partus Press’s website is incredibly pleasing to surf, it’s really slick, their interface is smooth. Buying books on there feels as good as having one of them in your hands. End of suck-up.) 

I have known and loved Crispin Best’s writing since I picked up his pamphlet from Faber New Poets, which my friend Lenni Sanders recommended to me. There was this one line I read and I just fell in love: 

‘I wish for you the perfect banana.’ 

It’s from Crispin’s poem, ‘is it still brunch if i am alone’, and of course it features in Hello. Every time I read it, I get such a great big smile on my face. Because there really is nothing more universally understood than the perfect banana, whatever the perfect banana is to you. (Side note: I like it when the banana’s skin starts to really freckle and yellow up). And images like these are totally emblematic of Crispin Best’s writing, because he has a gift for expressing feelings, in all their variations, within absurd, perfect metaphors that still somehow makes sense.

I mean this in poems like the very first in Hello’s collection, which incidentally is called, ‘Hello’. He writes, ‘i know that i’m here for the moment / that the pickles hit the plate / i’m here for good and to pair your socks / by windowlight’, it’s just so loving, so adoring, so doting. There is nothing more immediate and in-the-moment than pickles hitting the surface of a plate and yet it’s so random. I’m amazed by the assemblage of images in this collection, how the ordinary is so cleverly personified. 

Hello sets out to beautify the triteness of our day-to-day, to kiss the things we sometimes ignore, like the word ‘fireplace’ (p. 42), or how the wind brings your clothes to life (p. 29). It is totally modest in its appreciation of everything, and experiences just about everything as having impact. It is funny, it is sad, it is grateful. It is a kind book. 

There is an inherent “now-ness” in Hello. As I read each poem, I felt like I was in there, in every room, looking at every landscape, looking over the ‘I’s’ shoulder. It’s synonymous in the form that the poetry takes. 

A lot of Crispin’s work is rooted in Internet culture, and this is plain as day in Hello, you can see how the Internet permeates through into the language and formatting of the writing. Most of the poems read like you would if you were receiving texts from somebody. Grammatical rules are thrown out the window, capitalisation is minimal. For many of us, when we’re texting, we’re not adhering to the rules of language, y’know, we’re not punctuating every sentence with proper full stops, or commas. This is evident in ‘what do i know’: 

i love it when poems  are dead and the light  creeps under the door and not too far away something important is about to be crushed  by that beautiful truck 

There is a tightness to the work, which restricts where we look across the page. This technique, I think, recreates the action of the infinite scroll. We scroll down with our eyes, like we do with our thumbs, or fingers. Even the line-breaks mimic the dimensions of a phone screen, that rectangulation. It’s rare that sentences ever exceed half the length of this A5 book’s pages. 

Sometimes I think this SMS-written style in Crispin’s poetry intimates other characteristics of texting-culture. A lot his poems are a mish-mash of images and thoughts which are relative to the sometimes anomalous-ness of texting correspondence. Not every conversation we have with someone over text starts with hello, nor ends with goodbye, and a lot of the time, conversations are staggered by minutes, hours, even days. If you were to visually recreate this in real-time, it’d be the equivalent of somebody saying something to you, standing there for 5 hours or however long you don’t speak for, and then finally responding. It’s such an absurdity that Crispin contains within these non-sequitur images: ‘if you can’t do the crime / don’t do the crime / and don’t thank me for the birthday wishes / please / just let me grow my beans’ (from ‘don’t call it a dream’). It’s hilarious—I can’t always understand why one sentence follows its predecessor in the way it does—this is absolutely intentional, though it might not be for the reasons I’ve interpreted. These non-sequiturs mirror the jagged, staggered incontinuity of how we sometimes interact online. And whilst they can distort and confuse the readability of the poetry, these non-sequiturs are a cornerstone to the collection’s confessionalism. In masking oneself behind these blurted, odd utterances, the ‘I’s awkward disposition is revealed. It promises to open up, slowly, someday. And it makes these promises in wonderful, subtle ways. Like ‘poem at the dinner table’: 

here is the thing:  the real reason i don’t let people get close to me is this faux denim shirt i’m scared that  they will be able to tell [...]  here is the thing:  there are even tiny movements  of your fingers that i don’t  completely understand  [...] here is the thing:  between the boiler’s ticks  i hear you whisper that you had a hunch  about the shirt from this great distance i make my arms the perfect length

The realism in this poem really makes me smile. In just simple fragments, the ‘I’ says so much in a short, modest description. I understand the scene, simply denoted by the title, ‘poem at the dinner table’. The great thing about this stanza is how it’s prefaced by such seriousness: ‘here is the thing / the real reason i don’t let people / get close to me’. You’re misled into thinking that a sincere confession will follow, and it does, but not quite in the way you thought: ‘/ is this faux denim shirt’. The faux denim shirt—an analogy for the object of his insecurity in looking worth more than he actually is. The subversion is funny, but it equally intimates the personage’s insecurity about expressing what he really means, how he really feels, his shyness. By the end of the poem you find that the ‘I’ has acquainted himself with someone who understands, someone who helps him feel his wholeness again, and he jumps the distance. All of this is at the dinner table. And it’s in the spirit of the vernacular that Crispin Best does what he does, best, which is to take the ordinary and load it with meaningful subtexts, implying something much deeper is going on.

I was going to talk about ‘centralia’ last, because it’s my fav poem in the book. But there’s something about the structure of ‘centralia’ which intersects my previous point regarding the value in the ordinary. 

‘centralia’ feels more like a section of the collection, rather than a poem. It’s 20 pages long and yet it’s only 405 words... I think. Might be a couple more or less. I was sad enough to count (but I’m shit at counting). How does a 405-word poem last 20 pages? Well, ‘centralia’ is made up of ellipsis which to me have a dualistic function in this poem: firstly they recreate the action of texting in real-time. You know when somebody’s texting you back and that little bubble comes up with three dots? The ‘...’? It’s kind of like that, except that there’s a superfluous amount of ellipsis which take up the whole space of the page, and they’re structured in such a way to form shapes and undulating curves bound by short quips of writing. The function of ellipsis is to omit words, sentences or whole paragraphs from a text without compromising the overall meaning. They can indicate unfinished thoughts or pauses. In ‘centralia’ they illustrate the  series of written images which roll on from each other almost act like random, yet successive thoughts. But the ellipsis here doesn’t just precede the literary antecedent, it also succeeds it. The effect slows down the writing, and I read this piece very, very, slowly, as if to consider the ellipsis and the writing as inextricably bound, that the dots were were words in and of themselves. ‘centralia’ boasts some of my favourite lines in the work, like: 

‘....today we’re going to talk about.......... / / / ........ how it feels to be ......... / / / / / / ...........how even a low moon....................... / / / can paint a bridge on a lake...........’ 

 ‘........picture a passion fruit........ / / / ..........why is it called that name... / / / ..............my only kink................ / is having my clothes blown off.......... / ...........by a leaf blower.............’ 

and, 

‘..........i like things like...... / / ........how fast you climb the stairs.............. / / / like how werewolves............ / ..............don’t kill people................ / / / / / / .........full moons do............ / / / / / / / ............ like how ............. / / ........... you can just....... / / .............wear a pair................. / ............of trousers................ / / / ..........and people will assume............... / / .................they are................ / / / / .......................your trousers.......’

Obviously the way I’ve typed these particular parts out doesn’t do the format justice (you’ll have to buy the book to properly get a look) but I wonder if other people find themselves reading the text slowly as a consequence of this form. 

‘centralia’ makes such beautiful and original observations about the things in which we take for granted, or things we don’t necessarily think twice about. It unpicks clichés, employs humour, it thinks laterally, by this I mean lines like ‘what if cum is ghosts’ ...  'centralia’ is like a whole collection within itself. It also makes for great Twitter material. It comes back to appreciating the immediacy of things around you besides what flags up on a phone screen, and that’s inherent in the way Crispin speaks to ‘you’. You just have to stop and enjoy the writing, in the same way you ought to stop and enjoy the world around you, as fleeting as it is:

(from nature poem) we’re here realise that at every moment you’re the only visible part of        an almost infinite conga line  ok now imagine crying while wearing cargo shorts it’s hard to do  tonight we share a rocking chair toothpaste this blue-orange night sky

And you can’t help but feel as if you’re being directly addressed as a reader in the work, even though some poems are defined by their context; it’s clear some are break-up poems, lamentations on loss, or to Barack Obama. In some pieces, it seems like Hello is imploring us (the readers) to see reason, and catch up with ourselves, to contemplate the tangibility of what’s around us and remove ourselves from the artificialities of the virtual. I feel like this is evident in other poems like ‘🐬 but do dolphins want to swim with me ’ (the dolphin emoji in the book actually faces the other way and is a black silhouette). 

the cooking apples / have long gone brown / on the  countertop / nights arrive like iguanas in suits / and with  them the long dream / on a beach / where a pop-up notification / blocks the sunset / these poems are the kiddie pools / i inflate while i’m alive

We’re confronted by these sorts of messages about social media all the time, like “take a break from your phone”, and it’s sort of an overdone cliché now, like the way people talk about bubble baths and retail therapy as ‘self-care’. Crispin approaches these clichés in his work but he does it in an unexpected, refreshing way, like imagine if a pop-up notification actually blocked the sunset. Again, it’s like, ‘put down the fucking phone, stop letting it get in the way of other things, stop letting myself get in the way of things taking their natural course’. This piece is a case for living without the reminder of one’s phone, a dissuasion of our present-day lifestyle gripped by the constant need to notified by blue-light disturbances. It asserts that is what is most healthy to us is the stuff we can physically touch. Tangibility is our final currency over which nobody else has any jurisdiction. Some things are more tangible and real and specific than others, and it’s up to us to choose and define that for ourselves. 

Hello reminds me a lot of an ex I had a while ago. He didn’t have a lot of things, but he did hoard a lot of weird, random stuff, y’know like actual rubbish that needed to go in the bin, biscuit wrappers for example. When I stopped to observe why he kept these things, it seemed to me that it was because he’d glean more from a memory in a biscuit wrapper, than he might from a photograph of a loved one. He was invested in this vernacular trash we share together as human beings, rather than the typical artefacts we traditionally use to create memories, i.e. photo albums, or personal diaries. For him, it was like there was something much more profound, intimate, and vivid in sharing a packet of hobnobs together, than say taking a selfie at a pub. I feel like that’s something Crispin Best also shares in common with his “ode” in ‘io’: o tub girl in the rain / o modern american poetry / [...] / o fisher price / o fiddlesticks / [...] / o curly wurly wrapper / o nokia 3210 / o crepitating autumn leaf / o mars bar ice cream in september and the rain’. We can take comfort in these things, because they do, in a way, bring more order to our confusing truths, to the bewilderment of ourselves. We can confide in them and nourish ourselves in their familiarity, and keep on living, because like us, they too are objects and beings of impermanence in a trashy, ever-changing, impermanent world. 

This is best summed by two lines in Hello. Page 16, in ‘one good thing’: 

one good thing  about being alive is the view

and from ‘io’ again, page 92:

when i die  know that i died how i lived:  not wanting to die 

In life’s disposabilities, in the changing faces of the moon, in the oscillations between heartbreak, self-loathing, wheezing with laughter, eating pizza and sitting transfixed by a lover, life is still, well, life. Life is implied in these momentary consumptions and feelings. In fact, life is made better by them, as well as eggs and books, snowballs and party rings. Crispin Best’s poetry is contemplative, thankful and admirable. You can sit with his writing and appreciate it in the same way one might appreciate tulips or butterflies. You don’t necessarily have to understand it, but just be present with it, for now. It’s about taking stock, and loving every inch of your boring, amazing life.  Hello has made perfect timing in our current predicament, felt by the world all over. In times like these, you need books like Hello. You need these soft lamentations and appreciations. You need these written reassurances. Hello is like being gently stroked as you wake up from a weird dream. It’s comfort food writing, where when you’re caught up in the chaos of our present-day, you’re reminded to slow down and look, and I mean really look. It’s a wonderful debut collection that is a testament to Crispin Best’s talent. 

If this review’s won you over, then you can buy Hello from Partus Press here, follow them here and find Crispin Best all over the Internet via his website here. 

[infjtarot]

Judgement ~ Tuffo nel Mistero Tarot

  Tuffo nel Mistero Tarot While certainly there are religious overtones to the name of the card and its imagery, religious feeling is not necessary to interpret the card. Most religions, from Egyptian to Christian, have had some sort of mechanism for judgment after life, and this merely mimics the idea. It is an accounting of your mistakes and the damage you have done, and a call for you to make amends. Judgment is at number twenty. How many of the world’s artists were terrible people? Oh, so many. The American writer Gertrude Stein was a Vichy France collaborator. French novelist Louis-Ferdinand Céline was a full-on Nazi. Arthur Koestler, the Hungarian-born writer, was a rapist. Legendary jazz trumpeter Miles Davis beat his wives, Michelangelo da Caravaggio, an Italian painter in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, was a murderer. And on and on. How many of them were able to fully understand and atone for their mistakes? Hardly any. I can think of one, though. Romania’s Emil Cioran, one of the greatest philosophers of the twentieth century, fell under the sway of the Nazis when they first rose to power. He got a little too swept up by their rhetoric of strength and power; a little too starry-eyed in regard to the control and order they brought to their country. Many intellectuals and thinkers, from Knut Hamsun to Martin Heidegger, fell under the same spell—the exact people who should have known better. Eventually Cioran was able to see the error in his thinking, and he used that mistake to think through a new round of philosophical thought. He atoned through philosophy. He was one of the few. That is the feeling of Judgment. The need for absolution. The subject on the card here is the return of Jesus Christ to earth to judge the living and the dead. But to believe in that, we’d need to believe in the concept of sin, and we’re beyond that, you and me. Still, the sensation is useful to us: this idea of judging your past wrongs, dealing with the ramifications, and making amends. Probably you don’t have Nazi worship in your past, but there are all sorts of other ways we hurt others and go wrong in our thinking. Judgment is a difficult task, but it offers a karmic restart. In order to progress as people, or through a project, first we must find the moment that progress has stalled. There we will usually find an error. Instead of dealing with our misjudgments and the moments we were at our worst, we often just pile other things on top of them in the hopes they’ll go away. That time we betrayed a friend and caused her serious harm? We don’t talk about it or think about it; in fact, we don’t really even see that friend anymore. It is a bit like the Alcoholics Anonymous idea of making amends by going through your past, and expressing ruthless honesty and sincere remorse. This card doesn’t necessarily have to do with your personal life; it could be a problem with your project that you are refusing to acknowledge and for which you are now just trying to compensate. Maybe you stole a part of someone else’s work? Maybe you took credit for something you did not do? Maybe you willfully hurt someone with your portrayal of him or her? Come clean. Make amends. It might not be a comfortable card, but Judgment does offer a new beginning. A life after death. But it’s a card that knows that in order to be reborn, you must die first. RECOMMENDED MATERIALS The New Gods, book by Emil Cioran The Cantos, epic poem by Ezra Pound Don Giovanni, opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart The Creative Tarot. Jessa Crispin

[spamzineglasgow]

(LAUNCH) An Orca is Way Too Big to Attach, Unless as a JPEG, by Anna Danielewicz

Hey there, it’s summer - come get wavy! Join us at Glasgow’s Category Is bookshop to celebrate the launch of Anna Danielewicz’s new pamphlet, An Orca is Way Too Big to Attach, Unless as a JPEG – sizzling seafoam fresh from SPAM Press!

We’ll be kicking things off with readings from three exciting poets:

🐬 Anthony Daly

🐬 Felicity Anderson-Nathan               .

🐬 Gloria Dawson

Followed by a reading by Anna herself.

Combining laconic loops and turns of millennial humour with bursts of minor devastation and sincerity, An Orca is Way Too Big to Attach, Unless as a JPEG records the everyday blisses and horrors of life in the present moment. While Danielewicz’s lines often capture the insouciant cool of Chelsea Minnis or the comic transcendence of Hera Lindsay Bird, you sense she’s as indebted to the lustrous arcades of seapunk, cereal packaging and WikiHow articles as she is to, say, a battered copy of post-internet anthology of I Love Roses When They’re Past Their Best. There’s a soothing, oddly spiritual quality to An Orca is Way Too Big that makes you want to lie in a turquoise pool and count all the pixels in your iPhone to sleep. Nature and technology coexist in moments of occasional chiastic sublime (‘the sun was data transmitting’), and the ‘I’ is a kaleidoscope of cravings, rituals and observational tendencies; turning a page is genuinely like clicking refresh or adjusting the brightness of your screen. Lyric poems are interspersed with original illustrations, which take the familiar aesthetics of Instagram poetry into the khoratic space of the starburst or gradient, the spidery title. Exploring the existential dislocations of material culture alongside the invasive, affective recursions of pop relics (‘found it in a hopeless place, / did we, did we fuck’), An Orca Is Way too Big does the light work of a jpeg compression while keeping in mind the charismatic megafauna of its subjects. Like Walter Benjamin in avatar drag or Crispin Best stubbing his toe on Snapchat bathos, Anna Danielewicz might just be your favourite new flaneuse for Web 2.0. You’re all gonna want to get orca tattoos now.

~

Anna Danielewicz (born in Poland, 1991) is an artist based in Glasgow. She graduated from Edinburgh College of Art in 2016. Her most recent projects include Autocue at Intermedia Gallery, CCA Glasgow and Save the Death Star at the Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop. She is currently working on a piece for the Edinburgh Art Festival and the Present Futures festival. Anna is a member of the programming committee of Market Gallery. Like many other people, in her heart of hearts she would rather be a whale.

 http://annadanielewicz.com/

The event is FREE, starts at 7 and finishes at 9. There will be cake, and also plenty of recent SPAM publications and merch for sale.

Some of us are heading to The Glad Café afterwards to celebrate with our friends at GoldFlakePaint, who just launched their third issue – feel free to join.

Please contact the lovely folks at Category Is if you have any queries re: accessibility etc :)

[winebrightruby]

because I'm curious: what are your favorite works of Shakespeare?

Oh man, I have to put caveats on this: I haven’t read all of Shakespeare’s plays yet, I have some I enjoy for personal reasons, and I have some I enjoy specifically for teaching. The list of plays I don’t like is far shorter than the other, so since you asked, here are things I particularly like about various plays!

The Tempest is magic and has a lot of potential to be mined in discussions of colonialism. I love Ariel, and Miranda and Ferdinand have some great speeches. Also, A Wrinkle in Time seared quotes from this play into my mind at a very young age. 

A Midsummer Night’s Dream is also magic, and it’s mandatory fairy reading, and it’s just plain silly. This one is fun to teach to older students because the varying relationships offer so much material to discuss social mores and expectations. The language is so good (which is true in, like, every play), and I love fairies, okay, I have a weakness.

Much Ado About Nothing is amazing! Beatrice and Benedick are adorable, and Beatrice herself is just plain incredible, and also there’s a film adaptation in which you can watch Keanu Reeves attempt to be a villain.

The Merchant of Venice 1) contains Portia and the casket test, two of my favorite things a play can contain, and 2) contains hella gay Antonio, and 3) is useful for examining historical antisemitism, e.g. Shylock’s portrayal. 

Twelfth Night is one of the most enjoyable and beautiful plays to read. The characters are cool, the relationships are fun, there’s cross-dressing and gender confusion -- it’s a great comedy. And Feste is probably my favorite of Shakespeare’s clowns. (Fun note: this play also contains a hella gay Antonio, making me wonder if Shakespeare Knew A Guy.)

King Lear is so Extra and so, idk, baroque. It has these intriguing fairy tale elements, and Edmund is such an unabashed villain -- “Now, God, stand up for bastards!” -- the first time I read this for class, my teacher warned us to, like, emotionally prepare ourselves. It’s an enormous downer of a play, and the disaster-ness is basically unrelenting. It’s beautiful, but it’s like standing in the middle of a full orchestra while they play Bach. It’s loud and overwhelming.

Antony and Cleopatra has some of the most beautiful language in any of Shakespeare’s plays -- we used a quote from it on our wedding programs. And Enobarbus is one of my favorite characters, and Cleopatra’s last lines onstage are simply transcendent. Having said that, if you are a fan of historical Mark Antony, you probably won’t appreciate this portrayal of him  ^^;;

Richard III is a whole play from the POV of the villain, and it’s unapologetically evil and I love love love it.

Henry V is a good counterpoint, of lovely Prince Hal from Henry IV (both parts) grown and trying to be a good king. This is the source of the St. Crispin’s Day speech that everyone loves, and also I think his wooing of Katherine at the end is just plain cute. 

And I saved Othello and Hamlet for last. If I had to make a list of my top five plays with no commentary or caveats, these would both make the cut. I love them individually and I love them even more as a pair, because Othello is the most technically perfect (imo, but I have scholarly support) of Shakespeare’s plays and Hamlet is the messiest. Every scene in Othello follows logically from the one before; it flows seamlessly and takes almost no effort to follow. You can pretty much skip the scene cues and still understand this play. Hamlet, on the other hand, practically never has two consecutive scenes in the same place. People come in and out and back in; there’s time-skips and all kinda stuff. And these choices are deliberate! Othello is a military man, and Iago exploits his very straightforward mind and sincere (as in, utterly without deceit) spirit. Hamlet opens with “Who’s there?” and closes Act I with “The time is out of joint” -- Hamlet is a curious, reflective scholar (though I have Serious Issues with popular descriptions of him as some kind of wooby nerd paralyzed by indecision and melancholy), and Denmark itself is confused. It’s a mess that he has to untangle and correct, and the structure of the play itself reflects that. 

I just reread Othello with my tenth graders last month, so if I had to pick a play to sit down and reread, it would probably be Twelfth Night or Much Ado About Nothing, because of how purely enjoyable they are.

[warlock-enthusiast]

sweet rolls

I got asked for “ “You can’t keep doing this.” for Galiana by @tenwhiteapricots ages ago and I may have borrowed your cute and perfect Toast.

Galiana Trevelyan &&& Crispin Amell (sfw/ a bit angsty and Cullen critical)

prompts

Galiana found him in the library. Shoulders hunched and asleep. The Hero of Ferelden looked young and vulnerable with his pale skin and the messy hair covering his forehead. She bit her lip to suppress a sigh. At least he seemed calm and not troubled by nightmares for once. Considering that most of his nights held one terror or another, she briefly considered just letting him rest here, but Galiana’s concern won the battle against her pragmatism. And the sweet rolls she nicked from the kitchens wouldn’t eat themselves anyhow. 

Galiana put a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to whisper into his ear. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Crispin came awake slowly. His eyes a bit unfocussed. “Hm?”

“Falling asleep in the library. It’s bad for your back.” Galiana sat down and put the basket between the various books. Skyhold’s library offered the wisdom of centuries and grew even larger with the help of their allies and friends.

“Josephine made sure that you live in some very comfortable rooms. She even granted you the luxury of her favorite Antivian blankets to keep the chill out of the walls. My dear Ambassador only orders them for very special guests.”

Crispin’s face flushed red, matching his hair and the freckles atop of his nose. “I’m honored and I’d never do anything to insult her. She has been very kind to me.”

Galiana put a hand on his. “It was a joke. A bad one. I’m sorry.”

She thanked the dim lights, because it hid the blush in her cheeks. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.”

His eyes always seemed so haunted. It had gotten better in the past weeks and she thought that maybe eating regularly and having a roof to sleep beneath did wonders for him. He’d filled out a bit, laughed with the mages of the Inquisition and took long walks atop the battlements. Galiana hoped that they’d formed a bond, a friendship between two of the most powerful people. Many of their nights had been filled with talks of the past and Crispin still appeared too shy, sad, to talk about some aspects of his life and her heart hurt. The Circle of Ostwick had been a peaceful prison. Nothing compared to the horrors of the one in Ferelden. 

Galiana had made sure that Cullen and he were never found in the same room, ordered her Commander to leave on mission after mission. Looking at him stirred a long hidden anger deep within her chest. A rage not known to her. Lately, she couldn’t stand to look at him. The bits and pieces of information that Crispin shared, created pure emotional chaos. In another life, she could have been one of the mages that were mistreated by Cullen and neither her feelings nor his tender words could banish such imaginations.

Galiana shook her head. She hadn’t come here to dwell in dark thoughts and regrets and she squeezed Crispin’s hand. “We’re both very good at being sorry, aren’t we?”

He shared one of his rare smiles and the library seemed a bit brighter with his teeth bare and his eyes bright. “Yes. We share that trait. Comes with being a mage, I guess.”

“For sure.” Galiana took the basket and lifted the towel. Perfectly staked sweet rolls. They smelled divine. Cinnamon and tons of sugar and butter. 

“I brought something. The servants told me that you haven’t touched your dinner.”

Crispin’s eyes went wide. “I… eh… yes.”

Galiana etched closer and tried her best impression of her spymaster. “Skyhold is filled with my spies.”

“Leliana trained them well.” Galiana still had to understand the relationship between her and Crispin. Sometimes she wondered, if it could have been more, if it once had been love or a feeling close to it. She saw the tenderness in Leliana’s eyes, when she thought no one looked at her too closely, the awkward silences between the two of them. After all those years, whole words kept them apart. 

“Oh, she did. I do wonder, if they write reports about me.” 

Crispin took the offered cake and took a bite. Traces of sugar stuck to his mouth. “You can bet on it. Pages upon pages about you kneeling in dirty soil and petting your weird unicorn.”

Everyone but her acted, as if the bog unicorn was some sort of monster. It just needed a bit of love and a good hug now and then. Well, didn’t help that it tried to kick everyone but her.

Galiana laughed and took a sweet roll. “I’m not very interesting. Varric needs to add a lot of things, if he’s going to write a book about me.”

Crispin stilled his movements and a thin line appeared between his brows. His voice sounded so sincere that she felt the heat creeping back into her cheeks. “You’re perfectly interesting, Galiana Trevelyan.”

She saluted him with her sweet roll. “You’re also perfectly interesting, Crispin Amell.”

[goodtweetman-blog]

Of a Man Enjoying his Whiskey, and the Contemplation of his Ways and Experiences

If I tried to give you an explanation for this post, it would be a lie. There’s no wisdom behind it. The most reading I’ve done lately is probably a few glances at my phone for Longfellow’s translation of the Inferno by Dante, because I’m nothing if not a cliché. (All the traditionalist gentlemen have a deep fondness for the Divine Comedy).

The matter is that, as I sip on this high-calorie, moderately-priced alcohol, is that I just felt like writing buzzed. Because my hands are too shaky to paint or sculpt (I have been told I have what’s called “essential tremors”, albeit in a minor form), and my musical skills not quite good enough to express well.

Writing because I’m sad. Writing because I’m glad. Contentment and melancholy are emotions that I’ve always found I experience quite close to each other; an enjoyment of life’s fine pleasures and a mourning of life’s difficult pains.

This will likely be my worst writing, and when I say that, I mean it with the deep belief that it will be highly regarded, for I am a man of false humility. My self-loathing is sincere in part, yes, but there is also my fondness for praise and pity for my self-admonishment. Quite frankly, it is easily the most pathetic aspect of me, for I do know I have many traits that are of good value to the world.

Indeed, I could say many things that I think well of myself. I have a great intellect (an intellect that honestly lacks the drive to become truly magnificent but a great one nonetheless). I imagine myself to be a fairly kind and sympathetic soul. My humor does well, and I have a pleasant singing voice. My talents are many.

Yet, I feel a strange disconcertment even saying this, for it strikes me as boastful. And I know a part of me means it with pride, but a part of me also wants to be objective, and a part of me also does not think these things of myself.

I tend to project a very self-deprecatory image on Twitter, and other social media. There is, indeed, a part of me that means it, but there is a part of me that knows it is good humor, and a part of me that means it insincerely.

Honestly, I feel like an idiot even posting this, for it comes across as so many posts we see on this damned thing we call the internet: The douche “intellectual” man, who wants to explore himself, mostly to garner praise, for pride is a terrible beast, and it is really just shameful. But even saying that, I look for praise for noting it, for as I have noted, I am a man of false humility.

This is a most curious aspect of me, I find. For really, this makes me both glad to be praised and yet ashamed of this admission, for it lays bear my true nature, and my truly greatest demon.

Ah, yes, my demons. I speak a good talk on Twitter, don’t I? I have been called a modern Savonarola, “The Golden Boy”, a firebrand, a reactionary. If only I could truly be these things entirely. To my credit, I am somewhat trying, but, oh no, I am a hypocrite

One second, I am going to grab more whiskey. Yes, I did not need to share this with you. But it is a good literary device.

Ah yes, back to writing. Anyways, my demons. I have many.

Initially I was going to lay bear specifically the sins I struggle with. But, now, I am too keen on protecting my reputation, and thus will leave you to figure them out on your own. Shouldn’t be too hard, most of you strike me as smart folks.

The things I tend to cry out against the most tend to be those I struggle against most of all. Now, no, I have not had sex, and have not pushed a woman to get an abortion. But, there is a foundational sin that I struggle with that is of relevance here: Lust.

Ah, see, my writing is getting worse as the night and drink goes on.

But, yes, lust. I am admittedly a very romantic man by my nature, and, when I am not a piece of shit, this actually has been a very good aspect of me. For I do not want to think so despicably of women. I know well that they are not objects, but are beloved children of God.

And, yet, here I am, a man who regularly indulges in such evil thinking as lust. It all seems so nice in the indulgence, you know? Ah, who could it hurt, I won’t actually do anything, of course!

This is the folly I, in my error, accept. There is nothing to excuse it. Oh sure, folks will say, “Ah, it’s normal for men to be this way.” If such be normal, then normality is in error, for error is not a question of normality. Normality is meaningless. It may be normal to wear purple polka dotted orange shirts on the feast of St. Crispin someday. Normality is an easily led fool, whereas Truth, ah, there’s the wise leader. The problem is not the rule, but the refusal to accept the rule. True, it is a difficult matter for men. But, if we are men, we should not look at difficulty as some impassible barrier, something that we shrug our shoulders at and say “Ah, forget it.” After all, traditional beliefs of masculinity suggest we are stubborn sons of bitches, who will gladly ram our skulls against concrete walls to topple them, should they stand in the way of our goals. So, indeed, let us now crack our skulls. Tis better to lose them then think evilly of others.

As I take another sip of my beloved concoction, I recall my other cross: Gluttony. Admittedly, this old foe has slipped a bit in its agedness, and the battle gone more in my favor this past decade, but, credit to the hoary bastard, it still gives me a tussle. Pizza, beer, wings, liquor, steak, cheese, pastries, cookies...I do mean to ask God, in all reverence and kindness someday, should I be of the fortune to get to Heaven, why he couldn’t have cut us slack, and made healthy foods tasty, or, at least, unhealthy foods extremely filling after a few bites. I will, I imagine, be answered with a laugh, and told it is to keep us from looking for pleasure in such vain things, but, hey, gotta ask, yes?

You know, I am committing this comforting, wizened sin right now, really. I am not heavily intoxicated, no, but, I am buzzed, and it is not prudent to keep indulging in the pleasure of alcohol at this point. But, as I noted above, I have a tendency to be a piece of shit, and this is part and parcel of it.

Sloth. Another old frenemy (a terrible slang word, it doesn’t flow well like, say, “bae” or “bromance”, although the concept’s pretty good).

And this damned website keeps throwing my cursor to the end of my writing, even when I am in the midst of editing. Ah, wrath, hello.

Oh and pride, you were mentioned earlier in the false humility section.

Greed and envy, sorry, friends, you aren’t my greater troubles, although, I appreciate that you are working hard.

This is me. This is who I am. And here I am, in my false humility, hoping you think “Ah, how honest of him! What nobility!” Such poor manners I have.

And, yet...I know there are virtues that have been kind to me. Charity, faith, reverence...I am not without my good sides, to be sure. But, my bad sides are many, and they are attributable to me, and only me. No one has influenced me, no one has led me astray, save I, myself, and I myself alone.

But what have I said here, but the ramblings of a fanatic, a hypocrite, a good man, a wise man, a fool, a scoundrel? It would likely be best that I do not share this, for it is folly. And yet, I feel compelled to. Likely the drink, to be sure, but, still.

What can be said of me? What can be said of any of us? I do not know. I just hope that I have come across well to all who have encountered me, and that I have wronged none. But, I know I haven’t, and know I have.

Perhaps I should delete this. Or perhaps, I should now click “post now”.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

I love your writing a lot, esp your original writing. Could you tell us about your current novel? The 'earth is where trouble comes from' one? Pretty pretty please?

OH MY GOD ANON YES I WILL.

Okay, so you might know how at the end of every third YA book where there’s a trip to another world and a prophecy and magic and world-saving, the protagonist gets popped back into their life on Earth all “Welp, good to have you here, kid, have fun with your nice Life Lessons and PTSD and what-not, about your business.”  Like, Narnia, for example.  I had a lot of issues with Narnia and the whole “You’re too old now, you can never come back, leave and go live out your life and forget about magic and wonder and miracles” shtick when I read it as a little kid.  Yeah, this novel is the product of maybe twelve years of stewing over that kind of ending.

So, this book, which I’m currently just calling Alleirat, is about the hero of one of those novels and the villain of one of those novels, once they’ve grown up to twenty-somethings.  

The general plot of the YA novel (which won’t be written, it’s the backstory) was that a ten-year-old girl and boy both fell through a thin spot between worlds to Alleirat, where magic is the norm and there’s a standing prophecy someone got off a ghost a long time ago about a worldwalker who will save them from a great evil.  Since they manage to fall through to a time where sexism is kind of A Thing, they leave the girl, who takes the name Brenneth and has an ability for fire magic, to be raised as a blacksmith, and take the boy, Crispin, with an ability for weather magic, to be trained as a hero–and spend the next ten years telling Crispin that it’s his destiny to save them all.  Crispin, unsurprisingly, snaps, when he’s twenty years old.  He suffers a nervous breakdown, and the logic he follows is that, in order to save everyone, he needs to be in control, and he consequently sets out to take over the world.  Which goes over great–so great, in fact, that he’s given the nickname the White Wolf (their society associates white with death and wolves with evil/hunger/rage).  Increasingly desperate to stop him, the Alleirai leaders call on Crispin’s oldest friend Brenneth to fight for them, and she agrees.  About four years (and one sword through the chest very narrowly survived Because Magic) later she manages to stop Crispin (and also cuts off his arm, which he understandably takes personally).

And then…they get popped back into their ten-year-old, perfectly intact bodies on Earth.  No destiny.  No magic.  No one who understands why these two kids who were perfectly normal an hour ago suddenly act like soldiers fresh off the battlefield, jumping at every loud noise and picking fights and waking up from screaming nightmares.  Except each other.

Fast forward fourteen years (take two, On Earth Version) and we’re at the start of the novel.  Brenneth and Crispin have a very strange relationship, the sort of relationship you might expect from two people who have transitioned from friends, to close friends, to mortal enemies, to calling each other just to listen to someone scream at them in Alleirai, to drinking weekly and talking about how much they hate being stuck on Earth.  They have Issues, is the point here, and the primary life lesson they took away from their time in Alleirat is “magic is great, and just because you were born on one planet doesn’t make it your home.”  So, naturally, they fall through to Alleirat again.

Which is great.

Except for the fact that, in order:

Crispin is probably going to be executed for his crimes, which he understands but Brenneth is Not Okay with (and willing to take a stand against)

It’s been four centuries since they left

Brenneth is highly uneasy with having gone down in history as a hero of legend

It’s been four centuries and everyone they knew is consequently dead

They’ve come back just in time to deal with another worldwalker fucking shit up, this time with death magic (necromancy, woo! *throws flowers*)

It’s been FOUR CENTURIES and they’re officially in history books and constellations

Now, the reason that Earth Is The Problem Planet, is that, basically, there are hundreds or thousands of worlds (the Alleirai know this for sure) and they all intersect at Earth.  The problems with this are that, A, Earth is the only world without magic (since all the other worlds basically cancel it out) and therefore a lot of people on Earth have truly massive magical potential built up over the millennia, which turns terrifying once they can actually use it (Crispin figured out how to fly using weather magic, and Brenneth can cast unquenchable dragon fire), and, B, people from Earth keep falling through the cracks.  Since they’re distributed across all these worlds, Alleirat can and has gone several centuries without one, but they’re also common enough that Alleirat does have a word specifically for them.  And they usually cause trouble, because it’s always the ones with strong magic who fall through.

So yeah, that’s basically the novel.

Some other things I find to be highlights:

Alleirat has actual high fantasy diversity!  The mountainous Northern part of the continent has fair-skinned folk, whereas Brenneth (whose family is from southern India) looks more like the people from the fertile Southern plains, closer to the equator of the planet.  The Outrigger Islands scattered around the south and east/west tend to have skin tones ranging between maybe Morocco and Nubia, depending on how far from the midline of the planet they are.

Alleirat, having been schooled by Brenneth last time, now has a warrior/civilian divide rather than our masculine/feminine divide (it looks similar, though, because Humans Are Problematic).  This manifests itself most intensely in a distinction in dress.  Civilians are expected to dress more modestly, whereas any gender of warrior is accepted to be shirtless pretty much whenever.  Hair length is also considered to be more of a marker of social rank than skin tone–long hair equates to higher status, shorter hair means you work as a laborer or another low-status job (this has been a thing for a long while, though, since before Crispin and Brenneth).

Alleirat has dragons (crafted and blessed by the god of fire, battle, and lies, of whom Brenneth is a devotee) and griffins (crafted and blessed by the goddess of stars, storms, and fallen things, of whom Crispin is a devotee).  Dragons breathe unquenchable magical fire, and griffins can send lightning along their wings.  I think they’re pretty cool.

Alleirat has an arrangement called amuniasa, which is an unrequited or courtly love arrangement, as an accepted part of society.  The amdri, or the lover, tells the object of their feelings how they feel, and that person can either accept a romantic/sexual relationship or proclaim themselves amiasa, or the beloved, indicating that they don’t return the feelings, but recognize the honor they are being given.  It’s very poor form to pressure your amiasa into returning your feelings, and likewise it’s very poor form to lead your amdri on–your window to change your mind is limited.  Amuniasa is generally considered to be about as binding as marriage, although plenty of amdri also have a spouse whom they love sincerely–basically, polyamory.  Example: Brenneth’s right-hand woman last time around was her amdri, although her feelings were completely committed to Brenneth and she never took a spouse.  Also, she has a daughter that joins Crispin and Brenneth this time (their specific race is incredibly long-lived) whose coloring suggests that she specifically took a lover who looked like Brenneth.

Brenneth is pretty much the beauty standard these days (they take their heroes of legend seriously in Alleirat), meaning that they revere women with lush black hair, broad shoulders, and dark skin.  I dunno, it felt right at the time that I made that decision.

The primary port city on the East, Dase, has a port that is literally carved straight into a four-hundred-foot cliff face.  Like.  The city is on top of the harbor.  I stole this from the D&D campaign I ran last semester, but I did invent it in the first place for a completely different novel that will never be finished, so.  It’s not plagarism because I wrote it, basically.

I am literally creating a language for this bullshit universe that has taken over my life.  I am ilala–an idiot.

[phgq]

Catholic bishops to lead localized peace engagement with Reds

#PHnews: Catholic bishops to lead localized peace engagement with Reds

BORONGAN, Eastern Samar – Top government, church, and civil society leaders passed a resolution here on Thursday designating three Catholic bishops to lead localized peace engagements (LPE) with members of the communist group operating in the region.

The resolution was approved during the 43rd assembly of the Samar Island Partnership for Peace and Development (SIPPAD), a multi-sector organization composed of government, church, and civil society representatives coming from the three provinces of Samar Island.

The event was attended by governors, town mayors, military officials, Secretary Eduardo del Rosariochairman of Housing and Urban Development Coordinating Council and Cabinet Officer for Regional Development and Security (CORDS) 8, and Presidential Peace Adviser Carlito G. Galvez Jr.

In the resolution, Bishop Crispin Varques of the Diocese of Borongan, Eastern Samar, Bishop Emmanuel Trance of the Diocese of Catarman, Northern Samar, and Bishop Isabelo Abarquez of the Diocese of Calbayog in Western Samar were tasked to lead a panel that will hold peace dialogues with rebels who have expressed their willingness to return to the fold of the law.

LPE is one of the 12 clusters of the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC), the multi-agency body created by virtue of Executive Order No. 70 or the “Whole-of-Nation Approach.”, 

Challenge accepted

The bishops expressed their willingness to engage the rebels through peace conversations.

"I am more than willing and even willing to die for peace to achieve in our region," Bishop Abarquez said.

"We accept the challenge given to the local church," said Fr. Fred Placa who represented Bishop Trance. "We are willing to cooperate and talk peace" said Bishop Varquez, adding that the creation of the peace panel "will lead us to one direction, which is our aspiration for peace in the Samar island."

The resolution designating the bishops to lead the LPE was spearheaded by Borongan Mayor Jose Ivan Dayan Agda, who noted that the "religious sector is more credible than the politicians in leading the localized peace engagements with the rebel group."

"The religious sector plays a vital role in peacebuilding efforts. And we need divine intervention for our peace initiatives in the island of Samar to be successful," Agda said.

LPE: An effective peacebuilding mechanism

Eastern Samar Governor Ben Evardone sees the LPE as an effective approach in dealing with communist insurgents in the countryside, especially after the termination of formal peace talks between the government and the Communist Party of the Philippines-New People's Army-National Democratic Front of the Philippines (CPP-NPA-NDFP).

Evardone said he wants to replicate the success achieved by local government units in the Davao and Zamboanga Peninsula regions, where a large number of rebels have laid down their arms and availed of government programs under EO 70.

"The occasion today is very fitting since everybody is upbeat [to see] the development of the entire Samar island," he said while reaffirming his commitment to the SIPPAD.

Since its implementation in 2019, LPEs have made a significant impact on the peace and security situation of communities in Central Luzon, Davao, and Zamboanga Peninsula regions where hundreds of CPP-NPA members have returned to the folds of the law.

Galvez said the LPE is a mechanism that will enable the government not only to directly engage the rebels in the peaceful discourse but also to touch base with residents in communities affected by the armed conflict.

The LPE is being carried out simultaneously using two tracks: community consultation and problem-solving sessions, and local peace dialogues.

Galvez said the Office of the Presidential Adviser on the Peace Process (OPAPP), the co-lead agency together with the Department of Interior and Local Government for the LPE cluster, is carrying out various interventions across the country, with the help of partner agencies and organizations, in order to better respond to issues and concerns affecting residents in conflict-ridden communities.

"Through LPE, we are able to determine the underlying problems of the communities. It also gives opportunities for the people in the communities to be part of the decision-making process on what is best to address the problems in their areas," the peace adviser said.

Transforming Samar into a peaceful and progressive region

Del Rosario said there is a need to turn the tide of the Samar region from being a place wracked by armed conflict into a peaceful and highly-progressive region.

He said the province of Samar posted the highest poverty incidence in the country in 2018.

"The most serious threat and greatest concern to the region's security and most notably in Samar island is the presence of communist insurgency and terrorism," Del Rosario said.

"Over five decades, the CPP-NPA-NDFP has been a perennial major security concern that hinders lasting peace and progress if our country," he added.

The lack of sincerity on the part of the communist group during the peace talks led President Rodrigo Roa Duterte to cancel the negotiations and formulate a new strategy to address the root causes of the insurgency problem through EO 70.

Del Rosario said that under the ELCAC, the formulation of the action plan of the Samar region should have a common goal which is "our collective aspiration for the people in Eastern Visayas to attain inclusive and sustainable peace, and prosperity in the region."

"The objectives shall focus on the delivery of basic services and good governance at all levels of government, empowerment of communities, and facilitate social inclusivity in all government peace initiatives," he said.

PAMANA program to complement ELCAC

Galvez said OPAPP will continue to implement more peacebuilding initiatives in conflict-prone and conflict-communities in the country such as Samar through the Payapa at Masaganang Pamayanan or PAMANA program.

For this year, at least 37 PAMANA projects will be implemented in the Samar region. These include farm-to-market roads, potable water systems, and livelihood projects with total funding amounting to Php 30,500,000.

He said the projects will be divided between the three provinces of Samar.

From 2011 to 2018, he added that the PAMANA program has already allocated at least P4.6-billion worth of projects for Samar.

The PAMANA program has three objectives. These are to address issues of injustices and improve community access to socio-economic interventions; improve governance by building the capacity of national government agencies and local government units for a conflict-sensitive, peace-promoting, culture-sensitive and gender-sensitive approach to human rights promotion and development, and to empower communities and strengthen their capacities to address issues of conflict and peace.

To ensure transparency in the implementation of PAMANA projects in Samar, Galvez said OPAPP will be tapping SIPPAD to help monitor these projects until their completion.

SIPPAD: A platform for convergence

Established in January 2006, SIPPAD is convened quarterly by the Catholic Bishops of Samar Island together with the provincial governors in the region.

The group became a platform for collective action by the church, government and civil society in addressing pressing issues and concerns relative to peace and order, good governance and development and the environment across the Samar Island.

SIPPAD is composed of provincial advocacy networks – the Northern Samar Peace and Development Forum (NSPDF), Eastern Samar Peace and Development Forum (ESPDF) and Samar Partnership for Peace and Development (SPPADE).  These networks have been actively involved in various PAMANA consultations in the region.

With these PAMANA projects in the pipeline, Evardone said his people are now starting to feel the dividends of peace.

"We can now feel the attention of the national government in the depressed areas," he said.

The provincial government, Evardone said, will complement the peacebuilding efforts of the national government.

He said the provincial government is allocating P50-million to pave access roads, particularly those in the hinterlands.

"Because there is an imbalance of economic activities in rural areas," he said.

Through these efforts, Evardone said local officials optimistic that the Samar region will finally be able to put an end to the communist rebellion in the area.

"We can address the lingering problem of communism. The whole-of-nation approach is the only way," he said.

The meeting was also attended by Representative Maria Fe Abunda of the lone district of Eastern Samar, Lt. Gen Roberto Ancan, commander of the Unified Staff of Central Command (Centcom), Maj. Gen Pio Diñoso, commander of the 8th Infantry Division, and Colonel Camilo Ligayo, commander of the 801st Brigade. (OPAPP PR)

   ***

References:

* Philippine News Agency. "Catholic bishops to lead localized peace engagement with Reds." Philippine News Agency. https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1094474 (accessed February 21, 2020 at 08:02PM UTC+14).

* Philippine News Agency. "Catholic bishops to lead localized peace engagement with Reds." Archive Today. https://archive.ph/?run=1&url=https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1094474 (archived).