#my mind is a conspiracy board with many loose ends

[kiwiissocold]

This has likely already been discussed, but the aviation club’s gotta have something to do with the broken cloud rider engine??

Like obviously the introduction of the several clubs that Riz joined was there as a bit and to show how much work he signed up for, but also Brennan introduced the silly goofy soil club first, as an easy way to let the players guard down, and slipped in the aviation club right after, to hint at something more ominous

Maybe I’m crazy and this means nothing, but does “another flavor of Riz” happen to sound a bit like how Brennan introduced a certain maniacal pixie?? (Biz Glitterdew)

[kittywildegrrl]

MamaCat Has Been Sick of This Conspiracy Theory Crap Since Before This One Existed

Yea, though I stagger through the final bloody chaotic days of the Trump “presidency,” I shall fear no evil, for the Constitution is with me. Kamala and Joe, they comfort me.

On the real though: scared shitless of the evil.

Rightfully so, for here is the welcome some of our fellow Americans have for the incoming Administration. Almost makes ‘em seem... un-American. May these creeps fail mightily and may Inauguration Day be free of violence.

“‘He has an obligation to them’: Attorney for ‘QAnon shaman’ asks Trump to pardon rioters,” says Politico. “He felt like his voice was, for the first time, being heard,” Watkins said. “And what ended up happening, over the course of the lead-up to the election, over the course of the period from the election to Jan. 6 — it was a driving force by a man he hung his hat on, he hitched his wagon to. He loved Trump. Every word, he listens to him.”

Ugh. There it is. The continental divide between objective reality and Trumpism reality. “Every word, he listens to him.” I saw a classic strongman dictatorship rising, somebody else saw Jesus. I saw my least favorite showman in my lifetime doing his best P. T. Barnum a la Mussolini, somebody else saw the only plausible leader for troubled times.

Perhaps as many as a few thousand of those somebodies attacked our Capitol, and I am not over it. Some more of those somebodies, who knows the actual number, are contributing to online chatter about setting loose further chaos in the next five days.

It’s literally insane, and a lot of it is attributed to the Q conspiracy phenomenon. Two crazy ladies who buy into it have been sent to Washington, D.C., as elected representatives (rollcall.com).

A week after the attempted coup, as the wheels of a second impeachment were grinding over his legacy, the Dear Leader of those who used to watch “The Apprentice” delivered a disingenuous, if carefully-worded, video. In it he denounced the violence. He also employed the No True Scotsman argument, perhaps my favorite of the logical fallacies.

I didn’t buy it, but it wasn’t for me. No, it was for his base, and for his attorneys. Whether he made the attorneys happy is not for me to say. Allegedly Rudy Giuliani is his attorney, and allegedly Rudy’s not getting paid.

No, it’s the latest iteration of Q nonsense on my mind this snowy morning. That video? I saw a beaten man, a would-be Caesar, out of options, doing as he was told for once. Somebody else saw a Q message. Go on over to secondnexus.com and check it out, I’ll wait. You’ll enjoy the screenshotted tweets.

Adding to MamaCat’s recent attack of nostalgia, one learned recently that a former lover, a very bad boyfriend from days of yore, had passed on. Big, strong, handsome, witty, fantastic in bed, cruelly abusive, and possessed of sketchy background, he was champion and nemesis to me in those bizarre days of the mid-90s, when (among other things) I experienced a noticeably short second marriage and met some conspiracy theorists. May he rest in peace. I, for one, am actually relieved. Talk about smart women making foolish choices. I got a million of ‘em.  But the mind will cast its glance backwards at such moments.

Wait till you’re old and crochety, kids, your stories may be wacky and bizarre one day too!

So there was this couple, both my late problematic boyfriend and my second husband knew them, so in the course of things I came to know them too. They seemed like a pretty cool couple, we had interests and friends in common. Then one evening at their house, they began to explain, very carefully and for my own good, about Area 51, Ancient Astronauts, and why the income tax is illegal. Why I should read Ayn Rand, become a Sovereign Citizen, and stock up on guns & ammo.

I was insecure enough in the first place, so at the time, it seemed like the polite way to avoid confrontation was just to listen and not argue too much. I was at their place, without my own car, thinking maybe this won’t go on all night, how can I change the subject to Star Trek… but when we got to the taxes portion of the presentation, I just couldn’t stop myself.

“What about the roads and bridges?”

There was a lot of incoherent babbling about per-use fees and private property and so forth. And as I sat listening, politely, hoping my ride was about ready to go, I was thinking, “They don’t understand how any of this works. They’re grown-ass adults, regurgitating faulty reasoning, telling me mad re-interpretations of what the 1st and 2nd Amendments mean, and they really don’t know how little they know. It’s like an alternate reality. I want to go home.”

(Think about it. The Internet barely existed yet. This was mainly spread face to face and via phone trees at the time.)

That friendship didn’t blossom much after that. Nice enough folks on the face of it, but the crazy talk kept returning to the word, “militia,” and I was not a fan. At that time in my life, I was actually a pretty decent shot, with a number of different firearms (not an owner, though). I let go of this friendship, and not long after, I let go of guns. What I couldn’t let go of was the nagging sense that if this sort of conspiratorial thinking were to get out of hand, become somehow mainstreamed, the only logical outcome would be eventual violence. You can’t combine hatred for the notion of government itself, with fantasies about actual extraterrestrials, with disdain for taxpayer-provided goods and services, with guns and ammo and militia identity, without eventual violence.

And for just a moment, late last night, it felt like the intervening 20 -25 years had never happened. In my actor’s imagination, I could see it like a film cut, from the sepia tones of that living room in New Mexico so long ago, to the craziest damned January in American memory. Nonexistent voter fraud, Q, rightwing hate media; these lie along a straight line from that Sovereign Citizen baloney my friends served for dinner that night. A straight, incredibly white, line.

I really, really hope that the Biden administration comes on like gangbusters in the first hundred days. I hope people’s lives improve drastically, quickly, especially for people who think we voted in Stalinism or something. I really hope we can raise the standard of living across the board (below, say, $250k/annum, you $250k+ guys are actually fine up there). I really, really hope we can address the pandemic. I don’t see any way to controvert the conspiracy-based thinking, unless we just take this opportunity to actually govern for a change, and lift everybody up.

[absolxguardian]

My Characters: The Adrift Vaquero (Light Fingers)

Known as: The Adrift Vaquero | Jack Dominguez | The Cynical Tejano 

Addressed as: Sir.  Pronouns: he/him.

Character Masterpost

CW: Mentions of violence against sex workers, period typical low level racism, period typical homophobia, and a coercive human trafficking scheme (although it turns out better than the real world version). Jack’s backstory is very much based in history, and mid-1800s America is exactly the same here as it was in our world. It’s just that these are things excluded from Fallen London, so I feel the need to warn for them.

His backstory also ended up double the lengths of everyone else’s, so it’s under the cut.

On the Surface, Jack Domiguez was a Tejano (the Mexicans living in Texas from before it was annexed) cowboy/vaquero.

His grandfather lived in the part of Texas that was disputed between the Republic of Texas/the United States and Mexico. He was a loyal Mexican, and when the Mexican-American War broke out, he served as a cavalry officer in the Mexican army. He was killed, and his small estate pillaged by the American army. 

Jack’s father grew up an orphan, and took the lesson of his father’s death to heart. The only way to survive was to keep your head down. Dominguez found his way north into Texas proper and began to work as a vaquero, driving and rounding up wild cattle on the behalf of white ranchers. He learned to keep his head down. He halfheartedly converted to Protestantism, but there was only so much he could assimilate to avoid the racism directed towards him.  He was moderately successful, enough to support a wife in town, and soon she gave birth to a son. He gave this son a very anglo name- Jack. Because of his father’s efforts to assimilate, Jack can barely even speak Spanish.

Jack was born in 1868, three years after the end of the American Civil War. While many families were affected by deciding to join the Confederacy, Dominguez learned from his own father’s mistakes and remained neutral. But still, Jack grew up in its shadow, as Texas was flooded with free blacks and white southerners recently stripped of their fortunes. Or as Reconstruction ended and segregation began. But Jack learned from his father the best thing to do was keep his head down, and hope that white racists overlooked him.

Jack learned from his father how to be a vaquero from a young age, and he took. However, when Jack was 15, his father died from Typhoid fever, forcing him to work full time to support his mother, who died a few years later of cholera (again, his backstory is just regular historical fiction).

The increasing industrialization of the west and the invention of barbed wire in the 80s continued to drive Jack west as he sought work wherever he could find it. In 1888, Jack reached California. But by 1890, there simply wasn’t any open range left. He had been increasingly forced to take on more and more stationary ranch hand jobs, and then they were the only ones left.

Jack worked in the San Francisco area, and that was the up and coming town he would go into on his days off. It was there he befriended two twin prostitutes/performers: the women who would become the Fading Music Hall Singer and the Eccentric Opera House Singer, although he was much closer to the former.

It was with them where he first heard tales of the Neath and Fallen London. The sisters were approached by an Italian man who offered them a chance to perform in music halls in London and work as Mister Wines’ ladies. He was tasked with procuring foreign girls and taking them to London. He claimed the sister’s native heritage would allow them to pass as from somewhere more exotic. Of course, this wouldn’t be free, they’d be in debt to him for a good while. But they would be in London, a place where death is more flexible and everyone is too afraid of Mr. Wines to assault a sex-worker.

The Cynical Tejano didn’t want the sisters to agree to the deal. It sounded way too similar to the kind of things men used to lure women to California from China. But after the Eccentric Opera singer was beaten by a client, they realized that the guarantee of protection under the law was too great an opportunity to pass up.

Jack listened to his dad’s advice when it came to political issues. Although, he’s always found a place among the underdogs- free blacks, other Latines, native Americans, and sex workers were more likely to be his short term friends before circumstances separated them. In London, that means he’s found his place among Urchins, Rubbery Men, and the Tomb Colonists. Used to the racial politics of 1800s America, he was pleasantly, but very surprised, that beyond a few side eyes for being American or a newcomer, no one seemed to care that he wasn’t white.

But Jack had trouble listening to his dad’s advice when it came to not getting into trouble. He had a very quick wit, poor impulse control, and a mind for schemes, even if he didn’t have any actual training behind it. It was one of these schemes that began his Worst Year Ever. 

Jack decided to start flirting with the son of a wealthy man in San Francisco who clearly showed mutual interest (he’s also very surprised that London doesn’t have homophobia anymore either). He’d had a few casual relationships before, but mostly with other cowboys out in the frontier. That’s just how things happened out there, with no women for miles. And so there was still less judgement when he showed no interest in prostitutes once they were back in town. His relationship with the heir was the same. They were friends with benefits, and he knew his lover would be able to avoid consequences one way or another if they got found out.

One night, instead of doing the usual climbing out of the window trick, Jack tried to take some silverware to make up for the fact he was almost destitute. But that woke up the entire household, forcing him to sprint through the streets of San Francisco and vault onto a ship right as it was leaving port. He still has no idea how his lover fared, but hopefully he was assumed to be a burglar.

And thus began Jack’s Worst Year Ever.

The ship was bound for China. And while the captain took a liking to the Adrift Vaquero, he was unwilling to land somewhere else. So the Adrift Vaquero worked as a deckhand on the ship until they arrived in China.

From there he made his way westward, criss-crossing the East. He could have taken a ship back to California, but all those captains wanted payment. He also risked arrest or immigration problems (he was a naturalized citizen, but non-white and couldn’t prove his citizenship) if he tried to go back to the states right away. So instead he made his way the other direction, alternating stowing away or working as a seaman. In ports, he survived through more theft and schemes, increasing his skills and rapscallioness.

Over the course of most of a year, the Adrift Vaquero finally made it to Egypt. From there, he intended to stowaway on an Italian ship. However, his information was bad, and he didn’t realize that said ship was bound for the Cumean Canal. He was now in the Neath.

The more deserted nature of the Cumean Canal and the Adrift Vaqueco’s bafflement at his new position caused him to be caught by the Admiralty's Port Authority. He was thrown into New Newgate for his crimes and given a do-or-die (but metaphorically) course on London.

Although he wasn’t told, his prison sentence was just a single month, and even that was simply to appease the crew of the ship that brought him down (crews willing to make Neath runs are rare). So even while the Adrift Vaquero was working on his escape plan, he was set loose in London with nothing to do. An outsider to both the Neath and English society in general, he still managed to learn quickly and keep his head down. He became a low level thief, mostly working for the Gracious Widow and simply taking the odd jobs as they come to him.

A few weeks after his release from prison, he received a note from his old friend, the Fading Music Hall Singer. Surprisingly, the man who brought her and her sister to the Neath wasn’t lying about the working conditions, and Mr. Wines made sure that all of his ladies had their food and board taken care of. According to the note, she had recently bought her freedom and retired from sex work, and only preformed in music halls now. There was no mention of her sister. She said that she had received news of a jewel “the size of a cow” and thought that Jack might be able to help her steal it, given his tendency for schemes.

The Adrift Vaquero knew that with such a jewel he could return not just to the Surface, but to the US, and probably even retire with a ranch of his own. (Despite his cynicism and flexibility with work, he also has an honest love of horses). So he sought out the Fading Musical Hall Singer, but he couldn’t find her. Now he’s been drawn into a web of conspiracy involving the Masters themselves. Quickly, a time approaches where keeping his head down will no longer be an option, and he must choose a side.

[tsainami]

wip prep tag #2

tagged by: @isherwrites​ tysm!! sorry it took this long to get to.

rules: answer the questions and then tag as many writers as there are questions answered (or as many as you can) to spread the positivity! even if these questions are not explicitly brought up in the novel, they are still good to keep in mind when writing.

last time i did this it was for cheat (which you can find here), this time i’ll do grave mercy.

FIRST LOOK

1. describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch).

a girl against a theocracy (but for its religion) and a boy against its religion (but for the theocracy) who have very ? confusing ? backgrounds ? (and are vampires) somehow end up meeting while investigating a cannibalistic angel. they end up doing something ridiculous together: unraveling ‘god.’

2. How long do you plan for your novel to be? (Is it a novella, single book, book series, etc.)

as far as i can see where the plot’s going, probably a trilogy.

3. What is your novel’s aesthetic?

vampires. religious ones! in priestly/nun-ly (not a word) clothing! which comes in mostly white or bright colors because they’re not fans of black vestments. black armor yes, black clothes no. and since there’s vampires, there’s blood. but also gore. and also cults. and devils, angels, monsters, conspiracy! plus a lot of french gothic architecture.

4. What other stories inspire your novel?

book of the ancestor trilogy by mark lawrence. if you’ve read it, it’s probably obvious.

5. Share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel.

i haven’t done any edits for this a whole either rip. it’s not much right now, but here’s its pinterest board.

MAIN CHARACTER

6. Who is your protagonist?

my main protagonist is a girl called ines nenci. she’s a novice at a convent known (or, unknown) to reform young girls whose faith are tainted.

7. Who is their closest ally?

her closest friend is this younger novice named dafne who she constantly worries about and is very protective of. she views dafne as her closest ally, and throughout the story she retains that sentiment. objectively speaking though, it’s probably reuven. after they meet and her fight or flight response when it comes to him calms down lol.

8. Who is their enemy?

the theocracy. namely the ava santi who sits at its head. and also herself.

9. What do they want more than anything?

this is going to sound anticlimactic maybe, but emotional comfort and security. ines really just wants to stop having to be scared all the time. stop having to hold on to anger and allow herself to finally express her hurt and pain after all the years she’s spent oppressing it. she wants to depend on someone and be able to trust them instead of just being the one depended on while in truth she’s just being manipulated. she honestly just. wants. inner peace (lol).

10. Why can’t they have it?

there are many reasons. let’s start with a few minor obstacles in the shape of people who keep her alive solely for the purpose of using her to further their ambitions: 1. the abbess of the convent. this chick keeps ines in her house only to serve as a tool in her plot of overthrowing the theocracy. the convent’s pretty much a facade for this group of heretics to eventually hold some sort of rebellion. but they’re being really dirty about it. 2. the ava santi (aka ye olde pope). he killed her dad. he was also supposed to kill her, but this amazing idea popped up in his brain and he decided “nay, send her to the convent dear men o’mine.” reasons for this is because a) he hates that fucking place and has wanted it dead for years and b) he can’t touch that fucking place because politics and also One Deep and Dark Secret that would cost his position and probs life should it be exposed. 3. the so-called cannibalistic angel she meets, whose reasons for using her are too spoilery to share at the moment. but it’s got something to do with the one ‘god’ of their faith.

11. What do they wrongly believe about themselves?

that she’s cursed. it’s repeated a lot in the first chapter, actually. her dad’s death and some of his last words really drilled it in her. and it makes sense, because her existence is scorned by the faith and she learns more and more about this (with the misfortune of having to witness her papa burn ffs as lesson 1 of all things) as she grows up.

12. Draw your protagonist! (Or share a description)

she’s got thick, wavy black hair. pretty long (goes up to mid-back i think) and it’s always braided and then tied up into a low bun. she’s always wearing her habit (which is white) and even if she isn’t she tries to wear something close (usually white too) because it makes her feel secure. she has a black cloak she wears when she goes walking around the capital or the woods (that she really and i mean really knows how to work, especially when she’s killing something so not too much of nasty stuff stains her clothes). usually armed to the teeth. hidden blades everywhere. though you can’t really see that i guess. 

sometimes, she carries a sword.

PLOT POINTS

13. What is the internal conflict?

ines is moroi, which is a race that is treated little better than rabid dogs are in montevena. there aren’t many moroi in existence any more because of wars that involved genocide long ago + the fact that as moroi all you have to do to get sentenced to death sometimes is to accidentally bump into someone. anyway, her internal conflict mostly revolves around her struggle between hating what she is and yet having to depend so heavily on it. she wants to separate herself from being moroi, but that’s impossible since she has to face it everyday. even if people weren’t there to remind her, her body can’t lie. she really, really hates it but there’s no other choice but to live with it.

14. What is the external conflict?

everyone is against the theocracy for their own reasons and the theocracy is against everyone. the teams switch up sometimes though and things get wild when a cannibalistic angel appears and the OG residents of the world, the devil-gods, get weaved into the mayhem (did i mention this takes place in an au hell? because it does).

15. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist?  

if ines is put through what she went through as a child, having her world break like that (it wasn’t only her dad’s death, it was all the things about the world she was totally clueless about because up until then her dad had limited her knowledge of it, so her whole life was a big fat lie), it would be B A D. the people currently capable of hurting her that way is an older nun from the abbey named sister aura and dafne.

16. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story?

huge spoilers so i’ll be vague. something monumentally of relevance to not just ines or reuven, but the whole world is a total sham. also if you can believe it or not, aliens are involved (but it totally isn’t what it sounds like lmao).

17. Do you know how it ends?

a little, but not too well right now.

BITS AND BOBS

18. What is the theme?  

there’s an absolute truth to everything. but a lot of the times it gets corrupted by people with ill-bred intentions. that doesn’t mean the truth itself is horrible, though. so it’s always good to discriminate and keep in mind that, just like that guy who yells about global warming but clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about while he goes ‘round the world in private jets that secrete shit tons of shit, sometimes we don’t know everything either.

19. What is a recurring symbol?  

i have no idea. (yet)

20. Where is the story set? (Share a description!)

a city-state called montevena which is loosely based off of vatican city but much more french gothic and kinda creepy. later the story moves through parts of canza, one of the three sanctified states that reuven is from.

21. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already?

yes. predominantly one that occurs in a cave.

22. What excited you about this story?  

the development of the characters. particularly ines, reuven, gabriele, dafne, hazael, mirta and other supporting characters (including the abbess and the ava). it’s just... so interesting. i low-key had a mindfuck about it.

23. Tell us about your usual writing method!  

a copy paste from my previous post on this:

my method is freak out! write a sentence. think about useless things (why would a pigeon be at the city square at night? that doesn't make sense? is it a normal pigeon? what is the purpose of its life?). try not to get distracted (i always do though) and write another sentence. 

the day i’m 92 is the day i finally have two fully written novels with my name plastered all over them in my arms.

TAGGING: @brekkerings @pilipalea @apollchiles (if you guys haven’t done this yet) and anyone else who wants to.

[labormyego]

The Most Depraved & Deplorable Divine Caesar

As a boy, Nero studied most of the usual subjects except philosophy, which Agrippina warned him was no proper pursuit for a future ruler. His teacher Seneca had the works of the old orators from him, intending to be admired himself as long as possible. So Nero turned his hand to poetry, and would dash off verses without any effort. It is often claimed that he published other people’s works as his own, but notebooks and loose pages have come into my [Suetonius] possession which contain some of Nero's’ best-known poems in his own handwriting and have clearly been neither copied nor dictated: many erasures and cancellations. as well as words substituted above the lines, prove that he was thinking things out for himself. Nero also took more than an average interest in painting and sculpture.

His greatness weakness were his thirst for popularity and his jealousy of men who caught the public eye by any means whatsoever. After he had swept the board of all public prizes offered for acting, most people expected him to compete as an athlete at the next Olympic games; he was in fact also an enthusiastic wrestler, and every time he watched a content in the gymnasium during his tour of Greece he would squat on the ground in the stadium like the umpires, and if any pair of competitors worked away from the centre of the ring he would push them back himself. Figuring that he was already thought to rival Apollo in singing and the Sun in chariot racing, he now apparently planned to imitate the deeds of Heracles, for according to one story he had a lion so carefully trained that he could safely face it naked before the entire amphitheatre, and then either kill it with his club or else strangle it.

Just before the end he took a public oath that if he managed to keep his throne he would celebrate the victory with a music festival, performing successively on water organ, reed pipe and bagpipes, and on the last day would dance the role of Turnus from Virgil. Some people say he killed the actor Paris because he considered him a serious professional rival.

Nero’s unreasonable craving for immortal fame made him change a number of well-known names in his own favour. The month of April, for instance, became ‘Neroneus’, and Rome was on the point of being renamed ‘Neropolis’.

He despised all religious cults except that of the Syrian Goddess, and one day he showed that he had changed his mind even about her by urinating on the divine image. He had come, instead, to rest a superstitious belief -- the only one, as a matter of fact, to which he ever remained faithful -- in the statuette of a girl sent him by an anonymous plebian as a charm against conspiracies. It so happened that a conspiracy came to light immediately afterwards; so he began to worship the girl as though she were a powerful goddess, and sacrificed to her three times a day, expecting people to believe that she gave him knowledge of the future. He did inspect some entrails once, a few months before his death, but they contained no omen at all favourable to him.

Nero died at the age of thirty-two, on the anniversary of Octavia’s murder [daughter of Imperator Claudius and first wife of Nero]. In the widespread general rejoicing, citizens ran through the streets wearing caps of liberty. But a few faithful friends used to lay spring and summer flowers on his grave for some years, and had statues made of him wearing his toga, which they put up on the Rostra; they even continued to circulate his edicts, pretending he was still alive and would soon return to confound his enemies. What is more, King Vologaesus of Parthia, on sending ambassadors to ratify his alliance with Rome, particularly requested to honor Nero’s memory. In fact twenty years later, when I [Suetonius] was a young man, a mysterious individual came forward claiming to be Nero, and so magical was the sound of his name in the Parthians’ ears that they supported him to the best of their ability and were most reluctant to concede Roman demands to hand him over.

--- Suetonius,  The Twelve Caesars

[pcurrytravels]

Thoughts: New Orleans (Part V)

It was day three in New Orleans, and once again we woke up early for breakfast. We found out that there was a location of Daisy Duke’s in the CBD that was even closer to our hotel so we went there. I decided to just go ahead and get breakfast this time…..with a side of crawfish hushpuppies. I have to say, I actually liked this location of Duke’s better. The service was quicker, the prices were slightly cheaper (might have something to do with how the other location is in the more touristy French Quarter) and the sweet tea was even better. Oh, and they offered crawfish hushpuppies here while the other location didn’t. And yes they were delicious.

After we finished, my mom went back to the room while I took a little morning stroll, exploring the CBD some more before I decided to give PJ’s Coffee on Canal a try. PJ’s Coffee is the ubiquitous coffeehouse in New Orleans (I literally only saw two Starbucks the entire time I was there), and after trying their product I can easily see why. Remember when I said in the Mini-Guide how their blended Granita drinks are like Frappuccinos but better? Well, they are. They’re smoother, sweeter, and likely made with better quality coffee beans (I mean, New Orleans is a port city so I imagine they’d have pretty easy access to a number of things, including coffee beans). So yes, if you visit New Orleans and see a PJ’s Coffee (and you definitely will), be sure to stop by and give them a try.

Going back to the room to chill for a minute, we then set off to the National WWII Museum. We used the St. Charles Streetcar to get there, and I must say, riding this one was a much more pleasant experience than any of our rides on the Canal or Riverwalk streetcars. Although it can still get crowded, this line is rarely ever standing-room only. Unlike Canal, it also has windows that open, which is surprisingly a very effective means of keeping things cool on board (the Riverwalk line has windows that open too, but that line is usually packed with people and, thanks to the resulting heat attracted to human bodies, an open window is not very effective). It felt nice being able to easily grab window seats without having to worry about having to push through people upon reaching our stop.

Down St. Charles Avenue, through the CBD and Warehouse District, we got off at Lee Circle which was, almost appropriately, right next door to the Civil War Museum and a block away from the National WWII Museum. Why am I saying it was appropriate? Because Lee Circle is named after Robert E. Lee; you know, the Confederate general?

Yeah, modern New Orleans may be a fairly liberal, morally loose and open-minded place, but it’s still the South. There’s going to be reminders of the antebellum and Jim Crow eras all over the place, and that includes public “memorials” to the Confederacy. Ugh. Thankfully, last year the local government decided to remove the statue of Lee that sat atop the pillar pictured above. As they should, because reminders of the more shameful parts of American history such as that need to be in museums, not shamelessly displayed in public (now what they need to do is change the name back to Tivoli Circle or something but I guess that’s none of my business).

Speaking of museums, the National WWII Museum is great……if you’re into the topic. I don’t know if it’s because I learned all about it in school (I remember having one history teacher in high school who was particularly passionate about this era for some reason so I already feel like I studied it to death) or what, but it just didn’t do much for me. Aside from the exhibit about servicemen of color in the War, the Japanese internment exhibit, an infographic which detailed the threat of Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy and the Japanese Empire and the C-47 hanging in the lobby, nothing about the museum really caught my attention. I honestly feel like it was just too small as my mom and I were in and out of there in less than thirty minutes, which is weird when considering how highly regarded the museum is (I’m also VERY happy we got in with the power pass as the admission price is WAY too high at face for what you get in my opinion). It’s a shame the Civil War Museum next door wasn’t included in the Power Pass as I always found the Civil War more interesting than World War II to be honest.

Once we were done, we hopped back on the streetcar to Canal and from there made our way to Jackson Square once more. We first stopped inside the PJ’s for a moment to enjoy frozen lemonades and air conditioning. You’d think we would have an easier time getting used to this weather, seeing that our family originates out of Alabama and Mississippi in addition to being the sort of climate our ancestors were forced to do unpaid labor in for hundreds of years but I digress. Upon cooling down, we stopped to listen to the live brass band for a few minutes before heading into The Cabildo.

The Cabildo is one of two twin buildings which flank the St. Louis Cathedral. Originally serving municipal purposes, the two of them as well as the 1850 House have been repurposed into outposts of the Louisiana State Museum. The Cabildo in particular once operated as the city hall, in addition to being the site where the Louisiana Purchase commenced, but it now hosts an exhibit about Louisiana’s history; spanning from its settlement by the French in the 1600’s to the Reconstruction era. Now, it was fairly interesting and all, with paintings, artifacts and templates about the battle of New Orleans, the region’s indigenous peoples, the differences between French and Spanish colonial rule/policy, West African slaves and free people of color, the Louisiana Purchase and the area’s history with pirates, but overall, I didn’t find it as captivating as The Presbytere.

On the other side of the Cathedral, this not-quite identical building (if you pay close attention, you’ll notice it’s painted in a lighter color and has a flatter, more squared-off roof than the Cabildo /architecture nerd) was originally a courthouse, but now serves as a museum for Mardi Gras, Napoleon’s death mask…………and Hurricane Katrina.

I can remember the news reports like it was yesterday. Having been under the impression that hurricanes were just a Florida thing or something, needless to say, I was scratching my head in confusion at the whole ordeal. My fourteen year-old brain was struggling to comprehend how a hurricane could both reach and do that much damage to somewhere so far inland from a coast (I managed to figure it out a few science classes later), but I still just shrugged it off and thought “oh, they’ll be fine, Florida gets through it every time!” However, upon seeing video footage of vast swaths of houses underwater along with thousands of people crowding into the Superdome, that’s when the severity of the situation hit me.

Even more upsetting was how horribly the situation was handled. People were without food and water for DAYS after the storm made landfall (something we’re seeing a repeat of with Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico basically). It definitely should not have taken nearly a week for FEMA to show up. Then again……the overall catastrophe had more to do with the failure of the area’s levee and floodwall system than it did with the storm itself. I have to ask, why were they in such bad shape in the first place? Many theories and conspiracies still abound to this day, but either way, what happened was a tragic mess that could have been avoided in so many ways.

There were a number of pictures on display of the aftermath, as well as video footage of the day the storm made landfall, and it all felt so……..eerie. Sad, but eerie. To think this eerily deserted city, under siege by a raging, violent storm, is the same vibrant, energetic place that we had been walking around in for the past several days. I almost had to look out the door just to make sure everything was alright; even though, in a lot of ways, things aren’t totally alright (…….a whole thirteen years later). Houses and buildings devastated by Katrina can still be spotted all over the city, and although I didn’t go see it for myself, it’s been said that the Lower Ninth Ward (arguably the most devastated neighborhood of all) has more or less been deemed a lost cause and they gave up on rebuilding a long time ago. New Orleans has definitely rebounded, but it’s still heartbreaking to see so many lingering signs of this catastrophe.

After finishing the Katrina exhibit, we walked through a hall that featured tidbits about Hurricane Betsy, another devastating hurricane that took place back in 1965 (although still not as bad as Katrina) before walking past the random sight of Napoleon’s death mask and upstairs to the Mardi Gras exhibit. Granted, it was more or less a retread of Mardi Gras World, aside from focusing less on floats and more on the history of the various krewes, the “throws” (beads, doubloons and the like) and costume design. It was still a lot of fun none the less. Alas, the clock was ticking, and we wanted to cram one more thing in before embarking on our cruise, so it was off to the lower Pontalba building for the 1850 House.

The Pontalba buildings are two, four-story, red-brick twin buildings which flank Jackson Square. Built in the 1840’s by an accomplished businesswoman known as Micaela Pontalba, they were originally designed as Parisian-style luxury rowhomes, with high-end retail and dining establishments being housed on the first floor. Having fallen into disrepair by the 1930’s, they were then extensively repurposed into apartments, which are still in use to this day. The portion now known as the 1850 House remained untouched, however, instead being used by the Louisiana State Museum as a time capsule exhibit. Within, you’ll be given a glimpse into the lives of middle-class New Orleanians in the 1800’s.

Through a small courtyard, and up a rickety and old-fashioned spiral staircase, you’ll be greeted to a template which provides some information about past occupants of the row home which leads to the parlor and dining room. Granted, each room is protected by a glass railing, likely to prevent damage to the various antiques as it is a self-guided tour after all. Basically, all you can really do is look on at the rooms and their vintage furnishings from the hallway. On the third floor, you’ll find the bedrooms and the nursery and going from there (the layout of the place was pretty confusing so I’m not sure what direction we were going in at this point), you’ll see an exterior room which served as the slave and/or servant quarters until you reach the kitchen and storage room at the base of the house. Now, I’m a vintage/antique nerd, so I enjoyed it, but it probably would have been just a bit more enjoyable if they offered a guided tour, thus allowing you to explore the rooms in detail.

Oh wait, what time is it? Oh, time for the Creole Queen Paddlewheel Cruise! We hopped on the Riverwalk line of the streetcar once more and took it to Spanish Plaza (a monument to Spain’s colonial legacy in the area) which is where the boat was docked. The Creole Queen is one of a number of paddlewheel boats in New Orleans which offer old-fashioned river cruises. Once you hop aboard, you’ll be treated to stunning views of the city and the river (provided you can ignore its gross and oily brown hue) while the guide gives you a little history lesson. Granted, most of the stuff he was saying I already found out from the other tour guides and museums I went to, but it was still enjoyable nonetheless. As I looked around and took pictures of the CBD skyline, Jackson Square from afar, Algiers, the New Orleans port, the old Domino sugar factory, the plantations in the distance and even more Hurricane Katrina ruins, we came to a stop at the Chalmette Battlefield and National Cemetery; the site of the Battle of New Orleans in 1815.

We got off the boat and walked towards an old (creepy-looking and probably haunted) plantation home known as the Malus-Beauregard House, where a man dressed in 19th-century military regalia waited for us. From there, he walked us to this spot underneath a very large oak tree, next to a small bayou, where he began to talk about the Battle of New Orleans. And honestly? I don’t know if it was the story itself or if this particular guide was just boring, but he wasn’t able to hold my attention. It was also hot AF and there were mosquitoes and dragonflies swarming all over the place, so I just took a few pictures of the battlefield and the house before making my way back to the air-conditioned, bug free boat; savoring some bread pudding while waiting things out.

Upon arriving back in New Orleans, we rushed over to Audubon Aquarium, seeking to cram in one more attraction before resting up for our ghost tour in the French Quarter. You better leave the lights on for this one.  

[eleanorkeye]

honey days - excerpt

Chapter One

I want to live in a castle. A hundred and five rooms, each a different color, because sometimes I like emerald green, sometimes I like powdery pink, and sometimes, my favorite color in the whole world is jetty, midnight, inkwell black. I will craft my own stained glass and let the foyer bathe me in rainbows at sunrise. Hopefully, that front room will look east, and then I can choose which hue to run with for the rest of the day. If it faces west, however, I can deal, something of reflection. I know that I want a greenhouse for the winter and a garden for the summer. In the springtime, my hundred year old trees will flower, and in the autumn, of which there must be ample autumn wherever my castle is built or remodeled, those same trees and all of the others in the little forest that is my surrounding land, must go red and gold. I hope to have apple trees, but if someone from the town down the hill, where I get along with every single person, wants to place a crate of them on my old, or made to look, steps each October, that is fine. My lack of height doesn’t lend well to taking fruit from trees. Actually, I would love to climb my trees. Is it too late to have an orchard in the backyard, too? I don’t need too much in the way of a kitchen— I haven’t been very hungry lately— but I feel strongly about hallways. They should be bright. Rugs are important, for my castle will have wooden floors. I’m drawn to red rugs, though I don’t know really why. In any case, each room should have a rug, because I want to run all through the estate, and I feel like the echo of my shoes will wear on me. The shiny black shoes with the winged tips and the spiked-bottom shoes with brown plaid aren’t meant for running on hardwood, anyway. I have grand visions of a different outfit that belongs to each room, but I think that I only want five pairs of shoes. Unkind-weather boots, dark, some kind of imitation leather because cows are for hugs and milk, but only when they agree, since I can’t eat meat anymore. I’ll have my shiny wing-tipped black shoes, the spiky-bottomed plaid shoes, some flat canvas lace-ups for sportier looks, and- “What are you thinking about, Hudson?” Margarite always asks me what I am thinking about just before she leaves me to try and fall asleep. Apparently, I think of the funniest things around this time. When she asks, she combs her fingers through my cinnamon colored half curls to get the knots out and judge how much has fallen out since last night. I think that it’s her fingernails that get me thinking. Then again, just about any woman could comb her fingernails through my hair and I would be spaced out for hours. “Shoes.” She gives a questioning sound. “Shoes?” I just nod, my eyes to the window. The moon should be full one of these nights, and with how much trouble I have had getting to sleep at a reasonable hour recently, it’s an incentive. I could stare at the sky forever. Once the town goes to sleep, once the lights have all went out, the stars take their place. In other times that I have laid in this bed, I have gotten up and stood at the window, but I don’t think I will do that tonight. Maybe I’ll be able to see which sign is in the sky from here. I’m not sure, though. Five stars shine in the sky beyond Roseville Towneship Medical Centre, room three two zero four. I only ever count five, and there is no way in which I could tell you why. “What about shoes, Hudson?” I shake my head. “I’ve moved on.” Maybe I won’t have trouble sleeping anymore by the time I move to my castle. I don’t really have the money for it right now. I’m just a little tailor, but I’m good enough at it to save up. It’s not easy for me to go back to work now. Usually, I still work while I’m here since anyone can bring me my sewing box and projects, but this time is different. I don’t want to think about it. I want to think of my castle, because even though I am stuck here for now, in this yellowish-white room with squares on the pleated and round-hemmed curtains, sun-powered lights in the ceiling that are so unkind, and the scratchiest blankets in the world, someday, I will live in a castle. I just hope that someday is relatively soon. Now, to spend so much time in rooms with no art on the walls, single beds, higher than they should be, with overbleached white sheets, and these little lamps with sun-bulbs that affix to the tall headboard, switches on the walls and little sketching monitors or tall poles adorned with clear bags, there is no soul to be found. I have been so drained of anything. It’s harder to breathe. It’s harder to speak. It is so much harder to sleep. Even if, on the little table beside the window, there is a radio, there isn’t any life here. Maybe that’s the point. I was doing so well until recently. For months, I never even thought of anything being out of place. I worked in my parents’ laundromat, setting my sewing machine up at the counter. When anyone came in for their drycleaning, they spoke to me before my mother. It was always something along the lines of looking better. I’d like to think that I always look decent, being very much my mother’s son and all, but I am biased towards the bruisier, rheumy aesthetics. They’re all I’ve ever really known, I guess. I’ve never woken up feeling rested. Not a day goes by without an ache or standing too quickly. Too many times in life, I have jumped to my feet, only to fall over like a logged tree. There must be some pretty short trees out there for this simile to work. Anyway, daily inconveniences aside, I had been doing so well. I saw my friends often and put my paychecks towards new albums or scented candles or throw pillows. I made my bed every morning after waking up on time after falling asleep quickly. Three meals a day, colorful ones without ingredients that made things worse, coordinated outfits that fit right, and I even got a good haircut at a point. None of my friends pointed out that I should find different sweater sizes. They didn’t call my haircut, “uh… interesting…” and not one person asked if I’d slept alright the night before. I was smiley, talkative, and present. I was fuzzy and warm and just about to turn twenty-four. I was betting castle savings that I’d never have Margarite’s good fingernails through my hair again, or that it would be falling out again. But I guess I bet a bit too much. I was out with a girl named Melody, laughing over conspiracy theories and craft brews at the after-hour library. I liked Melody a lot. We met at the record shop. My favorite lead from my favorite band left last March. I knew that a solo album had been released, as well as a business as usual album from the two members left, but I hadn’t the heart to invest in either of them until then. I have a favorite member, but it was still heartbreaking to have to choose a side. The record shop had both albums on a table. The single from the solo record had gone to number one, the other number two, and the feud was so dramatic that I couldn’t escape it. It tore me apart. Truly. I’d gotten so bad, and to not have my favorite band behind me, to have my favorite band falling apart so dramatically right in front of me, threw me into episodes of nothing mattering more often than I’d like to admit. The nurses gave me news when they found out from the gossip columns in the paper, but only good news. I couldn’t handle any more bad news. Anyway, Melody saw me weighing my options at the table. “They’re both good,” she said from the counter. I turned quickly, wondering when the owner, an older and worse for wear gentleman who has a warrant out for anything on the baroque spectrum and does not condone my checkerboard mustard yellow and navy blue slacks— which look amazing, mind you— had been replaced with a goddess of heavy eye makeup, loose-bobbed curls the color of coffee, and, fatefully, a navy blue overall shift dress atop a mustard yellow turtleneck. I was in love. I pushed back my tears as quickly as I could. I stammered the only thing that mattered to me. “Which is more baroque?” She smiled through caramel lipstick. “Solo album.” So I bought the solo album, we exchanged names and free evenings, and then on Saturday, chose a table in the new non-fiction section. I talk politics like a madman, and luckily, Melody and I agree on universal healthcare and social progress, so we got wheat-buzzed and laughed at the right wing. Roseville is a small, cobblestone town situated barely inside cotton and tobacco country, and maybe it was the will of the conservatives at the bar, or maybe I got too optimistic in my newfound alcohol tolerance, but either way, I made it halfway back to my parents’ house at the end of White Street before waking up on the sidewalk at the hands of burly paramedics, my date replaced with a canvas-covered trauma-trolley, and my lifelong cycle of, “actually, it can get worse this time” repeating itself. I didn’t ask what happened. I know how it goes by now. I didn’t wonder what madness my body would assault me with this time. I’ve learned better than to try and predict it. I didn’t bother asking how long I’d be spending in room three two zero four of Roseville Towneship Medical Complex. They always underestimate. I took my new side effect of excruciating pain down my legs, six hands’ worth of needle drips per carpal set, and bad news after bad news after bad news, and decided to think of other things. Like living in a castle, for example. “We’ll get you reunited with your shoes soon,” Margarite presently tries. I respond with a roll of violently hazel eyes and a breath not too strong to beckon the breather again. “Once you’re a little more vibrant.” “That’s offensive, Margarite.” “Last time, you called it clever.” “Last time, I couldn’t remember my name.” “Which reminds me,” she takes my board of paperwork from the foot of the bed. “What’s your name again?” I’ve done this six times today— name, age, month and day of birth, sun sign, height, and, get ready for this one, street address. Exciting stuff. I love feeling like I’m locked out of my life. “Hudson James Walker, twenty-four, August twenty-second, Leo, if my birth time is to be believed, five-seven in shoes, and,” I catch my breath. “Three-thirteen White Street.” She returns the board. “At least you don’t have to worry about any of that,” as she reaches the door, the lights are cut off. “Goodnight, Hudson.” “Don’t count on it, Margarite.” The begged question at this point is along the lines of, “What is wrong with me?” Short answer: Everything. No, honestly, it is my tendency to collapse at complete random and violently convulse until something is knocked off-kilter, out of place, or into dormancy. It comes in clusters. I’ll go a few months completely fine, usually immediately after Roseville Medical glues me back together, and then it will strike with the most random thing at the most random time. My most recent hiatus was the shortest at three months, but it was the best. I got summer, and I do appreciate that, because I got my birthday, too. The lake outside town was so nice on the solstice. I couldn’t go in past my waist because I still had patches taped to my chest from having lightning pressed against the lifespots, but I did take my shirt off despite the bolt scars up my shoulders. I think that people were more obligated to stare by the month’s worth of hair in the time I couldn’t shave, but I understand that. I’m small�� for the most part… and have a very gentle face— long eyelashes, low hairline, the whole nine— so, really, there is no excuse for me to have as much hair on my chest, arms, and legs as I do. Some lake-goers, I think, were waiting for me to speak, and when my s’s and high-ish tenor delivered in spades— ‘sspadess’— the mystery got that much deeper. I enunciate a lot, and very little of it, if any, comes across as masculine, so I get it. It’s all confused. Overall, summer was great, though. I enjoyed it alongside my health, toothy smile, and best friend. Autumn is my favorite season by far, though. October the only month I live for, so losing this year is a bit of a— sigh— bummer, but I’ll live. Wait. The time before last was the most dramatic. I think that they shocked me six times. The hair doesn’t grow there anymore. I kept the patches on for six months. I’m not sure the scars will ever go away. So, yes, I’ve died before, here, and, yes, it keeps me awake at night. I still get sore around my ribs sometimes. It was my memory last time, and they said that they fixed it, and I’m inclined to believe them what with the fact that I remember it, but I don’t recall exactly how. I don’t want to know. If I know, then I know what to worry about. This time, it flipped a switch that turned my legs to radio static. It hurts at the best of times. I have learned to cope with the base hurt, the stationary static, but they won’t send me home because, unless I stay completely still above the waist, it is absolutely unbearable. It is safe to say that I am mildly dramatic, but I have an incredible pain tolerance. If I say something hurts at a ten, I don’t. If something hurts at a ten, I am collapsed to the floor, unconscious. I can’t be touched below the hip flexors without coughing up whatever I’ve eaten in the past five days, and I think that’s why they aren’t offering food anymore. A shower, during which I never stood, was so intense that it stopped them pushing liquids, too, and I’ve never been so thirsty, but drinking then involves getting up twenty minutes later, so I’ve taken to dealing with it. No one is allowed to give me anything, and I don’t really want to sneak over to the sink. I am just going to be thirsty forever, feeling no relief from painkillers, breaking down into tears when I remember how much I love toast. It’s bad this time. It was bad last time. It was bad the two times before that. Before those times, however, it was little more than finding a safe place to lie down once every few months and, at worst, waking up with bruises. I got warnings before anything happened, a little shake in my hands. The episodes were short, no more than five minutes. No switches were ever flipped, the day just went on as normal. It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t bad. I worked regularly. I saw my friends often. I lived with my girlfriend. She found me the first bad time. We rented a one-bedroom apartment on North Main Street, tucked away between the historical district and the park. It was an industrial thing, an old mill, I think. The ceilings were high, the windows were tall, and all of the furniture was either dark wood or upholstered mustard yellow. I did not decorate the apartment. Maximalism and I don’t do well together. I asked only for my turntable and a third of a bed. Her name was Emily Monday, and I’m pretty sure that it still is. She had blonde hair, and I’m pretty sure that she still does. We dated for three years. I don’t really want to talk more about any aspects that aren’t medical, but I loved her. I loved her so terribly. I got along with her about as well as I get along with maximalism, but I really did love her. It was around three in the morning when she found me on the vinyl tiled kitchen floor, affront the laminate ‘wood’ cabinets, or so the people involved have told me. She knew as much as I did about it. Less than five minutes, don’t try to stop it, I’ll deal with the aftermath when I wake up, “don’t worry about it, babe. You wouldn’t even know it happened if I hadn’t told you.” Except, I got no warning. I don’t even remember going into the kitchen. I remember falling asleep combing my fingers through the longest, straightest, softest blonde hair, and then I woke up in July. The incident happened in the second week of June. I don’t really know what tipped her to call paramedics, and I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it, so we’ll never know. I take a bit of joy imagining two burly men dragging me down the three flights of stairs, no lift, that I was cursed to climb a few times a day. I’m not heavy, but they must have been on their toes, never knowing when I would flail and hit them. It’s what the ideally built man deserves, to be scared of me for once. Then again, everyone who knows is absolutely terrified of me. I shiver or cough or stare into one spot trying to add two double digit numbers together for too long and everyone has a panic attack. I don’t work register anymore. I couldn’t find words for a while after that first bad time, but Emily could, and that was that. We ran into each other at the lake over the summer. Her new boyfriend is taller than I am. He has broader shoulders and a deeper voice, doesn’t overdo ‘s’s or anything. We went to school together, all three of us. He’s a nice guy, I guess. I never really knew him. He dragged her up to me, saying that we should talk, catch up. I politely lied that I had to go, but there we three were, half-naked on a man-made beach. I don’t remember what we said, but I remember my best friend, Lionel Lee, ending it by making the sound of thunder by cupping his hands over his mouth and dragging me away to collect my clothes. Lionel is a great friend. I wonder why he hasn’t called in the week since I’ve been here. I wonder what color I’ll paint my bedroom in the castle.

There comes a point. I’ll start with that. There comes a point, and to elaborate, there comes a point in situations such as mine at which all avenues have been exhausted, and a decision must be made. I’ve known medications before, three of them. Two of the three didn’t work, but the one that did was so terribly unkind that it pushed me over a terribly unkind edge, and it was never an avenue again until yesterday afternoon. Yesterday? Yesterday— it’s tomorrow now, quarter past three. I was confronted by a doctor alone, in stark contrast to the usual confrontation involving my mother. I know this doctor well, but I can’t ever remember his name. I guess that is to be expected in a situation such as mine. He said that we all know what works in controlling these spells, and that I should strongly consider considering it again. This is not my worst outcome, but if a usual pattern is to be followed, it will get worse over the next few days, and then disappear for a while, only to come back that much scarier. I can always rely on being brought back with how irrationally eager my soul is to stay in this body, but it has been implied that I should avoid it in the first place. I agree, but I cannot subject myself to what I was subjected to on that chemical compound the last time. I told him that. In response, and in complete honesty, he told me that I have about a hundred days left to live, should I choose to live alone. Alone, referring to free of chemical intervention, I can move in with as many women as I’d like. Of course, a hundred days is a rough estimate. It could be fewer or it could be more, but he said that one hundred days was a good estimate for me. He then said that I should rethink my decision. I refused to rethink my decision.

[thatparkinsongirl]

WORLDS.

Friends. No one ever told you life was gonna be this way. The apartment complex has seen better days but it’s a roof over your head and that’s more than enough to be grateful about. There’s a pitch-perfect coffee shop on the corner and the people on your hall are actually fantastic.

Disaster. It’s the end of the world. Everything in ruins. You’re running, running, just trying to survive these last days. You sleep fitfully, even then still alert, one hand tangled with theirs and the other gripped around a gun/wand. Or alternately, you’re the crackpot science team that first discovered something was wrong. You’ve all been locked up behind miles of reinforced steel in the CDC? NSA? Area 51? trying to solve this disaster. You were pulled away from your families, not able to save them, not able to take anything. Coffee, coffee, MRE meals. Microscopes, slides, formulas scribbled across white boards trying not to give in to the impending doom.

Inversion. This is not the world you know. Here, Headmaster Riddle pats a young boy on the shoulder and gives some much needed advice. Here, Grindewald and Dumbledore strike fear in the hearts of all the muggleborns. Here, everything and everyone is just a little off center. Your choices define you. (Borrowed from here)

Darkest. Dark magic thrums through your veins, slick and oily. You crave it, live for it. The forbidden section has been your second home ever since the first time you snuck in second year. You are something to be feared. The magic you play with is going to change the world. It’s not about hurting people (sometimes an unfortunate side effect) or taking over the world necessarily (though that is a goal), it’s about this sickly curiosity in magic. How far can you can go? How many lines can you cross? LOOsely off this in which the golden trio go somewhat dark, https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334630/chapters/14514247. Particularly there’s a whole thing in which they bond themselves to each other in a fit of codependency which just yessssss.

Rich as fuck. Money, money, money. Money is the anthem of success. Fast life, shiny diamonds, the best clothes. Speeding too, too fast down the highway, hand out the window. Cops won’t pull you over; they know better. Your lives are a never-ending party. Super Rich kids by Frank Ocean.

Roadtrip bitches. It’s the summer before university. The last hurrah before you all go your separate ways. Long, too deep conversations around a fire while you all smoke. Roadtrip mix blaring through the speakers. Seeing every weird roadside attraction you can. Talking about growing up, childhood, fears, change. About how you could go a year without speaking to someone but they’re still, always gonna be your best friend.

Political. Is it the west wing or house of cards?? Are they corrupt as fuck, bribing and killing and manipulating their way or they earnest and honest as possible, hearts brimming with desire to make the world something worth living in.

PUnk. idk. Hip hop. DJs. Raves. Tattoo artists. Lighters. Smoke rising up into the sky. Motorcycles and a shit ton of leather. Graffiti in the alleyway behind the bar you own.

Therapy. Post-war, and it’s rough. The physical scars are easy enough to ignore. It’s several months before you break down and join the therapy group at St. Mungos. You all swear you’re only there for the free coffee and doughnuts. Phobias, triggers, panic attacks. Recovery. Late night phone calls cause you had the nightmare again.

Olympics. Fencing? Swimming? Hockey? Gymnastics? Ice skating? Or, I mean, alternately, they could be in the Quidditch world cup. Competitors who like mock each other but also hardcore root for each other. It’s a small community and you all have known each other your entire life. It’s been a fight but here you are on the olympic team, favorites for the gold. 

Doctors. Late night hours. 12 hr shifts. Narcissism. The ultimate god complex. Shitty coffee. Stress. Lost a patient today, saved a patient tomorrow. Fighting over who gets to be second on the awesome heart surgery. A quickie in the on call room because damn your ass looks fine in those scrubs. Quizzing each other over a quick lunch. Complaining about your attending at the bar on your first night off in ages.

Unspeakables. They died, struck down during the war and none of you could bear to survive without them. The plan is put together in the early hours of the morning, feverish. It’s stupid, selfish; all this to save one life. You all join the Unspeakables because the rumor is they’ve been working on creating new time turners. None of you care who suffers for this as long as you can get them back.

How to Get Away With Murder/I Know What You Did Last Summer. You’re tied together by an awful, terrible secret. None of you can risk turning on each other. You’ve made sure of that. Toxic people. Guilt. There’s a body in the morgue with your names on it. It was an accident truly but the covering it up that was deliberate. Maybe some unknown person knows and is blackmailing you all or maybe, maybe they’re just trying to get away with it.

Spaceeeee. Inspired by the Wolf 359 and the Strange Case of Starship Iris. Science. Space. Discovery. Futuristic. Bonding because you’re trapped together in a tiny space ship. Conspiracy. Suicide missions. Technology betraying you. The fate of the entire human race resting on your shoulders. 

Parks&Rec/Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Any job-lawyers, firefighters, coffee-shop. It doesn’t matter because they’ve become a tight-knit family. Work hijinks, skinny love probably, I broke your email after I sent you 20 cat memes in a row. office parties. a hint of danger and risk (ok i admit it i like the firefighter one best). My very first day I was driving around trying to find the staff parking and a car honked, whizzed past me, yelling something crude out the window. It turned out to be my new boss.

Dark Post War. With Voldemort dead, Death Eaters being rounded up left, and peace returned to Wizarding London for the first time in more than a decade, it’s easy to believe that all is well. (The problem is that there is no length that people won’t go to protect their peace once they get it back.) Conscription into the Aurors for eligible wizards is enacted to ensure a strong standing against any lingering Voldemort supporters. A man in a black robe is murdered in the street one night because a young, nervous Auror thought he was a Death Eater. Incredibly harsh sentences handed down for any war crime. When Hogwarts finally reopens its doors over a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, it’s to the complete eradication of the Slytherin house (there are rumors about what happens to the children that the Sorting Hat would’ve sorted into Slytherin) and the addition of core classes. It is not a school but a training ground. Certain shops in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade are shut down for “sedition” and “miscreant behavior”, most notably Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Known war hero, Hermione Granger, is tossed in a Ministry cell for two months for sedition, after she attempts to prevent the arrest of a werewolf. Released war prisoners, people like the Zabini family who did not bear the Dark Mark but who were afflicted with Dark families, and “potential dark wixen” are branded by the Ministry as a warning to the public. All the while, the Ministry reports capturing dangerous Death Eaters, spotting war criminals in Hogsmeade, about danger lurking everywhere. The official statement is that they are trying to right mistakes made after the defeat of Grindewald, if they’d taken a stronger offense then Voldemort never would have happened. What it boils down to though is fear and vengeance and the shifting tide of power. 

Darkest Minds. So I’m finally reading this series since the movie’s coming out soon. I’m only 6 chapters in thus far but yes! this plot! would! definitely! want!

Dark Academia. The Secret History!!! Probably, definitely a secret society!! Mystery! The most pretentious assholes you will ever meet. Arguments over classic literature. Speaking latin to each other so no one else knows what they’re saying. Tweed jackets. Fall in New England. Tea. No i don’t own a tv I believe they’re corrupting the youths’ minds. Insomnia. A 40 page treatise on the Odyssey. 

Alternate Fifth Year. In a world where the young slytherin fifth years spend the summer of between fourth and fifth year, watching their parents with disgust and trepidation. They are ambitious, devoted to self-preservation and they are smart enough to see that following the Dark Lord is a road to ruin. Lucius Malfoy comes back from Death Eater meetings, shaken, Mr. Nott Senior with a long cut down his face. No, the slytherins have no interest in a life like that. It’s too bad then that they’re not even being taught Defense in school. It’s luck that they hear about the group of students that have started practical magic in secret. Canon divergent fifth year where the slytherins join Dumbledore’s Army. Can start after fifth year too but like that’s where it diverges. 

Back Home*. When they say you can’t ever go home again, they mean it, because home isn’t a static location, it’s a word full of extra connotation. It’s tied to a specific time and emotion and feeling. A group of friends return to their small hometown for the first time in eight years for the funeral of a mutual friend. Some of them have vaguely kept in touch but for the most part despite how close they were growing up they’ve all drifted apart. A story about loss, growing up, nostalgia, fear, and friendship. You won’t ever the same kind of friends you had when you were young. 

Shadow Children (Margaret Peterson Haddix). Futuristic, dystopian. Every family is allowed ONLY 2 children yet secret 3rd children do exist, living in the shadows and scraps. Some are lucky enough to get a fake identity and freedom. So I read this series when I was like 11 or something and they’ve kind of haunted me ever since. I’d probably wind up disappointed if I ever tried to reread them but whatever.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the first book lately, in regards to all the school kids protesting gun violence and the people in power just looking away as more children die, and just viscerely reminds of the horror I had reading the end of the first book in which (SPOILER) one of the main characters goes to a protest on the front lawn of the white house esque government building, convinced that if enough them protest, if they demand justice, they can get it. Each and every person at the protest is gunned down. For   young me who had largely only read books where everything wound up happy as long as you were brave and honest and full of spirit, this was an enormous shock. Idk how this would work but yes!

CONNECTIONS. 

Bodyguard. Mighty, mighty need for this. You’re the ambassador or president or queen or minister’s kid and your parents hire a bodyguard. You resent their protection. Ruining your semblance of a normal life. Judging you. You can’t help slipping their protection. Heart to hearts. Shared truths. Grudging respect and whatever. Ugh and the sexual tension, more alive than a power line. The attack comes out of left field and it’s a mess. (This. So down to play this out as whatever characters in any world)

Death. Straight up angst here. Final battle death scene. One second they’re right there and the next there’s a flash. You hold your hands over the gaping wound, screaming for a healer but you both know it’s over. Tears mixing with blood. Maybe they become a Hogwarts ghost. (Any character, any sort of relationship-married, dating, siblings, best friends, we shouldve dated but now your dying my arms)

Toxic. Do I feel guilty about having a thing for fictional toxic relationships? Yes, yes I do. But does that change anything? no. “Oh, we broke ages ago.” But everyone rolls their eyes when you say it. Because neither of you can stop and everyone knows. A couple of drinks in and you can’t keep your hands off each other. There’s still jealousy and toxicness and protectiveness and posssesiveness. There’s a dent in the wall from the time you threw a lamp at them. And god, if you could just make it work but love just isn’t enough sometimes. I’d tattoo your name on my arm but i wouldn’t marry you(Any characters)

Married in Vegas. You two hate each other’s guts. You’re constantly trying to one up each other in front of the boss. And you both always have a different way of approaching a problem. You steal candy bars out of their desk and they keep getting you locked out of your computer somehow. But your both the best so of course your selected for the Vegas conference work is holding. What happens next?? well?? a lot of alcohol, you know that. Neither of you quite remember but those rings on your fingers might mean something.

Romeo and juliet. Mob vs. cops or Death eaters vs. Order.  Forbidden romance. Secret meetings. My uncle killed your father. You have a body count that would make them blush. Maybe you’ll turn states evidence for them. Maybe they’re just using you. (any)

Softsoftsoftsoft. Bakery and coffee shop across from each other. Skinny love. A lot of Troye Sivan and Hayley Kiyoko playing. Longing stares, blushing, awkwardness. All your friends say they are definitely into you but??? Or alternately, you co-own the bakery coffee shop and you’ve been dating since third year and your friends all want to kill you. Because ughhh noone should still be that in love. Some serious codependency and domesticity here. Like if anyone’s seen How I Met Your Mother-Lily and Marshall. (any)

Misunderstandings. Classic trope. Of course, you thought they were dating. They live together, steal food from each others plates, share sweaters, tease each other relentlessly, constantly physically affectionate. Really what were you supposed to think. Cue the miscommunication and needless pining and hilarity. (any)

Bonnie and Clyde. Gringotts robbers? Who knows but you’re criminals and you’re good at it. Three steps ahead of the aurors. Careless laughter, drunk on adrenaline. Drive it like you stole it by the Glitch Mob!! and End Credits by Eden!! (any)

Siblings. I’m sorry that all the others are relationship plots because I really do high key love a good best friends/siblings plot. Real siblings or we grew up together and i would murder someone for you siblings. They know each other better than the backs of their hands. Secrets are for other people. Soft plot-just them taking care of each other after a tragedy. Tough love-you fucked off to Paris because you couldn’t deal with your life and they dragged your ass back because when you were kids they promised not to let you make any irreversible mistakes. protective-just. they keep doing dangerous shit and risking their life and you have to knock some sense into their thick skull. Ridiculous-they are everyone’s worst nightmare, stuck together like glue, always causing trouble. Spitting gum down at people from the astronomy tower. Finding ways to beat the anti-cheating quills. Actually helping your sibling get rid of a body. (any)

Best friends/Squad. You all meet at the bar religiously after work. Got each other’s back still, always, forever. Growing up doesn’t mean you have to lose them. (all; I watched the whole first season of golden girls last night so I’ve got a lotta squad feelings. )

Parent and child. Honestly just this song. Heirloom by Sleeping at last!!!! You’re both trying your best but there’s always going to be this tension, these mistakes on both sides. Regrets, nostalgia, angst, softness, forgiveness. (any, but this song always gives me Draco-Scorpius and Harry-Albus vibes)

Eighth Year Partners. PostWar. After a review of Hogwarts’ records, it’s decided that the school year of 97-98 will have to be repeated for all students. In an effort to bring the students of all houses together to promote healing and unity, a random buddy system is set up. A Ravenclaw sixth year paired with a Gryffindor fifth year. A Hufflepuff and Slytherin second year paired. So on and so forth. Though Headmaster McGonagall believed it was a good opportunity, she was loathe to force any student into something they didn’t want, certainly not after the past few years. Thus her only fast rule for the partnerships was sitting together for two meals a week. Some took full advantage of the system, studying together, attending each other’s quidditch games. Others sat in stony silence during the required time only.

@ginevraxweasleyy @marcusflvnt @occlumensism

[findingschmomo]

Summary of my first experience with Magischola, playing a Cryptozoology professor at Magischola Prep Summer Camp. 

First day of class, Professor Skugg revealed she had not been feeding her gremlins, accidentally let loose a Memmic on campus and cursed a Loup Garou Counselor to obey her so she could use her in class. She also spent most of the class not teaching, but rather, ranting about her conspiracy board about the existence of a Reverse Mermaid in the woods. When the Registrar visited her last class to monitor what was happening, she lied through her teeth and the class covered for her.

The next day, the Registrar ordered the Board of Tutelage to begin their investigation on Professor Skugg based on these allegations. Professor Skugg took the advice of some of the students and changed her name to Professor Norm Al, claiming to be Skugg’s cousin and her substitute teacher. Wren Bradford, director of the camp, and Skugg’s best friend was very unamused by this plan and may have started panicking about the camp being shut down. This is also about the time when Professor Skugg started telling the campers not to talk to any of the men in suits who were clearly conspiring against her. Chants of “Professor Skugg did nothing wrong” started to spread throughout the camp.

That evening, Professor Skugg led a cryptid tracking session in which campers stumbled upon a Chupacabra, which they then trapped and tested for sapience. One camper than killed the chupacabra to fulfill a fae deal much to the horror of the other campers. (Professor Skugg may have laughed as the cryptid died, but that was mostly from the excitement of having fresh chupacabra jerky at the bonfire. It definitely did not warrant a student shouting at her “You don’t need a freezing spell, you’re cold hearted enough.” Minus two points from Morton)

At the bonfire many students started screaming about a ghost joining them. Professor Skugg, enjoying her chupacabra jerky, found this to be very stupid. There was definitely no ghost. She spent the evening chatting with Wren Bradford about how the students had been inhaling too much smoke. 

For Thursday’s class, Professor Skugg was barred from using her classroom because of the ongoing investigation. Despite making an anonymous announcement of “Dear Board of Tutelage, everything is fine. You can leave now. Thanks,” the investigation continued. Her first two classes consisted of a game of camouflage and a rare visit from a wandering Sasquatch. Highlight of the class was an initiate attempting to heal the injured Sasquatch, stating “You keep drawing the healing rune, I’ll feed him my Rice Krispie.”

After her second class, the Sasquatch stumbled into the main courtyard, suffering from heat exhaustion because he was meant for colder climates. The students tried to help but failed. Professor Skugg lead the injured beast away and swiftly took care of the problem. (Humanely, despite the agonizing wail from the Sasquatch himself.) She then skinned the beast and left the rug in the Bradford common room, as one does with luxury items. 

Unfortunately, for her last class of the day, a Marshal sat in to monitor her. Even more unfortunately, a Jiwa Setan interrupted class and attacked one of the counselors, sucking his positivity out of him. The students handled the situation quickly, easily getting rid of the beast, while Professor Skugg (still masquerading as Norm Al) definitely did not panic. The Marshal proceeded to lay into Skugg, telling her this is a warrant for an arrest, and that this Norm Al nonsense ended now. Once the Marshal left, Professor Skugg tried to calm the angry students down by assuring them their counselor would be fine and it was more important to come up with a cover story for what had happened and to make sure the Registrar did not find out. “Remember class, what happens in Cryptozoology, stays in Cryptozoology.”

The Marshal distributed class evaluations during dinner, asking students if Skugg should remain on faculty despite her crimes. Professor Skugg spent most of dinner bribing students with house points for positive evaluations and attempting to calm Wren Bradford down, continuously stating that everything was fine.

In a sudden twist of fate, a poetic announcement was made in which the Registrar asked Professor Skugg to be their date to the ball to which Professor Skugg readily agreed. Realizing that the Registrar’s monitoring was not meant to get her in trouble, but rather because of their crush on her, her spirits were completely lifted. She spent the evening helping Wren Bradford commentate the Court Tournament, sharing stories of their own camp days (specifically humorous stories at the expense of their mutual friend, Von Cailler (healing prof)) before the incident that closed the camp down a decade ago.

Professor Skugg kept a low profile for most of Friday morning, but slipped in an announcement during lunch as a response to the Registrar’s message:

“Dearest Registrar

I have kept my distance from afar

I always thought your careful eyes

Were meant to terrorize

But now I see that these are lies

Yes I will accompany you too the dance

Thank you for giving me this chance

To prove that I truly do belong,

and that Professor Skugg did nothing wrong.”

Most interestingly, some students started asking Skugg to participate in their show case ritual. They claimed Skugg was suffering memory altering magic and was involved in the camp closing incident. Which is preposterous, but Skugg was used to people never believing her about the Reverse Mermaid she saw, so she agreed to help out with the ritual anyway. 

During the showcase, Professor Skugg almost panicked to death when Morton Court decided to use the Sasquatch skin as part of their ritual in front of the Board of Tutelage. Luckily, the students never mentioned her by name and she remained clear of the crime. Wren Bradford sent her many panicked glares.

During the Williams ritual, Skugg, Wren, Von Cailler and Toni were led into the circle to be given their memories back. As the students chanted it suddenly all became very clear. The constant fog within Skugg’s mind, the headaches, the inability to plan for the future, the constant running from consequences, were all side effects of terrible mind altering. 

10 years ago at camp, Skuggs friend was bitten by a lycan and turned into one. Desperate to save their friend, she and her other friends tried a ritual to save him which went awry, killing him in the process. The lasting image was burned into Skugg’s mind: a person, half wolf, half human. Von Cailler, panicked and scared, casted a powerful memory altering spell on the rest of his friends. For Skugg, it meant forgetting the incident, forgetting the friend, and having their mind in a permanent fog with no ability to future plan or comprehend that her actions have consequences. 

The burden of her memories spiraled her into a panic attack, further exacerbated by the ghost of her friend speaking to her. Von Cailler continued to be unrepentant, and the ghost friend gave a speech that left all the campers in tears, “There will always be people like him, people who hate you for who you are. But every day you wake up happy and smiling, is a day they lose and you win.”

The students shared in the mental burden with Skuggs. On the way back to the dorm two students confronted her, showing her her Reverse Mermaid board and telling her they still believed in her, and that her passion was not pointless but rather inspiring. Spirits slightly lifted, Skuggs put on her giant ballgown dress and headed to the dance with the Registrar.

While dancing with them, the Registrar suddenly grabbed her, calling for the Marshals and cutting the music. Her arrest was announced, and Skuggs begged to speak to the camp. She apologized for all her wrong doings, told the world that her mind was finally free and that she mustn’t run away any longer. She’ll go to jail, she’ll do her time, and she was so very sorry for everything. As she fell to her knees, the Marshals turned to the campers, “Do you believe Skuggs should remain?” And the campers shouted back near unanimously, “Yes!” which warmed Skuggs heart and brought her to tears. She was put on probation instead and asked to return to teach at next year’s camp. 

In all seriousness, this past week has been absolutely magically. All of the kids were fantastic, emotionally mature empathetic human beings who changed my life and created a beautiful story. Bless them all. The staff was so welcoming and wonderful and we created such a safe and accepting environment. My heart is full of warmth and my faith in humanity slightly rebuilt. 

[houseofvans]

Art School | Q&A w/ Andy Kehoe (PA)

We’ve been following the magical and mystical works of Pittsburgh based artist Andy Kehoe for some time, and we’re excited to have him for our latest Art School Q & A.  Through his own unique visual language, Kehoe creates mesmerizingly imaginative and otherworldly places where his mysterious inhabitants venture into mystical interactions with the “awe and grandeur of nature.”  We chatted with this brush wielding wizard on various topics from his upcoming show at Thinkspace gallery, his process of creating some of these resin layered works to how he recently delved into the world of Magic the Gathering!

Photographs courtesy of the artist

Hey Andy, tell us a little about yourself. 

I’m just your typical run of the mill Korean/German/Irish-American trying to survive the mean streets of Pittsburgh with nothing but luscious head of hair, a foolish dream, and a sharp knife that thirsts for the blood of my enemies. 

In non-wise ass terms, I’m an artist that lives and works in Pittsburgh, PA. I share my house/studio with my lovely, awesome wife, Ash, and our insufferable furry children comprised of one dog, Gizmo, and three cats, Gremmy, Sir, and Mia.  

Last year is finally over, what were some of the highlights?  What were your favorite projects or shows?

I had an absolutely insane year of art making in 2016. It started in June with my most recent solo show, Fantastical Romanticism, at Jonathan LeVine Gallery. That was immediately followed by 3 group shows in the Fall. Then came the holidays, which are always a super hectic time for me with print sales and the usual holiday madness. It’s safe to say that 2016 was the busiest year of my life and, though it was very rewarding, I was glad to see it come to an end.

 My LeVine show was definitely a career high point for me. I put so much work into that show so it was great to see it all come together in the end. I wanted the show to be big and super detailed, so that added up to many sleepless nights. And man, was it down to the wire. I had so much going on in the last month and I remember looking at my notes and my crazy person dry erase board thinking, “My god…What have I done? How the holy hell am I going to pull this off?.” After fighting back the urge to violently vomit and weep, I just had to take it step by step and hope for no unforeseen delays. When working on multiple pieces at once, my goal is to get all of them to a point in which I’m comfortable I can finish them in the last month of work. So when a piece is pretty close to completion, I’ll put the piece aside and focus on those that need more attention. Usually, a large majority of the pieces get finished in the process.

 For this show, I had to keep bouncing between pieces and almost all of them needed to be finished in the last few weeks. It was an intricate and chaotic act of juggling to get them all done in time. I’m still unsure of how I actually pulled it off.

Any new and cool places you haven’t shown that you got to show at?

I also got to show some original work in Australia for the first time which was a real highlight. It was a smaller group show at Outré Gallery in Melbourne. I got to share the gallery with the super talented Femke Hiemstra. How cool is that? It seems like I have a surprisingly strong following in Australia. In fact, almost half my print orders these days get shipped to Australia, which is unbelievable. Thanks Australia! My show there sold out and I’m hoping this leads to another bigger show and an eventual journey to Oz.

What a truly insane year for you, so how is 2017 shaping up? I know you mentioned you have a new show at Thinkspace coming up.  What can you tell us about it?

I started 2017 by taking time, collecting my tattered wits, and beginning the process of catching up on every other aspect of my life that I had neglected during the art making fury of 2016. It’s crazy how much of your life will fall behind when you’re deep into the final stages of a show.

Now I’m working out some of my initial concepts and prepping a bunch of panels for the Thinkspace show in September 2017. My last show with Thinkspace was in Miami for the Art Basel fair madness, so this will be my first show at the actual gallery in five years. I’m excited to come visit the LA area again. The show opens on September 30th, so if you’re in the area, stop by!  (We will!)

What’s your process like for creating concepts for your shows?

The beginning of a show is all about trying to wrangle some strange, loose ideas out of the ether and wrestle them into some form of practicality. I spend most of this time with headphones on, staring at a blank, freshly gessoed panel while mulling over those concepts until something starts to form. Seeing the blank space where the painting will be helps me visualize the idea. It’s pretty amazing how deep and detailed your mind can get when you focus and concentrate hard enough. Maybe this could be considered some weird form of meditation. There was a time where I felt pretty guilty about spending a whole day just staring and thinking and jotting down random ideas. Now I know this is a step in the weird process I have for making my work.

Once the paintings start to take shape, I’ll finally reach a point where I can dedicate hours to straight painting. Then it’s on to listening to a whole lot of audio books and podcasts.

How many audio books / podcasts did you burn through for your last show?

For my last show at Jonathan LeVine, I listened to upwards of 20 books in six months. I listen to a smattering of contemporary fiction and nonfiction, but the largest portion of my reading/listening belongs to the Fantasy & Sci-Fi genre. These stories are world building in written form and listening to them never ceases to stoke and inspire my own imagination.

When you are working on your various pieces - do you work on them start to finish or several paintings at a time?  How do you manage it all?

As for my process, I always work on several pieces at once so there is no down time while pieces are drying. The beginning of a show is the toughest part for me. Trying to flesh out a dozen ideas and then plan out the different layers for each individual painting can be overwhelming.

I have a big dry erase board that looks like something your conspiracy theorist uncle would have hidden away in his tool shed in the woods. I use it to keep track of what layer I am working on with each piece, and for little notes about possible techniques and concepts that can be utilized. I also have a sketch book that has my initial concept sketches along with lot of notes. One thing I know about myself is I need to sketch and write ideas down or it’ll likely be lost in the void for all time. When you make a living off of your ideas, it’s of paramount importance to record them when they come. Inspiration can hit at the strangest times.

Knowing the first layer will be coated in resin and set for all eternity can make me a bit hesitant to jump right into a piece. Painting the first stroke is always the hardest thing for me. I’m not sure why there is no much trepidation on my part, but I need enough of a resolved concept before I can jump in. To keep my sanity during the first stages, I’ve learned to keep it kind of loose conceptually and to let the painting form in a more organic way. Many times I paint the background and decide to change the placement or scale of a character, or to alter the original composition completely. Sometimes, when the world starts to build up and materialize, I’ll see something else inhabiting that landscape so I’ll readjust and change the piece accordingly. Some of my favorite paintings come from lending fresh eyes to an incomplete piece and being willing to go a different direction with it. Working with the resin kind of lends itself to that way of thinking, since you have so much time in between each layer. But at the same time you have to make a final decision because, once the resin is poured, there is no going back. That finality can be really daunting, but being forced to make a decision and move on is very helpful for me.

Has your technique with working with resin changed or evolved? 

I am continuously experimenting and evolving that technique. For my most recent work, I started working with less layers and moving toward making my resin pieces less deep. The resin itself has become more of a painting tool for me. The paint effects and textures that I can achieve with the epoxy resin are why I love working with it, more so than the depth effect that initially drew me to it. There is certainly still a great deal of depth in the final product, but I don’t want that to be the primary focus of the work. I’ll still be doing some deep pieces to incorporate sculptural elements but, for the most part, I’ll be treating them more like traditional paintings.

How about traditional painting? Do you still find yourself working w/ oil and acrylic?

Speaking of traditional paintings, I’ve also been getting back into straight oil and acrylic paintings which has been very gratifying. I forgot how much I missed the opportunity to go back and work on the background. It’s been interesting to take all the lessons I’ve learned from working in layers of resin and applying them to a more traditional medium.

In your works, your dreamy and magical environments are very much characters themselves.  What aspect do the landscapes / dreamy realms play in your paintings and/or in your imaginary worlds?

The world itself is, in many ways, the most important aspect of my work and what I think about the most on a day to day basis. The awe and grandeur of nature is a prevalent theme for me and one of my greatest inspirations. Because I work in resin layers and work back to front, the vast majority of my pieces naturally start with the background. These nascent steps into the environment are the first thing I have to plan out and are the first elements of the piece to get fleshed out. The development of the initial background layer effects the direction of the entire piece.

There is a symbiotic relationship between the characters and the environment. The characters tend to be products of their environment and many times the environment is physically part of the character. This is sometimes apparent in the patterns of the clothes they are wear or maybe by the surrounding fauna actually growing on them. This harmony is an overarching theme for me, but a lot of that also has to do with the technical process of making the piece. As the world builds, the characters enter and evolve with the painting and the world gets more and more defined.

What’s something you think people might not know about an artist or mostly about what you do as an artist?

Being an artist and working for yourself is, of course, very gratifying. But, it also has much of the mundanity of running a small business. There is rarely a day when I get to wake up and just be creative and paint all day. I feel like there is a romanticized notion of an artist rolling out of bed, smoking a joint in his/her paint-spattered bathrobe, and being manically creative in the studio all day. While that’s true some days, most of my days are filled with emails (which I was bad about and now I’m getting worse), print shop issues, inventory, book keeping, and general life duties. These are truly mundane tasks, but you need to utilize every tool you can to sustain yourself in this crazy line of work.

What would you say to folks who want to walk down the art path?  'Abandon hope all ye who enter?’ or ‘Jump into the Fire’ ?

Be patient and create as much as you can. It takes a lot of time and a lot creating to come into your own in terms of technique and overall artistic purpose. Seriously, just make work. A lot of work. Making piece after piece is the only true way to refine your vision and help you determine what and why you want to create. Never stop challenging yourself, learn from each piece, and try to carry those lessons forward.

Share your work as much as you can. The internet is a powerful tool and your work can reach parts of the world you would never imagine. My following in Australia didn’t come from a huge exhibition or an article in a major arts publication. It came people seeing and sharing my work on the internet.

Getting the opportunity to showcase your work is usually the hardest and most frustrating part for aspiring artists. There is no set way to do it. So if and when you get that opportunity, make it count and take full advantage. 

Also, don’t let “making it in the art world” be your top motivation for creating.

In terms of art, what are things you admire or appreciate when you go to someone else’s show or view another fellow artists’ pieces?

I’m always drawn to work that is imaginative and genuine. I appreciate attention to detail and an overall care for the work. You can tell when someone really cares for their work and wants it to be the best representation of their particular artistic vision.

Technical prowess and craft is something I admire immensely, and something I strive for myself, but it has to be a whole package of vision and mood. I love work with a sense of mystery that can evoke a feeling of wonder and awe. I want to be able to stare at a piece and get lost in it for a time.

How do you stay balanced with art and non-art activities? 

All of my current non-art activities are intertwined and share a mutual need: A need for actual human interaction. (Besides finally getting to indulge in some long desired interests.)

 It’s easy to get wrapped up in adult shit. Work shit, wife’s school shit, house-work shit, all sorts of errands and shit. Lots of shit nonstop all of the time. When you work in a home studio, your personal life and your work life coexist in the same place. Unsurprisingly, it can all start to melt together and become your whole world. When you go to a day-to-day job, even if you despise some of your coworkers, at least you get to see other people in a different space out there in the real world. My coworkers are a dog and 3 cats. Though they do get up to some crazy things and the studio is full of tantalizing gossip, there is a definite void of human contact. It is always crazy to essentially work alone for months and then get thrown into the chaos of an art opening. Suddenly, I am surrounded by an overwhelming amount of people wanting to ask me about my work. Basically, something needed to change before I became an unsociable recluse.

Definitely can see that, so how do you un-wind after a full studio day? 

After working all day, I typically hang out with friends virtually via video games, but I really needed something tangible. So I started a board game day and got a group of friends to join me at my house and it was marvelous and fun. I love board games. My favorites are Betrayal at House on the Hill, Lords of Waterdeep, and most recently, Scythe.

Then I decided to take it up a notch and start a D&D campaign with those friends. I’ve always wanted to get back into D&D and I figured the best way to do it was to learn the new 5e version, become a DM, and start the whole damn thing myself. One thing about me is when I decide to get into something, I get pretty obsessive and go all in. I spent every second of free time researching it and learning all the rules. I learned to make charts and tables in MS Word and Excel so I could produce a whole laminated quick reference guide binder for all my players. Having a large format printer also came in pretty handy as I was able to make huge maps for the all the places I would be taking them. It turns out having a strange imagination and a deep love of trolling your friends is a good recipe for being a successful DM. Making stories is a lot fun for me and having those stories played out by your creative and somewhat twisted friends is super rewarding… and super hilarious. The tales I could tell of these adventurers and their deeds would make an bugbear blush. I still think of them every once in a while and chuckle to myself. 

Dude I love it, you went deep into gaming.  Last time we emailed, you mentioned you were competing in Magic the Gathering. How did that all come about?

Having friends over for those activities was fine and awesome, but I still wasn’t leaving the comfort of my familiar confines. So, a little over a year ago, I started playing Magic the Gathering and I’ve become a bit obsessed. It’s something I’ve always wanted to explore. I love card games and love the art attached to the game. The gameplay itself involves a lot of strategy and improvisation which I find mentally rewarding. I love that there’s so much personalization when it comes to crafting a deck and people can play it so many different ways.

And, very importantly, it gets me out of the studio and I get to meet new people and have some real human contact outside of my familiar studio/cat world. The Magic community has been very gracious and inviting to am aspiring player such as myself, and I really appreciate that.

Any other non-art activities you’re looking forward too?

I hope to start traveling a bit more in the coming years. My wife Ash has been in school for the last 4 years getting her Doctorate and she graduates this year! Hurray! She will be a nurse practitioner with a much better schedule. She’s had to continue working as a critical care nurse while also completing a massive workload for school, so besides being a total badass, her schedule has been far from flexible. We definitely love to travel and I look forward to our many future adventures together.

What’s the best art related advice you’ve ever gotten? What wisdom can you share with folks?

The best advice I ever got in regards to work was from my Illustration Concepts teacher at Parsons, Jordin Isip. Well, he gave me a lot of good advice over those 2 years, but the one that especially resonated was his advice on building a visual language.

In the Illustration department, every one of us was pretty obsessed with what our unique “style” was, and what would set our work apart from all the other illustrators out there. This is obviously a ubiquitous issue with Illustration students, so Jordin addressed this concern right away.

Right, aspiring artists are still concerned with finding their own style.  What did he say?

Essentially, he told us to not concern ourselves so much with where we’d end up in terms of our style, but to take a little bit from each piece we make and start to build a unique visual language. You start small with letters and words and build up to sentences and paragraphs. Eventually you’ll be speaking your own visual language fluidly with more and more elegance. I think that’s a great way to look at it, and it really worked for me. I still continue to follow that lesson to this day since it’s something that will always continue to evolve and grow.

How about the worse given?

I’ve been wracking my brain over some horrible advice I’ve gotten over the years, and I honestly can’t think of any that really stick out. Even if it’s bad advice, it’s usually well intentioned and not something to take personally. 

Okay, completely switching subjects, what are your FAVORITE Vans?

I love the classic look for the laced and slip ons. Plain with no stripe.

Finally, any last words, shout outs, and/or random words of wisdom?

I just want to thank you guys for reaching out and giving me the chance to spew my nonsense! 

Website | Instagram | Facebook | Shop

[96thdayofrage]

https://medium.com/@hasan.ali.ibrahim.fb/talib-kweli-the-hypocrite-that-rupert-murdoch-funded-e29b26f535cf

For months, Talib Kweli Greene has been on a smear campaign against a lineage-based political movement called American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS) and a woman named Yvette Carnell who helped coin the term. The basis of his smear is founded solely on a conspiracy theory and has seemed to gain traction among the detractors of said movement. The idea being that at one time, Carnell was on the board of an organization financed by a now deceased white supremacist. The organization is called Progressives for Immigration Reform and the white supremacist is John Tanton. Kweli has spread the idea that ADOS is financed by rightwing groups and, in this new era of red scare hysteria, his idea has taken hold. At this point, Carnell and ADOS have been investigated by journalists who can’t find any proof of such a conspiracy. Yet, daily, Kweli can be found on his social media repeating the assertion.

Earlier this year, Talib Kweli had a somewhat infamous run-in with Yvette Carnell. Kweli made a tweet dismissing the idea of taking support away from the Democrat party if they wouldn’t meet the demand of reparations. This seems a strange position from a rapper who’s boasted about a “no voting” stance for most of his career. In response, Carnell said celebrities were “loud and wrong” about these types of political takes because they don’t understand the data. She also questioned why people listen to celebrities like Kweli when it comes to politics. Kweli, who’s profession often includes trading verbal insults back and forth with other rappers, seem unable to handle that his political position was even mildly challenged. He’s since gone on to attack the credibility of Yvette Carnell, anyone she’s associated with and the political movement she sparked with Antonio Moore around the justice claim for American Descendants of Slavery. Kweli has been consumed by arguing with the people of ADOS and misconstruing their positions as right-wing xenophobia, going as far as calling them MAGA. Seemingly the only basis for his assertions is: ADOS refuses to act in lockstep with the Democrat party nor leftist ideas about how black people should view politics.

The ADOS agenda:

Yvette Carnell previously worked as an aid in Washington for the Democrat party and says she left because of frustration with the disregard Democratic politicians have shown the black community who have consistently been their most loyal supporters. She was able to find a like minded partner in Antonio Moore, who felt it necessary to refocus black politics after reviewing staggering economic data about wealth among black Americans who descend from slavery. They are simply echoing a sentiment that has been around in the black community since the establishment of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which is that the government hasn’t done enough to even the socioeconomic playing field. More specifically, after 60 years of black voters giving at least 80% of their support to Democrats with no results and very little attempt to fight for them, many in the black community are questioning our loyalty to this political party and it’s ideologies. Carnell and Moore are making a concerted effort to educate black Americans about the economic data to change the course of our politics. Their detractors seem to imply that black people can’t have differing opinions from traditional Democratic sources without also having nefarious intentions. Carnell and Moore argue that drastic measures have to be taken since the median wealth of black families is set to hit 0 by 2053.

With data in hand that shows a different economic story for blacks who descend from American slavery versus black immigrants, Carnell wants to redefine the conversation about race in America to include discussions of ethnic lineage. Ultimately, she suggests that native black Americans have a justice claim for reparations and she relies heavily on the research of Duke University’s Dr. Sandy Darity. Part of this conversation is reimagining what being an American citizen means for the descendants of slavery and our claim to the resources of the most powerful nation in the world. In ascribing value to American citizenship for this purpose, it is logical that native blacks have to distinguish ourselves from immigrant blacks however difficult it is to explain this position without it being misconstrued as xenaphobic. Carnell has also made many videos reframing race in an attempt to move it from the top priority surrounding discussions of black Americans in favor of our experiences as an ethnicity. From her perspective, we have allowed our unique experiences to get diluted into vague stories of the minority struggle in America. That vague minority struggle means that, sadly, many of the governmental attempts to address the harm done to black people have been co-opted by other groups, constantly and systemically leaving American descendents of slavery without the resources intended for us.

Essentially, Yvette Carnell and Antonio Moore spend a great amount of time trying to shake loose black people’s need to conform to the ideas of the Democratic party, traditional ideas about race, lineage and what black citizenship in America should mean, particularly for the descendants of slavery. They do this by presenting fact-based and data-driven arguments with hopes that American descendents of slavery will align our politics with our own self-interests.

At some point we have to break loose from this concept that it’s unreasonably selfish when black Americans focus on helping ourselves versus being the people with the least trying to help the most. We must also get over the notion that black Americans can’t be at odds with both major political parties. It is an incomplete conversation to express our disdain with criticisms anchored to the Republican party alone. All parties are complicit in the anti-justice movement against black Americans, even black politicians and black media mouthpieces aren’t above being taken to task. Our dissatisfaction must be spread around not only to our enemies, but also to the allies who have failed us.

The Music of Symbolic Revolution:

If you listen to Kweli describe his music, he will say something like:

“My lyrics are aggressive. My lyrics are not passive. My lyrics ain’t let’s all get along, let’s be happy. My lyrics are ‘fuck the status quo, fuck white supremacy, I’m pro-black, I’m pro social justice. That’s what my whole lyrical output is.” (https://hiphopdx.com/news/id.48093/title.talib-kweli-breaks-down-rap-fans-hypocrisy-on-lyricism-racism)

Kweli’s started in the era after the East Coast/West Coast beef. Shiny suits and getting “jiggy” were setting up the path for the southern takeover of the Bling era that was the early 2000’s. In 1998, Mos Def and Talib Kweli made their debut album through nontraditional music imprint Rawkus Records. On the surface, Rawkus was like a beacon of light for hip hop fans thirsty for the grounded traditional flavor of the golden eras of hip hop. Their roster was full to the brim of what were labelled conscious rappers. Now that we can look back at Talib’s career, it’s hard to justify that label. His catalog of music is full of bad attempts to crossover with small doses of comfortably safe revolutionary fever that come across with the same inauthenticity as a studio gangster. But this has been the con game of rappers like Kweli; he offers the most milktoast approach to saying things that will “shake up the system” in his actual music but paints himself as the Khalid Muhammed of rap.

During Kweli’s era, rappers ran from the label conscious because by the time rappers like Kweli became the face of “consciousness”, their work redefined the term in a way that was the essence of uncool. Gone were the records so politically charged that they would cause the FBI to tap your favorite rappers’ phone. Insert a crew of choir boys preaching about cleaning up our acts instead of pinpointing how to overturn the fabric of this unjust society. So inauthentic and purposeless that soon they were going whichever direction the wind blew to try and shake the moniker of consciousness. Kweli was more than willing to drop having a message in his music at all by going with the “sometimes people just want to party” sentiment. In retrospect, Kweli never had the song-making ability, the substantive political depth, nor a hard hitting perspective that could make his faux “revolutionary” music appeal to the everyday black American. Kweli and his music have always given off the impression of a soft, thin-skinned college kid from the Boule society of a middle class upbringing. And no…this isn’t an attempt to black check Kweli by saying blackness can only be understood through the lense of struggle or militancy. The grander issue that has made his music come across hollow and soulless is that after all these years and tunes, we still have no idea what really encompasses Kweli’s politics nor philosophy on life. It’s as if he is an outcast begging to be down and using tidbits of pro-black jargon as a shield against any examination of what he truly represents. Basically, Kweli is the “revolutionary” rapper that people vaguely recall and who only appeals to us in theory.

Undeveloped Politics:

Kweli often boasts about a lifetime of pro-black advocacy but it’s substanceless. There seems to be a lack of strategy to Kweli’s so-called “activism” which has come in the form of making music, doing concerts, giving money to nonprofits, speaking at rallies and sit-ins. If you look at the causes he has advocated for over the last decade or so such as Occupy Wallstreet, ending police brutality, freeing political prisoners, ending “Stop and Frisk”, and cessating “Stand Your Ground” laws, it’s questionable if Kweli’s activism has any form of impact, yet he will claim authority in that space. What doesn’t help Kweli’s case for being a real activist is that he will quote his own rap lyrics as his qualifications. In Talib’s mind, because he rhymed with the word “reparations” in a verse from 20 years ago that no one remembers, he can now claim he’s been in a 20 year fight for reparations. You don’t see much in the way of shifting laws that adversely affect black people or even a trail of working class black folks who would point to Kweli as someone who has helped improve the quality of their lives. He shows up for a photo opt, says some words that rhyme and nothing changes, then Kweli pats himself on the back for being a revolutionary.

We are far removed from the days of grassroots activism such as that of the Black Panther Party. Somewhere along the way, the black celebrity became the voice of our politics, with or without the equipment to understand what it takes to be in that position. Especially in the case of the rapper. If you could rhyme S.A.T. words and keep a rhythm, all you needed to do was reference a history of pro-blackness and some people would shamelessly compare you to Huey P. Newton. This empty rhetorical attempt at politics has left a void in the place of advocacy that is greatly needed by black Americans. Instead of strategic calls to action around a goal, the celebrity class has tainted our politics and made it hard to galvanize people. It is no wonder media outlets and politicians love propping these people up as tools to infiltrate the rest of us with confusion. Rhyming words over a beat only qualifies you to rhyme words over a beat. It doesn’t make you an expert on political action. In losing the strategic political planning, entertainment has been our biggest distraction from black empowerment and politicians have run amok rolling back almost everything that real pro-black movements fought for years ago.

For the politically immature, buzzwords, cliche slogans from 40-50 years ago, and waving off all political involvement has been considered black activism and Kweli has mastered all 3 things. You can search video streaming platforms and find old interviews of Kweli arrogantly saying he doesn’t vote because he saw the whole system as white supremacy followed by some vague message about “the people” without saying what “the people” should do instead. Anyone who wasn’t dazzled by celebrity and rhetoric would wonder what’s the point of Kweli’s “activism” because it sounded like he was apolitical with no pathway to offer his imaginary revolution. The problem with undefined political positions is that you can easily be co-opted into any half baked ideology. And these days Kweli has changed his tune about voting to become a shill for anything Democratic. It’s probably because his brother, Jamal Greene, is working with the Kamala Harris campaign. And that is the same Kamala Harris who can be seen in that viral clip responding to a question about reparations by saying, “...I’m not gonna sit here and say I’m going to do something specifically for black people…. NOOO.''

What is Mr. Greene’s real agenda?

In his campaign against ADOS, Kweli hasn’t attempted debating political perspectives in good faith. He’s taken people out of context and avoided any tough questions about his positions. One of his laziest attacks comes from a video where Yvette jokingly put on a MAGA hat. An image of it has been screenshotted and now Talib Kweli uses it as if it’s some Bohemian Grove initiation ceremony into the evil kabal of White Supremacy. Yvette has regularly made unconventional statements and done stunts to break the lovefest our people have with the Democratic party and underdeveloped ideas about “blackness” in America. She’s also fought this idea that we have to be allies with groups who don’t reciprocate support for us and our causes. She argues that we don’t owe anyone after decades of black Americans getting on the frontlines for other people’s causes. What Kweli doesn’t seem to understand with all his hollow arguments is that political advocacy means that you sometimes have to be at odds with the people who approach you with a smile. They will talk as if they are fighting for your interests but really they are trying to manipulate you. This concept seems to fly over the heads of the anti-ADOS crew. Kweli’s politics seem so unsophisticated that he only questions the intentions of people he deems as hostile to him. Yet, in his arguments, he acts as if he is guided by strict principles instead of hurt feelings. The issue is usually someone with principles isn’t easily shown to be a hypocrite.

It’s odd that Kweli attacks Yvette for this hat stunt when he should be logical enough to know better. More strange than his reaction to Yvette in a MAGA hat is that Kanye West is Kweli’s friend and longtime collaborator. Kanye has gone well beyond wearing the MAGA hat. In the same breath, Kanye is also responsible for Kweli’s only hit record, “Get By”. In every way possible, Kanye has supported Trump to the point of calling Trump his Daddy. Yet, you can see Kweli on DJ Vlad speaking about how he continued to work with Kanye during the Pro-Trump fiasco (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMJnjgxKT3s). Kweli even worked on a demo for Kanye recently while at the same time claiming that he was telling Kanye that the people around him were white supremacists. Beyond that, the choice to go to DJ Vlad for this interview is extremely problematic when the surface level optics of Vlad’s platform is about promoting an awful caricature of black life through the lense of unstable black celebrity. Also, DJ Vlad is being sued by a former black employee for a host of things including making racially and sexually inappropriate remarks such as, "Black people aren't slaves anymore", "racism isn't as bad anymore", and that the employee "should get ass shots, or whatever it is women are putting into their behinds these days" (https://www.casemine.com/judgement/us/5c494e13342cca0d53c62dc6).

Sadly, Kweli has defended the Vlad appearance by chastising people with tweets about how they won’t watch his show. These are the inconsistencies in his politics and there are more…

Kweli has to think he is more intelligent than the average black person bred from American bondage or at least that we are incapable of thinking for ourselves. He has created this grand conspiracy theory that ADOS is a white supremacist front that hundreds of thousands of native black Americans can’t see through after engaging hours upon hours of material from Carnell and Moore. Kweli is smarter than us all because he was able to figure out this fiendish plot within moments of his twitter exchange with Yvette. His greatest piece of evidence for this theory is held together by shoestrings. He claims that Yvette Carnell’s previous involvement on the board of a group called Progressives For Immigration Reform (PFIR) must mean ADOS is a front for white supremacists. Carnell has addressed this issue by saying she was not paid by PFIR at any point, that her role on the board has been consistent with her position about the value of citizenship in America and that she used this position to advocate for the black Americans who get passed up by an immigrant population. It is very easy to make this simplistic deduction that Talib presents and write ADOS off without attempting to engage with their arguments, but I question Mr. Greene’s political savviness after witnessing his endless crusade.

What if he is wrong and in the process he is alienating the very type of black American who would support him in this new era of rekindled pro-black “wokeness”? The reality is that Kweli’s bread and butter over the years has been a young, white progressive audience and he has been co-opted to appeal to them. It’s much like how the term “woke” has been co-opted and bastardized from a variation of the rallying cry at the end of Spike Lee’s School Daze… a message for black youth to “wake up” and become socially aware about the issues facing black American society… now changed to being the marching orders of Borg-like drones for white progressive politics. Is Kweli pro-black or progressive? Is he able to accept that sometimes these things can be in alignment but other times they can be at odds? More importantly, is he willing to upset his white lefty friends to advocate the best policies for the American Descendants of Slavery?

Maybe there isn’t a concern about black people at all and Kweli’s been a manchurian candidate this whole time?

Let’s say it’s valid to theorize about people’s agendas in the way that Kweli has done. Investigative journalists haven’t sniffed out these links to a rightwing machine as far as the origins or day-to-day ativities of ADOS are concerned but that hasn’t stopped the wacky theories. Maybe this is projection and we should question Talib Kweli Greene’s roots? Kweli currently hosts a podcast on Uproxx which is a company that was started by Brian Brater and Jarret Myer, who are the same guys who signed Kweli to Rawkus Records. But there’s some forgotten history about Rawkus Records that no one has mentioned during all of this back and forth between Kweli and ADOS. Rawkus started without a focus on rap music and went a couple of years experimenting based on $10,000 investment from the two entrepreneurs but when the company floundered financially, Brian Brater and Jarret Myer turned to hip hop and the family of Rupert Murdoch for help. The Fox News mogul ended up buying 80% ownership in the company and this is the business move that financed the rap career of Talib Kweli.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

WASHINGTON — Behind closed doors, President Donald Trump has made his views on Ukraine clear: “They tried to take me down.”

The president, according to people familiar with testimony in the House impeachment investigation, sees the Eastern European ally, not Russia, as responsible for the interference in the 2016 election that was investigated by special counsel Robert Mueller.

It’s a view denied by the intelligence community, at odds with U.S. foreign policy and dismissed by many of Trump’s fellow Republicans. But Trump’s belief suggests the extent to which his approach to Ukraine — including his request, now central to impeachment, that the Ukraine president do him a “favor” and investigate Democrats — was colored by a long-running, unproven conspiracy theory that has circulated online and in some corners of conservative media.

On Monday, Trump derided the impeachment probe anew as a “witch hunt,” insisting that he did nothing wrong in his phone call with Ukraine President Volodymyr Zelenskiy.

But those testifying in the impeachment inquiry, now entering its fifth week, are recalling that Trump’s views on Ukraine were seen as a problem by some in the administration.

Some of those testifying recalled a May meeting at the White House when U.S. officials, just back from attending Zelenskiy’s inauguration in Kyiv, briefed Trump.

Ambassador to the European Union Gordan Sondland, special envoy Kurt Volker and other witnesses have described Trump as suspicious of Ukraine despite well-established American support for the fledgling democracy there. That’s according to publicly released transcripts, as well as people familiar with the private testimony to impeachment investigators. They were granted anonymity to discuss it.

Several witnesses have testified that Trump believed Ukraine wanted to destroy his presidency.

“President Trump was skeptical,” Sondland testified, according to his written remarks. Sondland said that only later did he understand that Trump, by connecting the Ukrainians with his personal lawyer, Rudy Giuliani, was interested in probing the 2016 election as well as the family of his potential 2020 rival, Joe Biden.

“It was apparent to all of us that the key to changing President Trump’s mind on Ukraine was Mr. Giuliani.”

House Democrats launched the impeachment inquiry after a whistleblower filed a complaint that included Trump’s July call with Zelenskiy. The call was placed the day after Mueller testified to Congress and brought an end to the two-year Trump-Russia probe.

“Our country has been through a lot and Ukraine knows a lot about it,” Trump told Zelenskiy, according to a rough transcript of the call released by the White House.

“I would like you to find out what happened with this whole situation with Ukraine, they say CrowdStrike,” Trump said. “The server, they say Ukraine has it.”

Trump was airing the conspiracy-theory view, shared by Giuliani, that the security firm CrowdStrike, which was hired by the Democratic National Committee to investigate the 2016 hack of its email, may have had ties to Ukraine.

CrowdStrike determined in June 2016 that Russian agents had broken into the committee’s network and stolen emails that were subsequently published by WikiLeaks. The firm’s findings were confirmed by FBI investigators and helped lead to Mueller’s indictments of 12 individuals from Russia’s military intelligence agency.

But the loose conspiracy theory contends that the DNC email hack was a set-up, bolstered by fake computer records, designed to cast blame on Russia. Even the president’s Republican allies have tried to dissuade Trump from it.

“I’ve never been a CrowdStrike fan; I mean this whole thing of a server,” said Republican Rep. Mark Meadows of North Carolina last week.

Meadows, a confidant of Trump, said he’s sure Ukraine had some role in the U.S. election. But he views the search for the email server as farfetched. “I would not on my dime, send a private attorney looking for some server in a foreign country,” Meadows told reporters.

Perhaps contributing to the conspiracy theories surrounding CrowdStrike and the DNC is the fact that the FBI never took possession of the actual computer server that would have held the hacked emails.

Instead, the FBI relied on the forensics provided by CrowdStrike.

The FBI had “repeatedly stressed” to the DNC its desire to have access to servers, former FBI Director James Comey testified at a March 2017 hearing before a House panel. But he acknowledged it is not unusual for the FBI to use such forensics in place of the actual hard drive during cyber investigations.

Other Republicans have also tried to convince Trump it was not Ukraine that was involved.

Trump’s former homeland security adviser, Tom Bossert, said Giuliani had done Trump a disservice by pushing the false story.

“I am deeply frustrated with what he and the legal team is doing and repeating that debunked theory to the president,” Bossert said in September on ABC. “It sticks in his mind when he hears it over and over again,” said Bossert, who also was an adviser to President George W. Bush. “That conspiracy theory has got to go; they have to stop with that; it cannot continue to be repeated.”

On the call, Trump went on to ask Zelenskiy to also look into Burisma, the Ukraine gas company with links to his 2020 presidential rival, Joe Biden’s family. Biden’s son, Hunter, served on the board when the former vice president was the Obama administration’s main emissary to Ukraine.

Last week, Trump’s acting chief of staff Mick Mulvaney acknowledged that Trump essentially engaged in a quid pro quo in seeking Zelenskiy’s help in exchange for military aid the White House was withholding from Ukraine.

Mulvaney said the request was not improper because Trump wanted help with the 2016 investigation rather than looking ahead to 2020. It is against the law to seek or receive help of value from a foreign entity in U.S. elections.

Mulvaney later clarified his comments, saying, “The president never told me to withhold any money until the Ukrainians did anything related to the server.”

___

Associated Press writer Eric Tucker in Washington contributed to this story.

from TIME https://ift.tt/2BwDF6l

[fengshuiatl]

Atlanta: Word on the Street

This is the first thing I’d hand the players once they were on board with playing the game. At this point, all they’d really need to know is:

The game is set in Atlanta.

They’d be playing criminals.

The game is based on action and crime films.

They could have a character idea in mind, or could be completely clueless outside of those three points above. This was to get them to start the wheels turning and hopefully get them more interested in the world. You’ll also notice where the John Wick influence comes in pretty easily. I wasn’t subtle, heh. Additionally, this game is loosely connected to the last Feng Shui campaign I ran, set in 1996 L.A. The PCs foiled a drug trafficking and land deal conspiracy that spanned two different time periods. It also connected the Feng Shui antagonist faction The Ascended to the LAPD, drug cartels, and national level politicians. My players dealt a massive blow to them, so I did a bit of thinking about how that would look 20 or so years later.

There's a few things that everybody in this thing of ours knows about, from the biggest boss on down to the lowest corner hustler. Get familiar.

The Conglomerate - Organized crime in America as of late is an increasingly outsourced affair. The RICO Act laid a significant haymaker on La Cosa Nostra, and truly organized operations traditionally based around American gangs have fractured and splintered. One organization that's emerged and flourished as a completely homegrown entity is the mysterious Conglomerate. Having their fingers in everything from white collar crime, to jewel heists, and underworld hits, authorities liken them to an organized crime version of hacker collectives like Anonymous. No one knows of any central leader, and whenever law enforcement agents believe they have one pegged, it turns out to be a red herring. Likewise, denizens of the underworld don't have any solid idea of who is ultimately pulling the strings, and most assume that this is the result of several well-moneyed and connected individuals simply pooling their resources and coordinating their efforts. The only semblance of a hint as to who could be running The Conglomerate is that a favored target of its activities is the corporate world. Many of the aforementioned red herrings are CEOs, CFOs, and politicians who have either had their hand in the cookie jar, or were indeed using their power to lead a criminal life clandestinely. Another favorite target of The Conglomerate are drug cartels and smugglers. Curiously, rumors abound that The Conglomerate is behind some of the more recent pushes toward decriminalization and legalization of marijuana in the U.S. Working with The Conglomerate is both easier and harder than one might expect. No one ever seems to work with them directly, but nearly every hood on the street “knows a guy” or has “heard about a job” that somehow leads back to the group. These jobs pay not only in cash and valuable connections, but in a currency that The Conglomerate circulates called Denarius.

Denarius – These silver coins minted by The Conglomerate are used to pay for business and services that group provides to individuals who have completed tasks for them. Their origin comes from the Ancient Roman military, where generals had special denarii minted for their soldiers to commemorate their participation in certain battles, or specific deeds undertaken. Much like these coins, The Conglomerate's coins have special designs on their faces, a new one for each year of their minting. This year's coin design: A Wagyu cow, drinking from a large bottle of beer. While there are numerous underground businesses and services that can be patronized with denarii, the most well-known is a network of hotels known as Kakurega.

Kakurega - Kakurega are way stations for the criminal underworld, run as parallel businesses by an organization known only as The Conglomerate. Usually operating out of existing hotels, “criminals of a certain class” are able to take a load off without fear of cops, or other crooks. Kakurega operate due to a shadow economy of silver coins, granted to criminals as payment for services rendered to the owner of this enterprise. Typically these coins and the jobs from which they're earned are tendered through an individual Kakurega's manager. These coins can also be passed from one individual who's earned them to another, as a special payment for favors. When someone's ready to patronize a Kakurega, they call ahead to hotel and announce that they're a member of the “rewards program.” From there, they're transferred from the legitimate business to Kakurega staff. The exact number of Kakurega isn't known, but if you have an ear to the criminal underworld, there isn't a crook in the United States of America who hasn't heard of one.

The City of Dope - In the Southeast’s drug scene, the key moneymakers are meth, pills, and heroin. Cocaine, thanks regionally to the fall of the Black Mafia Family and nationally due to the several exposés from 1996 to 1999 linking Mexican and Latin American drug cartels to prominent politicians and police administrations, has fallen mostly out of favor with everyone but the rich and powerful. Pills are for partiers and hustlers, both for the means of staying awake. Heroin and meth are the purview of proper junkies, though in truth their audiences are really all one and the same. Though national trends for illicit drug use have dropped dramatically, rates for drug use in Atlanta and the surrounding area—particularly heroin—have been relatively high in comparison. The flow of all these drugs seems to be coming from Southeast Asia, produced by countries like Myanmar, and then trafficked by Triad gangs. Once it gets to the U.S., it somehow completely bypasses any other middlemen or other traffickers before getting to the tri-state area of Alabama, Tennessee, and Georgia. The end result is a kind of Golden Triangle. Those with their ears to the ground will hear some variant of this phrase very often: “Dog food (heroin) go in ATL, crystal go in Tennessee, and e’rythang go in ‘Bama.” As far as distribution of heroin is concerned, one crew seems to have everything on lock. The Grip Boys were originally a robbing crew and low-end drug dealers (mostly of stashes that were stolen from other crews), but their leader Soup somehow connected with a supplier plugged in with the Triads and managed to gain a degree of exclusivity. Stories about how exactly that happened are varied and taken with extremely large grains of salt. Everyone in Atlanta knows who the Grip Boys are, as they are seen as the successors of BMF’s legacy, with a more outlandish sense of fashion (Soup is known for his signature sleeveless floral-print, knee length trenchcoat), and a less generous nature. They aren’t sharing with any other crews or looking to absorb any others into their number. Normally this would spell a short reign, followed by a violent end from other crews tired of subsisting on crumbs. The homicide rates in tri-state owe their spike over the past few years to those that rolled the dice on this traditional wisdom paying off.

Precious Gems - Word has gone around more than once that the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office is involved in some shady dealings, as far as Atlanta’s relationship with China is concerned. Specifically, that the acquisitions for the High Museum’s upcoming exhibit on Southeast Asian jewelry and decorative artifacts don’t all come from officially sanctioned sources. Furthermore, someone based in the Atlanta is in the market for Asian artifacts of all stripes. That’s turned the area into a hotbed for black market jewels and goods. If you’re looking to fence, steal, or broker, Hotlanta is an apt nickname.

“Never sold dope, but I kick doors.” - Times being as lean as they are for drug dealers, with the near-disappearance of the small time coke market and The Grip Boys’ stranglehold on heroin, money has to be made some other way. As a result, there have been a rise in home invasions, colloquially called ‘kick doors’, all across the tri-state. Some are of the homes of honest citizens, but these are often edged out by attacks on stash houses. The former largely is the result of neighborhoods like Atlanta’s Edgewood, where gentrification have put new luxury apartments with uninformed (or willfully ignorant) consumers flush up against housing projects and inner-city residents. To quote Outkast, “Bill Gates don’t dangle diamonds in the face/Of peasants when he Microsoftin’ in the place.” Even those who aren’t normally disposed to commit crime have gotten caught up in this rash of strongarm burglaries, for the simple fact that they’ve seen one too many people forced out of their lifelong neighborhoods. The latter are purely due to the drug supply drought. In these cases, the invaders in question often consider it to be the perfect crime, after all drug dealers won’t go to the cops. Most of these jack boys learn entirely too late that drug dealers also don’t have any qualms about taking matters into their own hands, especially The Grip Boys.