#not even acknowledging the stairs Outside or the fact that we live on a hill.

[transamus]

also unironically I would rather just not have legs anymore than have legs that hurt so fucking bad 24/7 it makes me cry. like I wish either voluntary amputation was a thing or that the barrier to it was lower or that idk even just getting on pain meds was like. the tiniest bit easier. like I can't count how many nights the pain in Just my legs has kept me awake or caused me to throw up.

[trashbinbackyard]

0 - The fool

A journal entry of an unknown author, written in code.

I have been thinking. Of time, and we as a people have always been the same. The child from 400 years ago would cling to her mothers hem the same way the children accompanying their parents in the grand bazaar would today. People have felt the overwhelming joy of love, the heartbreak of loss, and keep mementos of their dearest ones. 

Truly, most of my discoveries on dig sites have been little glimpses into the life of the ordinary, the forgettable people who have come before us. Of course, these aren’t considered finds worthy of grand research or public acclaim, and I feel like people outside of my field do not find comfort and appreciation of the ordinary. It is my duty to acknowledge them, and to remember them, so wherever they might be, they shall find comfort that their lives, no matter how small, had meaning.

So, a little prelude to what happened today.

Grand people come few and far between, a single king or queen could define an entire century, and in their shadow, would be the ordinary, toiling away, forgotten.

The many wise men and women before me have given our era of life, the name “Second age” after the astonishing event known as the Rapture, it is believed to be the source of our magic, and its very nature, but nothing beyond that was widely known. That was until I met him. 

To the clergy he was more precious than anything, a relic in his own right. He had accurately called me out for snooping in the archives of the grand temple, under the altar for Sune. At first I didn’t realize who exactly I was speaking to, and frankly I was a little on edge. A tall elven man dressed in all black stood behind me from where I was reading some tomes. I couldn’t really make out details in the dim light.

“You’re an inquisitive one,” I remember him saying, in a tone that I found quite pleasant, not accusatory, nor aggressive, curious, even.

I let my mouth get the better of me and babbled on and on about the many fields of research I’ve dabbled in, and that my current interests lie in the first age, that I was very close to finding out where a great lord used to have a winter estate, and that the according to the historians, he was great patron of arts. Oh to just think of it leaves me giddy, to see all the art collected by someone from that age, what time defining pieces would he have, what they would tell me about the lives of the people, what they appreciate, valued, revered, what they found appealing.

At that point I’m sure I had rambled on for so long, the man had started leaning against a wall with what I assume was his best attempt at a polite look, hiding his boredom. I'm sure he had seen and heard things much more magnificent than an art collection.

He was very gracious in his listening, and In fact offered for me to come meet him at his estate. Which brings me to today.

The estate address I was given was in the Pera district, on the other side the grand river from where I resided, the location quite idyllic, on the tall hill near the shore. The manor itself didn’t stand out, a three story building of light sandstone, no names on the door, nor the street.

I walked in like the man had instructed me to do. A tressym greeted me as I nearly stumbled on the poor thing. It kept vocalizing and rubbing against my legs for a while, which would’ve been the highlight of my day if not for the revelations to come. It hopped up the flight of stairs soon after, looking at me 

Seeing no one else, I assumed I was meant to follow the tressym, so I did. It led me to a terrace between the second and third floor. A tea set had been laid out, three chairs around a circle table. The view on the balcony was one of the best I’ve witnessed in Nia Vasileos.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one admiring the view. The man who had invited me here stood leaning against the balcony railing, his ear twitched at the sound of my footsteps and I knew he had noticed me entering.

He turned to greet me, and now in the broad daylight (which was a beautiful, sunny day), I could see him better, still dressed in all black. His black hair was long and straight, with white roots, a scar crossed his brow, his eyes… an impossible shade of bright orange, like fire burning. I got a little uneasy to be fairly honest. Now, there was an air of something grander, something ancient around us. I was looking history in the eyes.

He was very polite, despite the immense power he held. He had set up an afternoon tea for us, he let me know that he had followed me around for much longer than I would think, that I was an “interesting person” to know. And that I may ask him anything I wanted to know, but he held onto his right to not necessarily answer.

We had the most delightful conversation. I asked him about the first age, how old was he, what were his favorite things from the first age, are there others like him?

He entertained all of my questions, even the silly small ones, in the midst of taking sips of the perfectly brewed black tea. 

The tressym had curled up the third chair, and he would occasionally give it a few scritches, I asked about it, he said it was his partner’s, now, he hadn’t really given me a straight answer when I asked if there’s is any more people… or beings, like him. I would assume someone beyond the reach of time would be… lonely. 

He gave a laugh and shook his head, “oh believe me, it is a lonely existence, but at least I can share it with someone”, he would turn his head to the sea, “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how many of us there are, the world is a large place after all”.

I followed his gaze to the sea. The scenery, the very moment, was idyllic, the gentle lap of the waves against the cliffside under us, the occasional whistle of the boats passing us by, the cheerful screams of children jumping off the cliffs into the warm water below.

A gentle breeze blew through my hair, through his hair, and I turned to look back at him, waiting if he had anything else to say still.

“A little too large.” He said, with a hint of melancholy in his voice, “But you still have time, enough to see a lot of it, should you wish”.

[tloujm]

Part XVIII: Tempest

Author’s Notes: Happy belated Valentines day! It took me a while to write this because this chapter contains their wedding night and I wanted to make it special and perfect and I tried. I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t been too down for writing smut lately. I’m more in the mood for fluff, but at the same time, I felt the story needed smut at the moment and, having written smut for a few years now, I don’t like just alluding to it anymore. *shrugs*. So I stopped and came back multiple times to write this. Idk if any of you watch The Walking Dead, but the one that marries you and Joel is inspired by father Gabriel from that show. I also want to take this moment to briefly acknowledge that I fully support HBO’s casting of Pedro Pascal for Joel in the TV adaptation. I’m currently infatuated with this man and his work (another reason why I haven’t been as focused on my TLOU writings) so for these two fandoms to come together is climactic right now and will be even more so when the show comes out. I can’t wait to have more material to go off of. Did you guys hear the news about Pedro’s casting and how do you feel about it??

Genre: This recipe calls for fluff and smut

Summary: Joel saw the stress that wedding planning had put on you and decided to help. At the end of the day, he just wants you to be happy. He comes up with this plan for you two to elope while a storm approaches Jackson. 

Ship: Joel x Reader

It’d been overcast the whole day. As soon as you stepped outside, you could feel it in the air. It all added up to a storm. You just didn’t know when it’d happen. You were sure the others in Jackson could tell as well, but they continued business as usual; even the patrols were not cancelled. Just in case, you spent the afternoon prepping for whatever was to come. You took laundry off the lines, put a tarp over the newly seeded garden, helped your elderly neighbors bring their outdoor furniture inside and so on. 

It was evening and the sun had just begun setting by the time you made it home. That was the usual time you and Joel got back home by, unless there was something that needed tending to. In that case, you’d try to communicate that with each other beforehand. You came home to an empty house and wondered if something had come up for Joel to not be back by now. You peered out the kitchen window, facing the backyard, to look for him. There was no one there, but you noticed that it had just started to drizzle. Soon enough the clouds would open and unleash a wrath of rain. You hoped that Joel would make it back home before then. 

You turned to the fridge to start dinner when you saw a note attached to its door. It was folded and signed by Joel on the front. You ripped it from the magnet and opened the parchment:

Go upstairs to find a surprise on our bed,

Then meet me at the place where the old willows gather.

I hope this note finds you in good timing. 

I will be inside waiting for you.

You smiled at the thought of going on a little adventure. With the note still in your hand, you ran up the stairs and practically glided into your room. Your eyes immediately fell on the two items laying at the end of the bed. Your hand reached out to touch the satin-y, ivory colored fabric of the dress. It was a simple yet elegant slip gown with a slit on the left side. It featured a low cut v-neck trimmed with a floral embroidery. Next to it was an umbrella. 

You allotted yourself 15 minutes to do yourself up. You raced down the stairs and threw on your rain boots before leaving. The place that he mentioned was familiar to you. The settlement of Jackson was surprisingly big. Despite having seen the circumference of it’s walls when you were out patrolling on a high hill, from within, the settlement felt bigger; there was still so much to discover inside its nooks and crannies. In the far southwest portion of Jackson there grew a small conglomeration of willow trees; all of them were willows. It was a stark difference to the usual maple and pine that grew pretty much everywhere else. It was technically too small to be considered a forest, but it was still a significant amount of land and it was left undiscovered by you. The house you and Joel lived in was located on the other side of Jackson, so the thought of making time to visit this place always laid dormant in the back of your mind, until Joel brought it back to the forefront. You stopped at the stable and grabbed your favorite horse, desiring to get to the willows as fast as you could.

With one hand on the reins and one holding the umbrella, you rode across Jackson. The rain was starting to pick up and the sky was getting darker. You regretted not bringing a flashlight knowing that the branches of the trees were going to block whatever light was left in the sky. Gently, you pulled on the reins to slow your animal down as you approached the area mentioned in the note. 

The horse strode past willow after willow. A feeling of being lost overcame your mind. You pulled the note back out and tried to read it again under the fading light of the sky to see if there were any clues you missed. The only thing you could make out of importance was ��inside’. Joel wrote that you could find him inside. Was there a building in this tiny, little forest? Given the fact that you expected it to rain harder later on, you hoped so. 

You kept riding straight until a flicker caught your eye. It wavered between the blowing branches. You turned your horse in its direction as it entered into a galloping pace. The flicker grew into a growing glow of orange. Inside the small forest was an even smaller clearing that held a quaint brick building. The glow came from a lantern that lit the front steps and grand front door. It had the traditional architecture of a chapel. You looked up and could barely make out the little bell tower and the cross stationed above it. 

You slid off the horse and tied her down under the awning on the side of the chapel. You gathered the fabric of your dress in your hands and walked up the steps and opened the heavy doors. Your presence was announced with the sound of a large creak. It was completely bright on the inside; the pews and altar lit by the glow of dozens of candles.

Joel lifted his head at the sound of the door opening. He was facing the altar next to the minister before turning around to find you at the other end of the aisle shaking the rain off your umbrella. He kept his gaze on you until your eyes lifted to meet his. It was at this point you took in his appearance. Joel was wearing the cleanest button down you’d ever seen him in. A small amount of chest hair peaked out from the top where he left it unbuttoned. It was tucked into a pair of black jeans. 

He recognized a flash of nervousness in your body language, but it soon melted after a few moments of holding your gaze. Joel silently spoke to you in his head. He asked you to stay, beckoning you to meet him at the end of the aisle. As if you heard his voice and not just the light tapping of rain on the roof, you slowly began to walk. You focused on putting one foot in front of the other but for Joel, it appeared as though you were floating toward him. He leaned his weight on one leg and tucked his thumb under his belt as he watched on. Once you made it in front of him, you noticed that he even trimmed his beard and brushed his hair back. The minister settled in his place in front of the two of you. His eyes bounced from you to Joel and back to you. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched the two of you gaze lovingly at each other. 

Joel cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “This is Reverend Gabriel. Rev, this is (Y/N).”

He bows his head in your direction. “Absolute pleasure to put a face to the person Mr. Miller here has spoken so highly of.” 

You smile bashfully in response. “Nice to meet you as well. I’m sorry we haven’t met before. I thought I knew everybody in Jackson.”

“Oh, I don’t live here. I’m from a much smaller settlement right outside Cheyenne. I travel from time to time with our merchants to different places. This is the first time I came with them to trade in Jackson. That’s how I met Joel.” He patted him on the back. “He spotted me in my clerical robes and asked me to preside over this matrimony. I like to think it was divine intervention that led our paths to cross.” His face wrinkled when he smiled. “Now, let's get onto the fun part.” He proceeded to open his bible.

The reverend started by reciting a passage on what it means to love. You took Joel’s hands in yours. They were rough and clammy, but you still loved holding them because they belonged to him. Reverend Gabriel then asked the two of you to repeat the vows that he spoke. The moment seemed so surreal to you; it was almost like you were sitting in one of the pews watching this take place like  a scene in a play. He gave your hand a squeeze as the words flowed from your mouth, grounding you in reality. After reciting his vows, Reverend Gabriel asked to see the rings. You took off the one Joel gave you only a week ago and handed it to him. In turn, he handed it to Joel.

He took his hand away for a moment to wipe it on his pants before taking yours in his again. “I give you this ring as a sign of my love. With it, we become one.” He slid it back in its rightful place before turning to the minister. He expected him to carry on with the last part of the ceremony; the part he was most excited for. 

“I give this ring as a sign of my love. With it, we become one.” You repeated as you picked his hand up and held the ring you chose for him in your other. You knew Joel didn’t have a ring for himself. It wasn’t made of any precious metal, but of wood. It was engraved with a simple design and polished over. You requested the custom order from one of the carpenters in Jackson. “I hope it fits.” You whispered as you slid it on his ring finger. 

Joel raised his eyebrows as it slid on perfectly. “I guess I’m not the only one with surprises, huh?” He joked. He had this sudden urge to kiss you, but withheld himself as he waited for the reverend to finish.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now seal the matrimony with a kiss.”

Joel gently laid his hands on your cheeks and reached down for your lips. You met him in the middle by pushing yourself up on the tip of your toes. The one kiss turned into another just as a clap of thunder sounded. You pulled away and looked toward the doors. Joel thanked the reverend one last time before grabbing your hand and pulling you back down the aisle. As you grabbed your umbrella, a flash of lightning lit up the interior of the chapel far brighter than the candles. Joel told you that it was time to go because the storm was less than a mile out. The two of you needed to find shelter and the chapel, as quaint and beautiful as it was, was not the place he wanted to spend his wedding night with you. He told you to wait on the porch as he brought the horse around. You could hear her whine uncontrollably, scared from the deep boom of the thunder. Joel stood in front of her, getting drenched, trying to calm her down before untying her, but it was no use. She pulled at the rope that had gotten tangled around her neck causing her to flail about even more. He pulled out a dagger and risked getting kicked to cut her loose. She bolted past him and into the darkness, almost knocking him down into the mud. He rounded the corner to the front of the chapel and held his hand out for you to take. He told you to come on in his southern drawl over the sound of a lightning strike. He wrapped his arm around your waist as you tried to cover both of your heads with the umbrella. 

All of a sudden, the winds and rain picked up. The only light to guide the two of you came from the strikes of lightning. The umbrella quickly became a formality as the wind seemed to blow the rain sideways, causing it to drench your clothes all the same. It was the beginning of summer but the wind on your wet skin was sending chills up and down your body. Joel was able to guide you out of the willow trees, but the challenge was not over yet. After minutes of running in one direction, you spotted a tiny shelter from the corner of your eye. Immediately, you tugged on his arm and pulled him into its direction. You didn’t care if it was someone’s shed or another stable, you were desperate for a roof to be over your head, even if only to catch your breath. As the two of you got closer, you realized that it was a greenhouse. You knew that the gardeners used it mainly in the fall and winter. You whipped the glass door open and pulled him in before shutting it back against the wind. Your wet clothes clung to your body as your back slid down the door. You began to notice the stark difference in environment as you sat there catching your breath. The air was balmy and sticky with humidity. It was so thick, you could almost cut through it. You got up and walked past a row of plant beds while your new husband picked up a box of matches to light a couple of lanterns.

Impatient and uncomfortable, you peeled the dress off your body. You wrung out the water and hung it on a hook. You were in nothing but your rain boots and he still hadn’t noticed yet. He coughed as he beat the dirt and dust off of a blanket he found hidden in a chest. He turned, expecting to wrap it around you when he saw you bare and all. He was frozen, as if he’d never seen you like that before. You walked up to him, grabbed the blanket and gently laid it on the ground. He watched as you proceeded to position yourself on it. You glanced up at him and patted the space in front of you, waiting for him to come to you. 

Clothes still sticking to his body, he sat across from you on the blanket. He pulled your legs onto his lap and pulled off your boots one by one. You leaned back on your elbows as he began to massage your calves and feet. You enjoyed the sensation but quickly became sick of the fact that he was still clothed. You slipped your foot from his hands and in one quick motion, sat up on your knees and crawled closer to him. Tenderly, you pushed him down until his back hit the blanket. You straddled his waist and reached for the buttons on this shirt. Slowly, you revealed his skin underneath; it glistened in a mix of sweat and rain. He pulled it all the way off as you began on his pants. His hands shadowed yours as you slid them off. You had barely touched him and already he was half stiff. 

Joel pushed himself up to meet your lips but you denied him. You let out a breathy chuckle at his attempt to capture them again. He opened his eyes to give you his famous glare and it was at that point you couldn’t deny him any longer. You slid your fingers behind his neck and raked your nails through his hair before leaning in to kiss him. He pulled your body flush against his, your torsos sticking to each other, giving his fingers room to slide up and down the indent of your back. His touch left a trail of goosebumps on your sensitive skin. Still propped up on your knees, your entrance was mere inches from his middle. You let one of his hands cup your cheek for a moment before you grasped his wrist and moved it away. Joel watched as you licked and sucked at the pulse point on his wrist. You couldn’t explain why, but feeling him pulse against you, regardless of where on the body, made you more aroused. He let out a low, guttural groan at the sight and rolled his hips up to let you know that he was now standing at full attention.  

“Tell me you need me.” You whispered in his ear.

Joel cupped your cheek with his other hand. “You have no idea how much I need you, darlin’.” His eyes grew soft yet still held the same level of lust from when he turned around and saw you naked before him. 

You reached down and gave him one long stroke before guiding it inside you. You rolled your hips up and down, never letting his cock completely leave your warmth. It began as a slow and steady pace because you reveled in the sensation of your walls being stretched out. He hissed when you finally surrounded his full length. His lips and tongue found themselves attached to your collarbone. Your nails drew patterns on his scalp all the way down to the back of his neck, marking him. After a few moments, he leaned back a little, taking your body with him, to angle himself inside you. 

“Right there!” You said after letting out an unexpected moan.

Joel tried out a combination of different rhythms until he heard that beautiful sound leave your mouth. After he was sure he found your spot, he steadied himself with one hand on the ground and the other behind your neck. The sound of sticky, wet skin slapping against each other as he picked up the speed set the tone against the stormy night. Every so often, Joel’s grunts would intermingle with the rest as his desires to go harder and deeper fought with his tired muscles. As much as he loved the position, his arms were beginning to ache. The last thing he wanted to do was give in to the weariness of his body on his wedding night. With a grunt, he shifted his body enough to lay you down and hover over. Only leaving your warmth for a moment, he lifted your hips, causing your legs to naturally find their place over his shoulders. With his hands practically gripping your ass, Joel swiveled his hips, letting his member slide up and down your slit before entering. As soon as he bottomed out, he took no time to pick up the pace. His grip continued to hold you still as he thrusted in and out of your tight entrance. The whole scene was erotic to him. He could barely keep his eyes off of you and the way you reacted to his touch, but he also enjoyed the view below him. Watching his cock slide in and out of you covered in the juices you produced. Under the soft glow of the lanterns, he noticed how everything seemed to glisten, from his cock to your face. 

Joel felt his member tightening with pressure and he was ready to explode, but he knew you, knew your body and you weren’t there yet. You let out a hiss after you began to massage your sensitive bud below. He gazed down at you as your other hand pinched and caressed your nipples. In that moment, Joel wished that he had another pair of hands to do it for you but he had to settle for watching the view before him. A smirk grew on his face as he told you to move your hand away from your clit. You frowned but did as you were told. Joel began to rock his hips in a new motion, allowing his pelvis to graze and push against it every time he slid back into you.

Still ready to burst, he found relief in knowing that you were close too. You didn’t have to say it, even though you did. Your walls only needed to contract around him once for his composer to break, but still he held strong. He was sure that he looked like a starved animal in that moment because of the pulsating veins that popped up across his body. He was right; you noticed his lack of release and knew exactly why. Your thumb followed the line of the vein on his arm. 

You nodded your head. “I want you to cum inside me.”

With your words, he found relief. He let out this long awaited breathy moan that laid dormant in the pit of his stomach. The sensation of him spilling inside you heightened your arousal and caused you to pulsate around him quicker. Sloppily, he continued to thrust into you before stopping completely. Gingerly, he pulled out and watched as a mix of his and your cum dribbled out of you. He laid your legs down onto the blanket and did the same. Your bodies were nothing but a sticky mess and still Joel wrapped his arms around you to pull you in.

[razputinrp]

Family Matters

A Thicker Than Water What-If

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

It’s the middle of the day, and the house is dark.

That’s the first thing Oleander notices as he parks his car. The second thing he notices is how Milla shifts at his side.

“I really wish you would have let me drive, Morry. The jeep can be so off-putting for some children.”

“The day I ride shotgun in that disco travesty you call a car is the day I’ve permanently lost my license to drive,” he grumbles, irritation that they’re having this conversation again overriding the fleeting anticipation about the place. They step out into the afternoon sun.

No one is there to greet them outside, which is uncommon but not rare; some parents just don’t want to acknowledge this day actually happening until the Psychonauts are literally knocking at their door. Which Milla promptly does, stretching over Oleander to reach the metal ring knocker. He scoffs.

Tall people. Who needs ‘em.

It takes a solid ten seconds before the door opens, and the two are greeted by a woman around Milla’s age who looks very frazzled and antsy. She ushers them inside as if any prolonged lingering will make the agents change their minds.

“Thank you so much for making a house pick-up.” Her voice is hushed and full of nerves. Oleander recognizes it as the one he spoke to over the phone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t drive her out myself.”

“It’s no problem, darling,” Milla soothes like she always does. “We understand that many families are unable to travel so far. Whispering Rock is quite the remote location!”

“But we’re here now, so let’s see the little soldier,” her companion says gruffly. They’ve been led past a fortune-telling parlor and into a living room, and while there’s a similarly-aged man sitting stiffly on the couch who stares at the strangers, there’s no sign of the actual child they’re here to retrieve.

“Oh, right, right. If you’ll just excuse me one moment...” The woman lets out a breathy, insecure laugh. “You’re welcome to sit anywhere while you wait, please.”

Milla smiles and opens her mouth, ready to politely decline the offer, but Oleander is already settling himself in a rocking chair. The woman tenses, as does the man on the couch, but neither of them say anything. The frayed mother only gives them another nervous titter and hurries up the stairs to retrieve her daughter. As soon as she’s out of sight, the other man turns to them in feigned nonchalance.

“Can I ask what you’re doing here? My wife was awfully vague about it,” he questions. It’s not accusatory but not entirely kind, either.

The pair share a surprised glance. Oleander is the first to recover. “We’re here to -”

“Zanobi!”

Both agents jump and Morry springs right back out of the chair. The man on the couch doesn't even flinch. He simply turns his gaze to the stairwell, and as the Psychonauts follow suit, they see who has shouted so loudly.

Making his way down each step with shaky legs but a deft maneuvering of cane, an elderly man gives the two a warm smile.

"Zanobi, why are our esteemed guests not being properly serviced in the parlor? My friends, I apologize for such lack of hospitality."

"Oh, no, no, no, kind sir, I'm afraid we're not here for your marvelous business." Milla offers a hand to help him down the rest of the way, which he waves off in good-nature. "But I must say, it is an honor to meet a psychic with future sight! It’s such a rare and beautiful gift!”

The elder smiles wider, pleased, but there’s a newfound sharpness to the edges of his eyes. “Thank you, signora. It is not often these days that such talents are recognized for the marvel they truly are. If you know my craft but are not customers, what purpose has brought you to our humble home and family?”

“We -”

For the second time their explanation is cut off as the woman comes down the stairs with a little girl and a suitcase in tow. They both stop halfway upon seeing the old man, who has half turned to them with a raised eyebrow.

“Zalto! You - you’re - I thought you were still taking a nap,” she stammers, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s holding the railing.

“I was.” Zalto says simply as he eyes the suitcase. His tone is mild, but something shifts in his aura that sets Oleander on edge for some reason he can’t explain. “Adelasia, dear, what is all of this about? Do you know these strangers? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving us.”

The little girl seems to be trying to make herself disappear, hiding in the space between the wall and her mother. The action is enough to harden the woman’s resolve. She walks the rest of the way down the stairs, pulling her daughter behind her.

“I’m not leaving, Zalto, Mina is. These two are camp counselors. They’re taking her to a summer camp a few states away.”

Zalto’s head swivels back around to the agents. His friendly demeanor has been replaced entirely with a glare that could wither a cactus.

“Oh? And what kind of ‘camp’ is this?”

They feel pressure bear down on their minds, and immediately push it away on instinct. The old man sneers.

“Aha, psychics! I knew it! Are you trying to take mia piccola away from me?”

“Nothing of the sort, good sir!” Milla attempts to de-escalate. The old man falls silent, watching her with nothing short of pure loathing. “We were contacted about a budding young mind who was very interested in coming to our Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp! She’ll be able to explore her powers in a safe environment with other talented children! As a fellow psychic, I’m sure you underst-”

“Is this true?!” Zalto directs the question at the little girl, who has pressed completely against her mother’s side. Something ugly prickles at the back of Oleander’s skull. “Are your dear Nonna’s lessons not good enough for you, Guillelmina? Do you think she is going too easy on your ‘budding young mind’?”

“Now wait just a Sam Hill second,” the army man tries to argue, because the kid looks like she’s going to fold in on herself like an origami crane and the prickling is getting worse. Zalto doesn’t even look at him.

“Quel il ragazzaccio ti ha messo in testa queste idee assurde?”

There’s a newfound level of vitriol that hadn’t seemed possible from the old man until this latest sentence was uttered. Neither agent understands Italian, but neither of them miss how pale and panicked the girl has become. Milla twitches suddenly in an almost-flinch, but Oleander can’t pay her much heed with how he’s trying to keep separate the roaring of this patriarch and the roaring inside his own head.

The girl finally speaks for the first time in front of them all. Every word is trembling. “N-No, Nonno, this has nothing to do with -”

“This was my decision.”

Everyone turns to Adelasia in surprise; even Zanobi, who’d been doing his best to creep out of the living room without being noticed. She wavers under the stares, particularly Zalto’s, but holds her ground.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Mina could use the socialization at the very least, and a change of scenery and pace would also be good for her. She wasn’t even aware of this until I brought it up to her last night. None of the family was aware.”

There’s weight to that statement, a context that the two agents don’t have but recognize as significant regardless. Zalto’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

It’s said so softly, so unobtrusively. It makes every single muscle in Oleander’s body stiffen like frozen meat. This man is gangly, and average-sized, and is so decrepit he could probably be blown away by a gust of wind. And yet the tone of his voice, the way he commands all attention and submission, pulls at memories that the agent would rather stay buried.

This man reminds him of his father.

Adelasia very nearly loses her nerve right then and there, but then her eyes land on Zanobi, who looks at her with a strange new respect, and it’s enough.

“It doesn’t matter if you forbid it, Zalto. I am Guillelmina’s legal guardian, I’ve already signed the paperwork, I’ve already paid the fees, and transportation has been provided. She’s going to that camp.”

An eternity passes in the span of half a minute as mother and great-grandfather square off in a battle of wills. But no matter what wordless communication is passing between them - and there is quite a bit of it, judging by the way Adelasia’s brows pinch and her lips tremble - he is unable to make her back down.

Finally Zalto concedes, stepping to the side so that Guillelmina can pass unharmed and unbothered to the side of the Psychonauts. She does so with great reluctance, and despite the fact that they’ve ‘won’ so to speak, Oleander knows a hollow victory when he sees one.

Whatever family fallout this will cause, it will be devastating.

“Well, Mina, is it? Let’s head out to the car. We have a long drive ahead of us and I’m sure you’d like to get to camp sooner rather than later!”

Milla ushers the shell-shocked child towards the door before anyone can change their mind on the whole endeavor. Her partner starts to follow, and only pauses because he has to make sure he heard it correctly.

“Thank you.”

Hands twitching at his sides, Oleander gives Adelasia a long, grim look. She doesn’t know that she’s thrown her child into the fire, into his fire, but something tells him she would take that risk even if she knew.

“Ma’am,” he says to her with a tilt of his head. He can’t even look at Zalto.

“Sir.”

Milla is waiting patiently for him right outside the doorstep. They acknowledge each other and Mina, now between them, before heading for the army man’s jeep.

They stop as they realize the girl is no longer walking with them. She’s stopped completely about a foot behind them, looking at the car as though it’s a mirage.

“Darling? Are you coming?”

She nods once but doesn’t move. The agents share a glance; they’ve been doing that an awful lot in the past ten minutes, and it would be funny if not so concerning.

Guillelmina turns to look up at the house. She stares at the second story window, partially covered by curtains but otherwise open and seemingly unoccupied. Whatever she sees there - or doesn’t see - it’s enough to make her turn back to face the jeep again.

A glowing orange hand appears in front of her, startling the Psychonauts almost as much as it does the girl. It hovers a moment as if unsure before pressing against the car’s back door and pulling at the handle. Tugging the door open, the telekinetic hand waits patiently for her to enter, almost like a chauffeur.

“What a lovely display!” Mina praises. “Look at how far you’ve come already all on your own! You’re a natural, darling!”

Mina starts crying.

It lasts only a moment before she’s wiping her face on her sleeve and holding her head up high, but it doesn’t escape notice by either Psychonaut.

“Mina? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the girl says in a cracked voice. She climbs up the jeep and settles herself into the backseat, watching as the TK hand closes the door gently behind her. It presses palm-up against the window and she returns the gesture with her own physical hand, a thin barrier of glass all that separates them.

The orange glow dissipates, and no evidence is left of the encounter.

Oleander and his partner are quiet as they get into the front and buckle up, but they can’t help staring into the rearview mirror at this odd little child, who has curled up with her suitcase at her side and the Whispering Rock pamphlet held between her hands like a lifeline. And perhaps it is a lifeline, just not in the way the two agents are assuming. Oleander starts the jeep and they head off.

It’s the middle of the day, and the house is still very, very dark.

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@the-family-fortune​ and I spent a long night talking about Thicker Than Water and some of the implications of how it might have changed if Raz hadn’t tried to run at the end. It inspired me to write this monstrosity. I have more ideas so there may be a part 2 someday, but for now have a fic of a totally normal child leaving a totally normal family to go to a totally normal camp :)

[d3-iseefire]

The Symphony of Cinderella Chapter 3

Adagio (Chapter 3)

Note: I’m going to add one more chapter as a bonus. It’ll still end with Chapter 6, and then 7 will be an extra scene I thought of that I think will be fun. :D

A week later the phone was still silent.

Bilba frowned at where it lay on the bedspread. It was late, late enough that she should have been asleep hours ago.

Sleep had proven elusive, however, which had led to her current situation, sitting cross legged on her bed, staring at a phone.

She didn’t understand why he hadn’t called. If he’d just wanted to be nice he wouldn’t have left the phone, right? And if he left the phone because he expected something then he’d have called.

Right?

She sighed and flopped back on the thin mattress.

Outside her window, loud footsteps clattered up a set of stairs leading to the second floor. They’d been happening regularly and were a large part of why she’d been unable to get any sleep. Part of her wanted to go investigate what was so popular up there, but the sane part of her understood she was probably better off not knowing.

She thought of her family in a far fancier hotel nearly fifteen minutes away an fought a surge of resentment. It wasn’t anything new, they always stayed in nicer places, leaving her to cheaper hotels in their never-ending quest to “teach her humility.”

She let out a huff and tried to focus on things she was grateful for, such as the ability to breathe through her nose again. The experience was somewhat dampened by the musty smell in the room but she comforted herself with the fact they’d be leaving in Mirkwood in the morning so she’d only have to deal with it for a few more minutes. 

She was more than ready to leave Mirkwood behind her. Perhaps she’d think differently had she been able to get out and see any of it but, as it was, all the memories she had from the place involved run down theaters and raging sinus infections.

More footsteps, and Bilba sat up with a grimace. The constant noise was grating, like nails on a chalkboard or a dripping faucet. That was another memory she’d have from this place, and one she’d be more than happy to leave behind.

She picked up the phone again with a scowl and opened the contacts. She pulled up a text box for “Bringer of Aspirin” and stared at it as if she could force answers through sheer will.

She had no idea what his name was or even what he even looked like. She’d been too miserable to look up. All she knew was he’d had a deep voice and had brought her soup.

And left her a phone that he hadn’t used once.

She hesitated, and hovered her fingers over the keypad. She should at least thank him, right? They were leaving Mirkwood tomorrow, so it wasn’t like she had to deal with him if he did end up being weird...so...

Pain lanced through her lip followed by the metallic taste of blood and she realized she’d been chewing on her lower lip so hard she’d managed to bite through.

Another round of footsteps from outside and she glared at the closed curtains. Then she let out a huff and, before she could talk herself out of it, typed a quick message on the screen.

Thanks for the soup and everything. I really appreciate it.

She forced herself to hit send and put the phone down. Her stomach fluttered and she scowled at it. She was being ridiculous. It was late, he probably wouldn’t even see it until—

The phone buzzed.

Bilba jumped and her heart jolted. She picked the phone up, gingerly as if it were a live snake, and pulled up the message.

You’re welcome. I hope it helped.

She waited, but several minutes passed and nothing else came through.

It did, she wrote back finally. I feel less like death warmed over now.

She chewed absently on her lower lip and tried to bat down the feeling that she was now the one bothering him. She wasn’t sure why she was basically inviting him to start a conversation. Hadn’t she just been worrying about him being a weirdo?

Good, the phone buzzed a moment later. Glad to know I helped avert a zombie apocalypse breaking out in Mirkwood.

Bilba laughed in surprise and texted back. If only the people knew how close they came. Lucky for them, they had you to stand in the breach and hold back calamity.

She reread her words and grimaced. Was that over the top and weird? It was probably over the top and weird.

I deserve a medal, he replied.

Bilba snorted. Forget the medal. Ask for something practical, like a pony, or a lifetime supply of hot chocolate.

Instead of a word response this time he simply sent back an emoji of a face crying with laughter, before adding a second text that said, You are absolutely right. What good is a medal? All it does is sit there and look shiny.

I suppose you could use it to fight off burglars, Bilba sent, but it'd be such a waste when you could have just gotten a dog.

So true. There was a pause and then a new text. If you don't mind my asking, how did you like Mirkwood? Aside from the near death, zombie apocalypse thing of course.

Bilba giggled. She scooted backward until she could shove a pillow between her back and headboard and lean back against it. She doubted he wanted to hear her whine about Mirkwood so she sent back, I didn't get to see much of it, but it seems nice. We're heading out tomorrow.

Are you? Where to next?

The Iron Hills, Bilba wrote. She was not looking forward to the trip. Hours upon hours of being trapped in a car with her stepmother, Lotho, Otho and Priscilla. There wasn't near enough room for them all and their belongings so, by the end, they were all guaranteed to be in less than stellar moods. Then Lake-town, and Dale and then we finish in Erebor.

Really? he wrote back. That's an odd route. Wouldn't it make more sense to hit Erebor, Dale and Lake-town and then finish in the Iron Hills?

It would, Bilba agreed. But my stepmother found out about a festival in Erebor to celebrate the prince's birthday and she's determined to be there for it.

Does she know it's a month away?

She does, Bilba answered with a sigh. Somehow her stepmother was intending to make the rest of the tour last a month to ensure they arrived in Erebor at exactly the right time. She didn’t want to know how that was going to work out. She’s got her eyes set on the ball Erebor is throwing to cap the whole thing off. 

How'd she manage to get an invitation? came the reply. I'd heard it was pretty exclusive.

Bilba tappe d a finger on her knee but then, deciding he’d probably hear about it anyway, went ahead and sent - The Thain of the Shire is my grandfather and she's been trying to leverage that the entire trip. It’s never workd, but my guess is she won't let that stop her from trying again.

The Thain? he asked. Doesn't that make you a princess?

Bilba rolled her eyes. NO. It's a hereditary title. It meant something once, but now it's pretty much just honorary. He’s really just a figurehead who comes out for parades and such. 

He was more or less the Shire’s diplomat/ambassador, in fact, a job that kept him incredibly busy but it certainly wasn’t anything that gave him the power or authority Lobelia liked to pretend he had.

Still, came the reply. That does technically make you royalty, honorary or not.

I suppose if you want to get technical, Bilba sent back grudgingly. Her stepmother insisted on it so often that the mere mention of the title gave her a nervous twitch. It never mattered until this tour when my stepmother started using it to try and get meetings with royal families and invites to balls. She's convinced she can marry my stepsister off to royalty.

She'd be disappointed in the Erebor ball then, came the response. That particular prince is spoken for.

Who knows? Bilba wrote back. Maybe there will be a lord or some such that will take an interest.

Her stepsister was pretty and if she got married off perhaps Lobelia would be taken up with that and leave Bilba alone more. It was a pleasant thought.

What about you? he asked. Looking to land a prince yourself?

Bilba shrugged, even though she knew he couldn't see. Depends on what you're defining as a prince.

Good point, he answered. What do you define as a prince?

Someone kind, Bilba replied without hesitation. Strong, protective. Someone who can make me laugh, maybe. Someone with a big family.

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown as she studied the text she'd just sent. It was far more than she'd meant to reveal, especially to a stranger.

Thing was, though, he didn't feel like a stranger. She had to remind herself that she didn't know his name, or what he looked like. She had to remind herself that she'd heard his voice exactly once and this was the first conversation they'd ever had.

She had to remind herself, because it certainly didn't feel like that. It felt like she was talking to someone she'd known a very long time. It was comfortable, easy. Like she'd simply picked up the phone at the end of the day to talk to a friend.

She’d always wondered what that would feel like.

Why a big family? he asked a few minutes later.

Just seems like it'd be nice, Bilba sent back, unwilling to get any deeper into the mess that was her family. I always thought having a sibling would be fun.

It wasn't until after she'd hit send that she remembered she'd already mentioned her stepsister to him. Fantastic, he'd either think she was crazy now or a jerk who refused to acknowledge her stepsister as a true sibling.

She was just so used to Priscilla introducing her as a “distant relation,” that she forgot people who didn’t know them might look at her strangely if she announced she had no siblings. She didn’t, but it wasn’t what she had ever wanted.

You say that, his response came back, but just wait until your younger brother "borrows" your favorite shirt and returns it with both sleeves ripped off, insisting it was a "stylistic choice."

Bilba laughed, shoulders that had been bunched around her ears relaxing. Sounds wonderful, she couldn't help sending back. Though I'd have probably sat him down and made him sew them back on again.

You're close to what happened, came the reply. Fair enough, though. I suppose it's easy sometimes to miss what you have right in front of you.

Feeling suddenly impulsive, Bilba snapped on the bedside lamp and used the faint light to take a picture of her creepy bathroom. She sent it to him along with Speaking of what's right in front of you, check out what I have to put up with.

There was silence, for long enough that the small smile she had started to waver. Had she gone too far? Maybe he didn't appreciate her changing the direction of the conversation or --

The phone rang.

Bilba jumped so hard she smacked her head against the headboard behind her. She stared at the phone in her hand for a few seconds, and then fumbled to answer it. "Hello?"

"Why do you have a portal to the underworld in your hotel room?" a deep voice demanded.

Bilba giggled and pulled her feet in closer, wrapping her free arm around her knees. "Right? I should have turned the bathroom light on before it got dark."

"I'm not sure it would have helped," he said dryly. "I didn't realize Mirkwood catered to the underworld."

"It would explain the giant spiders," Bilba said sagely. "I saw one the other day and I'm pretty sure it was as big as a small dog."

"Must have been a small one then," he said dryly. "Most of the ones I've seen could be saddled and ridden. I think it's even been suggested to Thranduil that he consider training and selling them as an extra source of income."

Bilba suppressed a shudder. "Well, then I'm doubly glad we're leaving tomorrow. The less chance of seeing a pony sized spider the better."

He chuckled and the sound sent a strange thrill through her. Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. She barely knew him. He could still end up being a serial killer.

Footsteps clattered up the stairs yet again and she sighed. "I think the main portal must be on the second floor. People have been coming and going up it all night."

"What motel are you in?" he asked.

"Mirkwood Inn and Suites near the river," she replied without thinking and then instantly kicked herself for her stupidity. She'd just warned herself about the fact she didn't know him and then immediately turned around and told him where she was.

Maybe her stepmother was onto something about her being irresponsible after all.

He let out a hiss. "That's not in the best part of town. I'm surprised your stepmother chose to stay there."

Her stepmother hadn't chosen to stay there, Bilba thought with annoyance. Hr stepmother had chosen to stay at a much nicer hotel on the far side of town where there were no portals to the underworld in the bathroom, and where there were no stairways right outside her window.

Something heavy thudded against her door suddenly and Bilba gasped, tensing as the door rattled in its frame. A slurred voice mumbled something outside her door. 

"Are you all right?" her new friend(?) demanded over the phone.

Bilba nodded shakily and then, remembering he couldn't see her, said, "Yeah, I think someone is drunk and thinks this is their room."

"Who are you sharing the room with?"

"No one," Bilba whispered, “it’s just me.”

It had been just her for a very long time.

She pursed her lips as tears threatened. She was not going to start crying on the phone to a total stranger. “I better go, if he hears me talking it’ll just encourage him. Besides, you probably have to get up pretty early for the theater."

"The theater?" he asked.

"Yeah." Bilba pushed the blankets back, trying to ignore the musty smell coming off them, and slid underneath. She curled up on her side with her back to the door and lowered her voice to a whisper. "How early do stagehands have to be there? I'm always there pretty much as soon as the doors open, but I've never beaten you guys."

"Pretty early I'd imagine," he said mildly. "I’ve enjoyed talking to you."

"Me too," Bilba replied with a yawn. She felt strangely relaxed despite all the commotion around her room and thought she might end up getting some sleep after all. 

"Thank you again for the soup --" she paused. She'd been about to say his name, only to remember, with some surprise, that she still didn't know it. "I just realized I never asked your name."

"Fili," he said. "At your service."

In her fatigue, Bilba decided he sounded almost flirty and heat flooded her face in response. Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. She was not flirting with someone she'd never even officially met. “It’s nice to meet you, Fili,” she said softly. “So to speak.”

"So to speak,” he agreed. “Maybe I'll talk to you later?" he asked, sounding hopeful. Or at least Bilba convinced herself he did. She didn’t think anyone had ever sounded hopeful about speaking to her, but it was a nice thought to have.

"I'd like that," Bilba admitted. "Don't feel bad if I don't respond right away, okay? If my stepmother finds out I'm talking to you she'll freak."

"Overprotective?" Fili asked. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Sure," Bilba whispered. A hollow feeling settled into her gut at the thought of actually having a parent who cared enough to worry that she was speaking to a virtual stranger. "I'll talk to you later, Fili."

She hung up and settled on her side. The bedside lamp was still on, but she had no interest in turning it off.

A second thud sounded against her door, and she tensed and mentally tried to will the drunk to go away. She pulled the blanket up and focused on the far wall, idly counting the number of steps it took different people outside to get up the stairs.

Her body began to relax again, and she started imagining what it would be like in a family with Fili and his unnamed brother. The thought was a pleasant one, and she yawned and settled deeper into the mattress.

It vaguely occurred to her that the stairs and the hall outside her door had fallen quiet. In the pleasant silence, she sighed and drifted off to sleep.

Her final thought before sleep claimed her was that, for the first time in a long time, she was actually looking forward to tomorrow.

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263070/chapters/53163472

[beardyallen]

Picking Up Where I Left Off

Hello again! Oh boy....the title of this is going to be a bit misleading, because I want to share what happened last night before the details get hazy.

So, after my first class on Monday (Day 7), I planned to go for a pint at the only place I’ve found nearby that serves draft beer. I invited my officemate, AL, but he had apparently fallen asleep while lesson-planning. It was 9pm when class let out, so I don’t judge him too much. :P

Order a pint was a little tricky, but we got it sorted out, and the beer itself was quite tasty. The price range for pints there were from like 30-60 yuan, so like $5-$9. Pretty average prices in the States, and I have the say the beer holds up. Or at least the two that I’ve tried...

Anyway, the place itself is just a small space, seating no more than 20 people away from the bar if people ignore the need for personal space. The bar itself sets 7 to a side, but the place was pretty much empty. At least the first night, it was.

AL felt bad for missing out on Monday night, so we made plans for Wednesday night, and I invited ML and her friend M who is apparently just visiting for a short time. After class let out, we meandered over to the bar and chatted about our students, how peculiar their prior knowledge seems to be. Mine, for instance, have never been exposed to the idea of “different sizes of infinity,” but are completely comfortable with the idea of infinitesimal numbers, those with absolute value greater than 0 but smaller than any real positive number. I’m barely acquainted with these outside of their role in the foundations of calculus. Anyway, the topic of conversation ranged from our students, to these two ideas, all the way out to the shape and size of the universe, and how mathematicians deal with what we call the Continuum Hypothesis. So far, it was a pretty dope night.

Then we get to the bar, and it’s somewhat more crowded than before. No biggie. Some of the other patrons made a point to acknowledge us and smile widely, and I think generally indicate their approval of our arrival. It was nice, but a little unsettling. We ordered our drinks, and a rather drunk individual (who I will from now on refer to as The One, as this is WeChat handle) came over to chat with AL and me.

He expounded on how thrilled he was that we were here, through a somewhat thick accent, made more thick by the 7-10 pints he must have consumed. We were both polite, and nodded along while he told us briefly how he’d visited the US only once to see Los Angeles, and how he’d been to Europe more than fifty times, which later became “more than sixty!” ML and M had gone in search of food, only to come back with two small items from a bakery that was just closing. (The establishment itself is housed in a “24-Hour Living Space,” which uses a rather loose definition of “24-Hour.”) We made our way to our table, and The One decided to join us...

All told, I think he sat there yammering on about whatever he was trying to say for a good 25 minutes. Both AL and I had finished our beers, and the only reason I was still being patient with The One was that he had vaguely hinted at the idea of buying us drinks. You know me, I’m loathe to turn down free beer! But then he made a sweeping gesture in front of us and almost knocked over the fixture in the middle of the table, repeating something about his daughter while expressing how beautiful ML is, and it just got altogether cumbersome to pretend like his behavior was acceptable.

Polite attempts were made to communicate that we would like to be left alone, but The One always had “One small item!” that he wanted to say first, which usually just involved more statements about how he likes us all a lot and the confusing bit about his daughter and ML. This is about when he started patting us on our backs. If you know me, I’m not a fan of being touched by strangers. At all. During one of his attempts to pat AL, AL somehow managed to start hugging The One and basically pulled him away from the table.

This didn’t stick.

Now The One was confused.

After a couple more minutes, it became clear that he wasn’t going to take a hint, so AL took one for the team and asked The One for directions to the bathroom. The One decided to show him.

As AL tells it, The One led him to the bathroom, waited outside and then they headed back to the table. Prior to sitting down, AL conveyed to The One that we needed time alone and that we would talk to him later.

Peace, at last!

It’s strange how, in the moment, it was rather undesirable, but now the four of us have a very tight bond that I doubt would have manifested had it not been for The One. For that reason, I’m somewhat grateful.

For other reasons...I’m not.

We enjoyed ourselves through another pint before The One meandered back to the table. We pointedly ignored him, but he seemed impervious to indirect suggestions in his current state. We should have known. When he kept interjecting into the conversation to no avail, and he became a cumbersome distraction, we discussed in front of him the fact that I have beer in my fridge back at the Guest House and that we could just hang out in the third floor lounge.

This seemed like the best plan so far, so we went to pay. And of course The One joined us, assuring us that he’d pay, he’d pay, he’d pay! A guy can only take so much before free beer + The One becomes so very much not worth it. That time had passed awhile ago. As his pestering was making the transactions more difficult, I did the only thing I could think of.

I asked The One if he could show me where the bathrooms were.

...*sigh...

This was a mistake. It worked, in that he did, in fact, show me where the bathrooms were, but he did so with his arm around me. Now, The One is probably about 5′4″, and I stand a questionable 6′0″, which means the pressure he had on my right shoulder while is arm was draped over me could have either been due to his sense of camaraderie, his drunkenness, or gravity. Or all of them. Regardless, I was uncomfortable. Especially since he kept repeating, “Relax! Relax!”

We get to the bathroom, I head in...and he follows. At this point, he had already dropped his arm from my shoulder and patted me on the back...and then lower on my back....and then not on my back anymore. The fact that I was in a foreign country was the only thing keeping me check.

Fortunately nothing happened in the bathroom, because at least there, there were no cameras. The thought crossed my mind. I could probably get away with knocking him out if need be. Not that I’m any sort of fighter, but at least my BAC wasn’t floating dangerously close to 0.2.

Anyway, the trip back to the bar was uneventful, my friends had all paid, and we left as quickly as we could, laughing as we went. All told, the bar itself was great. But now I know what baggage it might come with...and I think it would be too much to hope that The One doesn’t remember the three white guys and “the most beautiful woman” who is somehow connected to his daughter? #ohwell #definitelygoingbackforanotherpint

OH! Aaaaaaand....They carry Founders!!!

The only one I think I could justify buying is KBS...but even that would run me $18/bottle. What does it say about me that I’m still seriously considering it?

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Alright. So now it’s time to actually go back to where I left off!

So it’s time for pictures...

Here we have a nearly failed attempt at a selfie while walking through the caves...followed by two people who clearly seem far more capable at taking such pictures.

Below, you can see the entrance to the cave. Fun fact, the lion statues are a female (left) and male (right). I learned that you can always tell which is the female as she always(?) stands where her baby, whereas the male stands on a ball. In the background, you can see the Phoenix Nest that we visited, too!

Above, you can see the whole group. The guy in the blue shirt was a damn riot! He kicked things off at the entrance of the cave, a small door about 5 feet into the mountain, with a spot-on impression of Igor, beckoning us on!

Below is a just a pic of the four of us, NR on the top left, S on the bottom left, and ML on the bottom right.

Alright, so the picture of the stairs hardly does it justice, but whoever took this picture was only about halfway up this particular set of stairs, which was only one of several equally long staircases. It just kept turning and continuing...seemingly forever.

And below we have me, walking in a tunnel that’s barely tall enough for me stand up straight, having my picture taken. I’m not sure which of those two things made me more uncomfortable. But RN seems to be enjoying herself!

As I described in the previous post, we finally made our way out of the cave, rested, then hiked up a rather small mountain. It’s more aptly described as a hill with a big ego...But the view was stellar!

Here we are entering the Phoenix Nest at the “top” of the mountain, and you can see the ceiling of it below.

One of the Daniels in our group was kind enough to get a video of us sitting up inside that nest, which I think might give you a sense of what the view was actually like.

Below, I’m sharing some pictures of the ancient village. You can see on the first one a placard of sorts describing the building. Most structures in the area had these sorts of signs, both in Chinese (Mandarin, I assume) and English. The translations were quite entertaining; I’m guess either they were missing a native English speaker to sign off on the...well...signs, or else they just had a wicked sense of humor!

You can see in the pictures below the tiers cut into the mountains. In fact, this pictures, if I’m not mistaken, was taken from a tier that use to farm small trees.

I’m not terribly certain I know what the guy in the above pictures was doing, but NR seemed to think he was doing something with honey. I didn’t want to pry too much...

These things were all over the ancient city. Apparently it was used to ground up rice and other grains. And when I say all over, I mean basically every house had one out front. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the subsistence farmers in the area still use them.

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Once we got back to Beijing, our group of four parted ways with the other groups to go visit the Olympic Greens! So cool! I mean, we have an Olympic Gymnasium on campus, which is already really cool (even though I haven’t gone inside yet), but it’s nothing compared to the Birdnest and its neighbors.

When we got there, S had to use the bathroom, so the other three of us waited outside the shopping mall there watching a bunch of high schoolers on....well, I don’t exactly know what to call them. But imagine two platforms about 4inx6in, each with two wheels oriented in a line. The kids were skating on those. And they were really good. Or at least seemed really good, seeing as nobody fell and they were doing flip tricks and shit. A fascinating way to spend the 10 minutes that we had to wait for S to do his business. He claims “there was a line!”

The mall itself was akin to a condensed Mall of America, there’s a Burger King right between the Olympic Torch monument and the Birdnest, and apparently we can go wonder around the Birdnest and even get up on the roof! We put a real big pin in that particular adventure, so I’m sure I’ll have pictures of the Greens sometime soon.

I don’t want to spend too much time talking about this as I would just be describing what I saw, and future pictures can do that much better, but I will say that there was a group of about 30 women in traditional dancing garbs from...I think Nepal? I’d have to ask NR again. They had a boombox and it seemed they were going to put on a show in the square!

Until security came...We had spent 5-10 minutes watching these women take pictures of themselves while their manager(?) griped that they could take pictures afterwards, only for security to claim that they were blocking the flow of foot-traffic.

The dancers moved on, and so did we, but NR kept our heads on a swivel to see if they would start up again. Eventually they did, but we were far enough away, and the humor of watching them for 10 minutes without seeing them dance struck me as a better story, so we only caught glimpses of their dance. Looked impressive enough. *shrug*

We eventually walked back into the shopping center to find some food and made ourselves comfortable in a Shanghai Hot Pot restaurant that specialized in fish-based cuisine. It was soooooo good, even though I haven’t figured out a delicate way of extracting the fishbones. Apparently its acceptable to plop a hunk of meat in your mouth, suck the meat of the bones, and spit the bones back out. (So many opportunities for inappropriate jokes in that sentence! Aren’t you glad I didn’t go for any of them?) God, I loved having that meat in my mouth! (Okay, so I went for one...)

All told, we had been out and about for 15 hours that day, and on our feet for more than 10 of them!

So I don’t feel bad at all for how I spent Day 6: feet up, sitting 5 feet from my TV playing Kingdom Hearts 3, sucking back beer after beer! It was quite glorious.

Day 7 rolled around, and work began. I don’t have too much to share on that score, but it turns out getting packages delivered here from the US is somewhat tricky. Especially when you don’t realize that the address provided in the Welcome Handbook didn’t even include a street address! My Kindle eventually got here in one piece, thanks to the exceptional generosity of one RS. It even came with a note and an image of Owen Wilson saying “Wow!” So that inside joke played on repeat in my head for a good hour after picking up the package.

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

The workweek has been mostly accounted for above, excepting a trip to buy shoes, which was somewhat more involved than it had any reason to be...And apparently my feet are large enough for shoe dealers to not bother carrying my size. *shrug*

I have plans to visit the National Museum on Saturday with NR, and then the ICB faculty are taking a trip Northeast next weekend to visit a beautiful little town near the Great Wall. It’s only a day trip, but I’m going to look into the possibility of splitting a hotel room to see the Great Wall and the town lit up at night! Seems worthwhile, if you ask me. Especially since I don’t have rent payments for several months! Booyah!

Alright, it’s officially quitting time (whatever that means), so I’m heading back to my room for a pint or two and the company of my comic book collection.

Sláinte,

BeardyAllen

[oregon-to-amsterdam]

Sea, Fields, Trails, and More Fields...

My favorite part about bicycle touring was seeing the countryside and experiencing something new. To be out in nature, pushing myself mentally and physically to my ultimate limits, and then having to keep going was hard, but I could see how it could be liberating. I definitely pushed myself past limits I didn’t mentally feel were possible (hills that are exhausting…only to be followed directly by another hill of the same height). 

At those moments, it really felt like it was all about being exhausted, but in hindsight, I think there’s something to be said for being present in the moment. That is something I really struggle with, but I think on those longer rides, I didn’t have a choice- and that’s great when there are not many times I feel that way. American culture puts a lot of focus on moving forward and focusing on what's next and how you can get there, which I think is toxic and creates a constant cycle of stress. Even when you get to those moments you looked so forward to in the past, you have new things to work towards. What you have is never enough. So, when you’re out cycling, surrounded by big fields of wheat and an empty sky so blue that it hurts, your muscles burning, your body tired, you feel only those sensations, you only think about making it from one moment to the next. While there is some aspect of moving forward to a destination on longer cycling trips, I think it becomes background to the physical feelings. 

Those rides also made me feel strong, because I don’t think I’ve ever done any ride that long (10, 24, 26, 11 miles), let alone that many miles four days in a row. Something in the US that we have completely backward is trying to schedule exercise into our lives when it could be something that just is part of a way of living. Why go to the gym to run on a treadmill for half an hour every day when you could just cycle to work for half an hour? I think our lack of safe infrastructure has helped feed into this capitalistic structure where companies profit off of our inability to get around with physical exercise in a way that feels safe. There are a lot of players in the system with a lot of money that profit off of our citizens not having bicycle infrastructure- gyms are just one small example. I think if we as (future) planners do not acknowledge this fact, that there are active forces that oppose the building of infrastructure that is good for our citizens purely for their bottom lines, we will be better equipped to deal with these forces in a way that is constructive. 

As for the rides themselves, and the infrastructure put in place, it reminds me more of what we have in the US- trails for fun. On the island, the signage was sometimes not 100% clear, but we also may have been going from route to route when other cyclists would just follow one track. I know a few people got lost going down routes that were pointed out as a continuation of the trail they had been on. There were also large sections of gravel road, which sometimes made it slippery, or difficult to keep up important momentum to make it up hills. 

For the other longer ride from Svendborg to Faaborg, we had to follow the directions we had from our phones, not intuitively from signage. There were long sections that were on highway shoulders, where we had a foot or two of space as semi-trucks skimmed by us. I think it’s important to note that places like Denmark and the Netherlands are not perfect- they don’t have a perfect infrastructure set up for bicycles (yet). But, we made it! 

On the third day, we had to option to either go 27 miles or 11 miles and then get on a train to arrive at our destination. I chose to go on the train for two reasons: one was that I was tired, and two was that I wanted to see how the train systems worked outside of the Copenhagen area. The process of getting a ticket for the bicycle was very easy and intuitive, but getting the bicycle to the correct platform was a bit difficult, in that it was either steep stairs or a slow elevator. Once we made it into the train itself, there was not any place to put the bicycles, which is a bit of a problem considering there were five of us. We ended up creating an impressive Tetris of our bicycles and bodies in the entrances. Something small I’ve noticed in both trains and elevators is that people wait directly in front of doors here in Europe, instead of back and to the side like I’ve become accustomed to in the US. So, this can be stressful when manhandling a bicycle out of a door where people are trying to get in and there are four other bicycles struggling to make way. I was surprised there was not more infrastructure put in place in the train that supported cyclists- on MAX trains there are bicycle hooks for cyclists to place their bicycles on to make more room, so I expected something similar. Maybe these types of trains are more for shorter trips, which it could be assumed that someone would just do by bicycle anyways. That’s my best guess though. 

Overall, cycling for recreation is an important part of bicycle infrastructure, but should not be where we start or stop. If we start with only recreational paths and no commuting infrastructure, we will alienate a larger percentage of people who will think cycling is a leisure-only activity. If we don’t have any recreational trails for cycling, that will be an alienation of people who find their love for cycling on those trails.

[ayearofpike]

Spooksville #5: The Cold People

Pocket Books, 1996 118 pages, 12 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-671-55064-0 LOC: CPB Box no. 308 vol. 6 OCLC: 34048131 Released February 1, 1996 (per B&N)

Not long after the freak heat wave, it is weirdly below freezing in July. The Spook Squad isn’t gonna let a chilly day deter them from exploring, though, and neither is finding ice coffins in the woods. But when they thaw out, it turns out the corpses inside aren’t actually dead, and they start turning everyone in Spooksville into ice zombies. There’s only one way to stop them: fire. But how will the kids ever produce enough?

Spoilers: He fuckin’ wrote Monster again. (You thought I was gonna say The Cold One II again, didn’t you?) I mean, the reason for the ice coffins is left unresolved, and the kids acknowledge it, but ... you know what, we’ll get to the rest of it.

One more quick side note: this is the first Spooksville cover that has nothing to do with direct events in the book. We see Cold People dragging humans out of their houses, but from outside and not the perspective of being there when they come ringing. I’m not even sure who this little twerp is supposed to be, because Adam has dark hair and Watch has glasses. So at least they got that right, that neither of them would have been in such a position.

Our intrepid heroes find these mysterious blue ice blocks in the thickest part of the woods, on a day that for some reason is below freezing at I assume 10 am. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m staying inside when it’s cold, because ... well, it’s cold, goddammit. But these kids go out, even Sally, who is a native and probably doesn’t even OWN a jacket. Like, the thing about coastal California is it stays pretty much the same temperature all year, so the locals don’t expect much fluctuation. I have a really hard time imagining a local wanting to brave the cold, but then again, if we’ve learned anything about Sally it’s that she’s not cowed by anything.

But the ice blocks. Watch wants to thaw one out, because science. So they start a campfire, and pretty soon there’s a blue hand and arm exposed. Obviously it couldn’t belong to a live person, right? Except it suddenly grabs Watch, and then the rest of the ice block explodes to reveal a cold blue man with cold blue eyes. Watch is already shivering just from being held, and he yells to his friends to try to attack with fire. But before they can retrieve Watch, the cold blue man carries him off into the forest, faster than they can follow, faster than they thought a person could move.

So now what? If there’s weird shit happening and no way to track down the source, who do you talk to? Yep, the friends go find Bum. He tells them a story of the lost continents of Atlantis and Lemuria, populated by ancient aliens and devastated by war with each other. But as it turns out, one sect of the aliens wanted the Atlanteans wiped out, and persuaded the Lemurians to use extreme prejudice in exchange for eternal life. So the Lemurians put rockets on an asteroid and aimed it at Atlantis, and in return the aliens took some of the leaders and replaced their blood with Cryo, a freezing material that preserves the body and even boosts speed and strength — but at the expense of the soul. You spend the rest of your non-life in your mobile body resenting warm people and preparing to kill them, or at least make them like you. They went to the North Pole to wait out the asteroid fallout, but now it seems these Cryo Creatures have returned.

You can beat them with fire, Bum knows, and there’s no better fire weapon than a flamethrower. Fortunately, the freaky militia man who runs the army surplus store has a couple. While they’re buying them, the Cold People show up and surround the place. Freaky Militia Man goes outside with his guns, and, well, you can’t shoot ice and expect it to do anything. So the good guys barricade themselves inside the store and have to figure out what to do next.

As it happens, there are two hot-air balloons in the back of the store, so three twelve-year-olds and a homeless man haul them up the stairs onto the roof. And right here is where I disconnect from this story. I have spent a LOT of time around hot-air balloons. In fact, I was at the world’s largest balloon rally this weekend. And there’s no way these people can safely and accurately fly balloons around Spooksville the way it’s described. Hell, I don’t think Pike actually did much research into it. Like, it was necessary to the story, so sure, they fly balloons. Please watch for my all-caps incredulity at untrained super pilots.

Sally and Bum set up the two balloons — ONE EACH, BY THEMSELVES — while Adam and Cindy guard the store. Adam happens to see a box of dynamite and carries it upstairs, to load on board just in case it’s useful. While he’s up there, though, four Cold People have pried open the barred door and are getting in. Cindy can’t bring herself to set a human-looking being on fire, so Adam has to ward them off as they race inside. Cindy gets up the stairs, and Adam has a little grappling match with a hand on his ankle, which grips tightly enough to break the skin, before he shoots the fire just right and literally melts the Cold Person’s head. Of course, this little blast of fire catches more in the shop, and remember this is an ammunition warehouse. The four friends are just clear of the roof when the whole thing blows up.

Of course they didn’t get all the Cold People with one shot. Most of them are rampaging around town, going after all those warm assholes. But what else is to be done? Even the witch, Ann Templeton, is stuck inside her castle, with the drawbridge up, shooting flames out the tower window, so she can’t help. And Adam’s ankle is starting to go numb. But they spot Watch in the cemetery, looking lost, and they decide to take the risk and try to save him, even if he’s already been turned. Of course he has, but Bum manages to pin him down with the flamethrower long enough for Sally to whack him over the head with a stick and knock him out. They make it back to the balloon ahead of the other Cold People, despite Adam’s rapidly freezing leg  —

but now what? They can’t just float around forever; eventually they’re GONNA RUN OUT OF PROPANE even though Pike never says this. And anyway, the Cold People are going to realize that there’s a whole world of warm humans to turn sooner or later. If only the witch could have helped them! And suddenly Adam remembers one of Sally’s grousing points about Ann Templeton: her lack of care for the environment. Apparently she’s drilled several oil wells on the hill above the reservoir. Adam remembers the underground streams, and realizes that if he can get enough oil flowing through the water that runs under the town, maybe he’ll be able to warm the temperature of all of Spooksville. What good will that do? Well, he expects that the Cold People need cold temperatures to be able to maintain their bodies. After all, they supposedly went to the North Pole during the war, and it was this sudden cold snap that presaged their appearance. If it warms up, hopefully they’ll all melt.

So that’s the plan, officially: crack the lines from the oil wells so crude flows into the town’s water supply, and then set the whole thing on fire. And the hero of the story is slowly turning into one of the bad guys while he plans this. Do you see Monster yet?

The kids land their balloon SQUARE ON THE TOP OF A TRUCK and LIGHT THE BASKET ON FIRE BUT SLOWLY CLIMB OUT BEFORE IT FLIES AWAY. Of course Sally knows how to hotwire a truck, and they drive it up to the reservoir and prepare to flood it with Texas tea. Adam’s leg is totally numb now — and his whole body is slowly getting colder, and he’s slowly starting to resent Sally more and more, and he knows they don’t have much time before he turns on her. But the cold in his veins gives him enough intellect to advise on the best way to blow up the oil tanks without making them explode, just enough to open a hole. Unfortunately, as she’s setting it up, Watch wakes up and goes after her. She doesn’t have enough gas in her flamethrower to get him and the dynamite both, so she blows the lines and runs for it, leaping into the reservoir itself to keep some distance from a newly-turned Cold Person who for some reason doesn’t want to get wet. And this is the moment Adam’s been waiting for, as the oil sinks down and starts flowing through the town ... but Sally’s in the water, and if he lights the oil, she’ll fry.

Cindy and Bum to the rescue! While the other kids stole the truck, they LANDED ON A HARDWARE STORE ROOF and busted in to swipe a fan and a generator. Cindy had to overcome her flamethrower-averseness to save Bum from a random Chilly in the store, but once they were back to the balloon they RIGGED THE FAN SO THEY COULD FLY IN ANY DIRECTION THEY WANTED, NEVER MIND THAT THE WIND IS PUSHING ON THE WHOLE ENVELOPE OF THE BALLOON AND THEY’RE USING A FUCKING HOUSEHOLD FAN. Then they STEERED THE BALLOON TO THE RESERVOIR and SWOOPED DOWN TO THE SURFACE to grab Sally somehow, even though there’s NO WAY Cindy has an arm long enough to REACH DOWN FROM THE TOP OF THE GONDOLA TO GRAB ANOTHER ARM STICKING OUT OF THE WATER. 

But now Adam can light a stick of dynamite that catches all of the oil and heats up the town. And all the original Cold People melt, and all the new Cold People warm up enough to go back to normal, I guess because the cold wasn’t too invasive yet. But we still have our question: how did they get here? I guess that’s got to be answered another time, because Pike is out of pages.

I can’t get too mad at the Monster rehash here. Like, this is four years later and aimed at a different audience, and the rationale for filling the reservoir with oil is just different enough that I’m willing to let it slide. I’m not mad at the cover, really, either, because there’s not quite a bookstore-safe way to represent kidnapping and zombification and blowing shit up. I’m not even mad that we don’t get to learn what the hell Kalika is going to do when she gets big and realizes her undead dad gave her death powers. I am mad at the impossible hot-air balloon acrobatics, but again, I’ll admit that I’m closer to that than a lot of people. But overall, The Cold People is the first Spooksville that I’ve been ... er ... less than warm on.

[oopsbirdficced]

@therealgranyl asked may I have holiday #12, “You're covered in flour.”, with Deathmask and Shiryû as friends/rivals?

(I'll admit, this was a tough one! I've never written this dynamic with these two characters. Good challenge, hope you like it! Also, have a canon-divergent AU, utilizing my personal headcanon that Deathmask/Mephisto was possessed by a demon, and that Saga was possessed by Ares, God of War! Also I can never remember when Shiryû is supposed to be blind and not? So he can see in this. The KFC and strawberry shortcake thing is a real thing they do in Japan, fun fact!)

Shiryû pauses at the door of the Cancer Palace living quarters, reflecting. He honestly never thought he'd be comfortable around the Cancer Saint, even with his role in removing the demon possessing him. When Deathmask had flung them both into the Praesepe, it had revealed itself somehow to him as the demon it was, parasitically feeding off of the real Cancer Saint, Mephisto.

With the help of the Cancer Cloth, Shiryû had been able to drive the demon out, and he and Mephisto had killed it, before racing against time to stop the other Gold Saints without killing them. They had all been under the brainwashing influence of the God of Conquest- Ares’s- power, amplifying all of their most negative traits, until that oilslick was stripped from their Cosmos. Ares himself had possessed the Gemini Saint, and it had nearly killed the man to get the invading God out of him and out of Sanctuary.

Now Shiryû has a very strange friendship with the Cancer Saint. As though the still abrasive, somewhat awkward, foul-mouthed man considers him a younger brother in need of guidance. He had invited Shiryû over for an early morning workout, and Shiryû had accepted, though he still isn't sure why. Apparently early morning, in Mephisto’s parlance, means before the sun has even risen, though, because that's when Shiryû had received an extremely startling telepathic wake-up call.

He knocks, and the door creaks open creepily. Even though Cancer has been exorcised and purified, the fact that the living quarters of all of the Zodiac Palaces are apparently semi-psychic pocket dimensions freaks him out. He goes in, looking around for Mephisto, leaning his umbrella in the entryway, the winter rain coming down hard outside.

“Kitchen!” He calls, and Shiryû peers in.

“You're covered in flour,” he observes, bewildered. The Cancer Saint glances up, eyebrow raised, before putting the lump of dough he was just kneading into a mixing bowl and covering it with a kitchen towel.

“That happens when you make bread, yes.” Mephisto agrees, somewhat sarcastically as he cleans up. Shiryû sighs slightly.

“I didn't know you could bake.” He tries instead, an idea coming to mind. Mephisto hangs up his floury apron, wearing workout clothes beneath.

“There are lots of things you don't know about me, kiddo.” He jibes back, and Shiryû can't resist rolling his eyes. It's disrespectful, which grates at his nerves, but Mephisto seems to take joy in getting him to be disrespectful. It goes against everything Rôshi taught him, but the part of him that's still just a thirteen year old boy thrills at it.

“Ah yes, you're full of mystery.” Shiryû mutters. “Are we exercising, then, or not?” He asks more loudly. Mephisto nods.

“Jogging laps up and down the hill. I want to see how your stamina is.” He orders, and Shiryû wilts a bit, braiding his hair quickly.

“It's raining,” he mutters, not quite whining. Mephisto raises an eyebrow.

“Does it look like I give a shit? Get moving, kiddo, or I'll start getting inventive.”

They run, and it's moderately awful, but an admittedly good workout, running up and down the stairs in the pouring rain. Once Mephisto is satisfied and Shiryû is exhausted, they go back to Cancer, where Mephisto is kind enough to lend him some clothes and let him use his shower while he puts bread in the over and wet clothes through the washer and dryer. Then he generously feeds Shiryû a bizarrely fantastic breakfast, and makes him drink coffee, of all things. He makes it sweet and milky, calls it a caffelatte. Shiryû discovers not all coffee is horrible.

“Mephisto?” He asks, once he's down to a piece of bread and butter, and his hunger is mostly sated. Mephisto grunts in acknowledgment. “Will you teach me how to bake? The winter holidays are coming up, and I'd like to give my friends something sweet for Christmas.” He says. Mephisto raises a barely-visible white eyebrow.

“You're Japanese, thought you'd be Buddhist or Shinto or what the fuck ever. Whatcha doing celebrating fuckin’ Christmas?” He asks, but he hasn't said no yet. Shiryû shrugs.

“I don't know, it's a cultural thing, if I remember right. We used to get KFC and strawberry shortcake.” He replies, trying to recall if they'd ever done anything else. Mephisto looks thoroughly incredulous.

“Oookay then.” He drawls. Shiryû shrugs. He's not sure why either, he is actually Buddhist. “Okay, kiddo, I'll do you one better. I'll teach you how to and help you make actually good fried chicken and strawberry shortcake for Christmas, for all your little friends. But you keep up running with me, okay?” He says, looking weirdly serious. Shiryû contemplates feeling this exhausted every morning, and consoles himself that he'll probably work up his stamina really fast like this.

“Deal.” He nods sharply.

“I gotta ask, though. Fried chicken and strawberry shortcake?” Mephisto looks genuinely confused.

“I don't know why. It's just traditional.” Shiryû shrugs vaguely.

“You're all bizarre.”

“No weirder than you.”

[stretchjournalemerson]

One Graduation Gift

By Diti Kohli - 

“It is these quiet moments of dimly lit chit-chat that I still think about. And it was one of these quiet moments, days after my high school graduation, that he gifted me Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. The blue book slid towards me on the green granite I’d grown to know and love.”

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Mary, Kayla, and Audrey for endlessly commenting on this piece and helping it reach the place it is at now. Thank you to Napoleon Hill for writing Think and Grow Rich. This piece would physically not be possible without it. And most importantly, thank you to Papa for his inexhaustible inspiration and guidance.

I found out most kids do their homework near the kitchen later than most because for me, our smooth green granite kitchen island was our home’s only no-work zone. My brother and I did everything from alphabet flash cards to college applications holed up in the corners of our rooms, easily and effortlessly sneaking out our phones in-between––and sometimes during––assignments.

Our dining room was used as a Sikh prayer room, shuttered by sheer curtains and a makeshift door which was actually a wooden folding screen we always saw at World Market. The only table we had sat in the empty space near the kitchen bathed with light and elephant chotskies. But eating meals at this table was reserved for dinners with formal guests, those who we wished to trick into believing we were civilized and polite and normal. Usually when we ate, the four of us were littered around the island only yards away from the stove where Mama rolled rotis, perfect and thin and oval.  

Meal-time configurations were a constant––me on the squeaky far-left stool, Divij on the one right beside me, and Papa standing straight ahead of me, assuredly leaning back on the low-shelved cabinets and staring down at his phone until naan, sabji, and daal were carefully laid out in front of him. On good days, days where he would sing and laughingly scream and grab the butter from the fridge before Mama could ask us to, he would sometimes sit. Otherwise, he devoured his dinner back-hunched, with only his elbows touching the unsanded granite away from us. He claimed he sat enough at work.

But on days that inescapably prompted me to be the last one at our faux-table, when Papa lingered around the sink rather than returning to his nightly ritual of gruesome television, he and I would talk. It was usually on school nights when for some reason; I had no more English reading, and he had run out of emails to answer. My brother always slept early, around 9, and my mother was dead-set on gently rubbing his back until he drifted off. So they fled upstairs well before the both of us.

Sometimes in this late-night dialogue, he lectured me on anything he could pinpoint.

“You’re wasting your time singing and doing speech and participating in everything that has nothing to do with anything that matters.”

“You need friends with bigger goals, bigger ambitions. Or you’ll fall behind.”

“Don’t look down when I speak to you. Look at me.”

“Don’t side with your mom.”

These insults slowly but steadily lost their weight. But these kinds of conversations reminded me he had an unnatural talent for coiling subtle fear into the hearts of each of our family members.

But on easier days, days when we felt closer and more amiable, he would unknowingly retract in a long autobiography. It would be complete with stories of his youth, his dad, his Suzuki motorcycle, his journey to this country, his life. Both my respect and my anger for him derived in his unrelenting air of authority during these kitchen island conversations. I held him to a higher standard than everyone because of how much his words had hurt me in the past––partially because he was my father and partially because of the cultural norms that excused his yelling and hitting and menacing.

Because of the way his father had acted and his father’s father had acted, he thought it was okay that he set the mood of the entire household. Sadly, the remaining three of us had no grip over the air that loomed in our home. If Papa was upset, we were bound to be, wound tightly by his staring looks, his forceful orders to clean and move and shut up, and his ability to burst open in a fit of screaming at any time. If he was happy, we simply weren’t allowed to be gloomy or confused or have other plans with our friends; this was suddenly a picturesque day where we were mandated to wrap ourselves up in quality family time and be ready with an endless list of activities to do together. It was this grip that I always wished to break out of––I wanted to be permitted the power to set the tone for my life. And the only time I felt like I could was when he talked to me like an actual person, not just as his daughter, in these kitchen island conversations.

It is these quiet moments of dimly lit chit-chat that I still think about. And it was one of these quiet moments, days after my high school graduation, that he gifted me Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. The blue book slid towards me on the green granite I’d grown to know and love.

***

Mama and I were squished on the plane during my one-way trip to Boston for college––me completely unaware of any snoozing men and crying children, lost in a fleshed-out fantasy of a life to come. My dreams were no different than the possibility of freedom that prompts so many other naive college freshman to frolic thousands of miles away from where they grew up. I was finally being given the permission, if not encouraged, to study and travel and exist amongst high-rises and privileged intellectuals in Boston––waiting and watching as we all drowned in a pool of debt only for missed classes and Ramen noodle dinners. Even now, I am thankful for naivety because it makes this frivolous college life worth it.

Papa knew I was responsible and entirely capable of handling myself in an atmosphere of liquid temptation, loud roommates, and procrastination. I was already used to handling a busy schedule. Classes, debate, choir, theatre, and running in high school just morphed into more class, student newspaper, and an internship in college. I could do it easily, just with a little less sleep.

My dad reluctantly stayed home with Divij during my move-in because he started school the day after. Papa wanted to come help carry my boxes up flights of stairs and take pictures of me in a filled dorm room with quirky decorations I knew he wouldn’t approve of.

With an hour and a half left in the flight, I pulled out my dad’s gift to me, the book. I wondered if Papa had considered handing down his old, tattered copy, ridden with folded pages, margin notes with crappy pens, and the ancient version of the forward. His version lived on his desk, and he claimed he read it through twice every year. His hand-me-down would have felt more personal, more intimate. In that moment, I wished he understood me a little deeper––deep enough so he could have seen that his was the version I actually wanted.

On the inside flap of the revised copy he gave me, he wrote a long note, in the penmanship I had always seen in letters from Santa, birthday cards, and school permission forms. Make us proud...Babaji Mehar Karan, May God Bless You. I ran my hand softly on the glossy cover and flipped through its pages quickly. In only three months, dust had built up in the spine and between the pages. It landed on my lap as its breeze brushed my face.

Other than the messy, blue writing near the beginning, it was the cleanest book copy I’d laid my hands on in a while. As a serial reader and avid notetaker, every other book I owned was adorned with slashes, quips, and folds. In fact, this copy was the purest thing I was taking to my new shiny life at school.

But sitting on the plane with Mama sleeping beside me, I realized everything in my life was wildly pristine. I was literally floating in the air towards a new city amidst a life of luxury. Had I not been given the opportunity to have an exceedingly average upbringing, I would have no chance to fulfill the extraordinary ambitions I held on that plane. This was my umpteenth time in the air; my first time was before I could even remember, before I could walk, before I could even speak.

Papa was 24 the first time he boarded a plane. He grew up in a house the size of our living room in Old Delhi with a largely absent father who was always at work, an unrelenting mother, and two little siblings he placed on his bike and physically pedaled to school for years. When he flew to an unknown life in America twenty years earlier, he was essentially penniless––with so little money he wouldn’t splurge on an airport burger, let alone a new pair of shoes like the ones I was eyeing after security.

The plane took me farther and farther away from home, from the place where Papa had hidden the true nature of his struggles from me. Gifting me a pristine copy of the book that had helped him lift himself out of a place of poverty, of insecurity, of constant worry only made the difference between his childhood and mine glaringly clear.

I held the book in my hand tightly for what felt like hours. Mama woke up; the flight attendants took our trash; the pilot turned on the seat belt sign; the plane landed. But there I was, letting the sweat from my clammy hands clutching the book seep into its glinted pages and blur the outside ink.

***

Papa’s always been one to unknowingly contradict himself, but he’ll never admit to his contradictions. He’s prideful. It’s ironic that for years, he told me there was no formula for a good life. The only underlying constant in everyone’s reach for the abstract of success was hard work, he said. And I believed it because this advice had worked time and time again.

In high school, I always saw myself as a force to be dealt with because that’s what he expected of me. I approached every test, every tournament, every concert with a glaring air of confidence and poise. It seems like I loved myself as much as one could and had full faith in my abilities, even if I didn’t. Behind this facade, I made 3 AM my regular bedtime, lost weight because I would forget to eat, and packed every hour of my life until there was physically no more time. It was all part of working hard––working hard, he told me, was the only way.

But his favorite book sells a more twisted version of this lesson.

I had graduated days before, and he chose not to give me the book until the tranquil hours of the night when we both found ourselves seated around the green granite once again. He had hidden the copy in plain sight where its presence would go unquestioned by me: the planning desk connecting the pantry and fridge in the kitchen. The book is thick and weighted, held down with the compilation of lessons from some of the greatest businessmen in recent history. These men founded monopolies, created literature that transcended the evolution of time, and forged unexplored paths through violent invasion. Author Napoleon Hill interviewed hundreds of these men, and succinctly wrote “a powerful, proven formula” to personal fulfillment and higher achievement. It’s essentially a cop-out for life.

I flipped it open to the introduction. “TRULY, THOUGHTS ARE THINGS,” it starts. “And powerful things at that when they are mixed with definiteness of purpose, persistence, and a BURNING DESIRE for their translation into riches or other material objects.” It then tarries off into a story about Edward C. Barnes, right-hand man to Thomas Edison. The book was corny, over-simplified, and blatantly everything I’d never want to read.

But I quietly listened to Papa’s summary while I aimlessly perused through the book. And he explained, with wonder in this eyes and voice, how it worked.

“You’ll reach the part in the book where you will see the formula, and it’ll click.”

“Okay,” I said plainly. “I can’t wait to read it.”

***

I never got through the book, and he doesn’t know I haven’t. One day, I intend to. It’s only fair to accommodate Papa’s enthusiasm eventually––hopefully sooner than later, so he doesn’t lord it over me. He claims the book shaped who he was and brought him to the position of occupational and personal power he now holds. After getting through the forward and about a page before re-realizing self-help books aren’t for me, I realized why he likes it as much as he does. Papa believes the cop-out because he does not realize the capacity of what he has and can continue to achieve on his own.

He had big dreams that were hindered by a world of financial insecurity and the burden of a watching family. As the most intelligent and the most willing of his siblings, the responsibility to pull the family out of a paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle fell on him. Despite the stress I’m sure he occasionally felt, he swooped into this position with ease and confidence. And because he did, I have absolutely no need to take the same role. I am given the power to be ambitious, to be idealistic, to think about passion rather than money for at least a little while. The idealism that accompanies youth was sharply snatched away from him as he was forced to take the path that led to treasure. And his submission of his idealism is what to allowed me to escape this hinderance.

Growing up, I loathed him for his blatant anger and insults that sprouted itself whenever he wielded it. These feelings were pointed at us more often whenever he was stressed about work, about his property, about our education. His anger derived the memory of the life he gave up––though maybe unwillingly––to give our family the life we deserve. His stories around the kitchen island don’t reflect dreams of being stuck behind a desk of a IT company, ordering people over the phone and traveling every other week. He wanted to be a doctor. He wanted a life of intrigue and adventure.

My money will always be built up on money that already existed, the money he made. Though it may be selfish and stupid to complain about starting far above rock bottom, my privilege sometimes minimizes my journey. It doesn’t matter what I achieve in my life; to me, my accomplishments will always be trivial in comparison to his sacrifice. They will never be enough.

In times where I feel lazy and uninspired, I completely forget the moments he was degrading me and focus on those where he and him alone––any and all self-help books aside––drove me to be better.

***

The plans I made for my life began to slowly piece together after my first few months in Boston. I am happy in a menial sense, as much as one can expect an eighteen year old to understand the essence of contentment. My grades are good; my career is on track; my internship is everything I wanted it to be; and my friends party hard and often. And though I see that book everyday when I sit down on my desk to put in my contacts and straighten my hair, the pages mean nothing to me.

I brought the book because it serves as a symbol and reminder of my father: a reminder I currently do and probably will always need. The lessons in Think and Grow Rich and its illustrious formula I have yet to discover cannot possibly teach me as much as he has. My dad’s teachings have led me to a lifelong learning journey of complexity and resilience, and one book, one collection of words, cannot hold nearly as much power.

Papa places everything but that which drives me to an achieving job on a lower pedestal. So when I call him––though these calls are few and far between in fear of fueling his dissatisfaction, I tell him what he wants to know.

“At my internship today, the mayor gave me his personal phone number so I could set up an interview with him––like a real reporter.”

“That’s amazing,” he says. “Did you take the book I gave you to college?”

“Hanji. I did, Papa.”

“I knew it. Babaji Mehar Karan.”

[delhi-architect2]

Journal - Silver Linings: Amid Lockdown, Architect Andrew Franz Glimpses the Future of Live/Work

As a pandemic sweeps across the United States, some designers and architects see an acceleration of workplace and lifestyle trends that were being slowly assimilated already into mainstream culture: remote work, digital socializing and relying largely on online sources for goods and services. On the other hand, some cultural norms are being completely reversed, such as traveling long distance, practicing daily commutes, and outsourcing childcare.

Architects like Andrew Franz, AIA, LEED AP, a native New Yorker and founder of the nationally active design firm Andrew Franz Architect, PLLC, are carefully observing and analyzing these rapid, simultaneous shifts in daily life as they unfold — and finding some useful lessons and even some positivity in the current crisis. From an architectural and planning perspective, Franz sees many opportunities being exposed by the collective societal pause.

“This crisis is a compulsory social experiment,” says Franz. “It has forced many people around the world to quickly and fully adopt new technologies, ways of living, and approaches to doing business that were already becoming the ‘new normal,’ albeit very slowly.” The COVID-19 pandemic, Franz asserts, has merely fanned the flames of the technological revolution — a movement that has been spreading around the globe for decades and has the potential to support a better work/life balance for all people, as well as a smarter, more energy-efficient built environment.

“More people — specifically, more clients and bosses — are recognizing that face-face physical meetings and physical office attendance aren’t as critical for job performance and efficiency as they believed. “In fact, some loosening of old-school professional rules may enhance employee or personal performance,” acknowledges Franz.

Additionally, he adds that “because so many people — very unfortunately — aren’t working right now, or are working from home, they aren’t moving about as much on a daily basis.” This has meant more personal time for family, but also fewer cars and vehicles on the road and ultimately less pollution. “If we get used to this new, less mobile lifestyle and we end up maintaining it past the end of quarantine, the impacts for the future of transportation and the future of office buildings with their reduced occupancies might be massive.”

Hill Office, Location: New York, NY, Architect: Andrew Franz Architect

Franz expects that offices may become smaller and more flexible, allowing for more shared desks on a “rotating” basis as professionals integrate working remotely into their permanent routine. However, he notes that offices will likely still serve a critical role, providing much needed moments of casual social interaction that is as critical to team building and creating company culture as it is to professional collaboration. “After all, many of us have spent more time with our peers than we have with our families, sleep time discounted,” says Franz.

He speculates that, short-term, individual desks and personal work stations may regain popularity as people slowly relax social distancing protocols and return to the office, but remain vigilant and protective of personal space.  “Expect less density in the workplace whether that is less bench seating and more cubicles, or spread-out desks and private offices,” predicts Franz.

Still, he says, many people have seen how our homes can absorb and become our own personal offices, studios and laboratories. Emphasizing that while many of the stringent lifestyle habits people are currently compelled to practice will eventually be relaxed — and many will fade away — Franz anticipates a continued and ongoing desire in people to work from home, especially once the family (or roommates) are not all there with you.

As the home once again becomes the epicenter of life for so many Americans, domestic design and architecture is in the spotlight more than at any other time in recent memory. “Right now, houses and apartments have to be so much more than just a place to shower and sleep,” says Franz. “This crisis is not only revalidating the importance of having a home to go to in times like this, but almost more importantly it is asking us to question the nature of our dwellings — whether they are comfortable, functional, efficient and even inspiring to us.”

With these expanded needs, the home must now serve as a workplace, a gym, a daycare, a school, a restaurant, and even a hospice. To better optimize dwellings for this wide range of functions, Franz offers some time-tested design guidance:

1. Differentiate spaces with physical dividers — and schedule activities.

Especially in smaller houses and apartments, designated spaces aren’t available for each activity or need. Oftentimes people have to take office work or homework to their kitchens or bedrooms with inadequate lighting or distracting smells and amidst noisy or nosy family members and roommates.

East End House, Location: Shelter Island NY, Architect: Andrew Franz Architect

Dividing spaces with physical barriers or partitions to create flexible zones within bigger rooms, says Franz, is one solution. “We’ve seen the same issues people were facing in open offices taking place now inside people’s homes,” he notes. “People who have to do focused tasks need a quiet environment, and meanwhile the kids need to play and the groceries need to get put away while the music or television is turned up too loud.” Physical dividers — even something as simple as hanging a curtain or fabric — can create boundaries and define different zones. Franz also adds that scheduling spaces for needed activities at different times can also help mitigate friction in cramped quarters.

2. Take advantage of natural light and brighten up all interiors.

An enthusiastic advocate of using daylight, Franz points to the scientific effects of sunlight and good electric sources on human psychology, which backs up his ample and creative use of natural light in his buildings and interiors. “Natural light is proven to boost mood and productivity, so ideally you would have it coming in from multiple directions and sources,” he says.

Martha’s Vineyard Residence, Location: Martha’s Vineyard MA, Architect: Andrew Franz Architect

“Even if you only have one window in a room, don’t cover it — let the light spill in.” If a house or apartment doesn’t get much light, Franz suggests the next best thing: multiple electric illumination sources to flood more active spaces from multiple directions and most importantly, whether in the case of a small desk or large work room, an LED task light.

3. Bring as much nature indoors as possible, or step outside.

Franz stresses the importance of experiencing nature in some form every day. “Whether it’s a plant on your windowsill, or a view of the tree outside your window, or even a little balcony you can step out onto for some fresh air — don’t take it for granted,” says Franz. “In my case, I have an exterior stair and balcony that I sit out on and catch some sun, take a call or vertically socialize with my great neighbors. Some people are fortunate enough to have access to a roof garden, a yard or adjacent green space,” he adds, noting that hopefully one day all urban residential buildings will have mandatory green space.

Tribeca Loft, Location: New York NY, Architect: Andrew Franz Architect

“At the very least, choose items made of natural materials for furnishing your home — real wood tables or chairs, stone sculptures or countertops, and artwork that represents nature are all great options. Think of Scandinavian interiors and how they introduce pattern into them to animate the long dark winters.”

4. Get good wifi.

“Staying connected is everything in our increasingly virtual world,” explains Franz, “so having a great quality data connection installed in your home — perhaps even with a backup system should the first one fail — is a good idea.” Also, make sure you are creating a hard copy of your data if you’ve transitioned fully to the cloud, cautions the architect.

As millennials and generation Z come of age, their preferences for a nomadic lifestyle and untethered existence has led to a steady national decline in homeownership rates. Crash pads, monthly rentals, and a slew of other temporary accommodations are clearly favored by up and coming generations, who also largely prefer to live in urban or urban-feeling areas. But according to Franz, “this crisis is reminding many of us how good it feels to have stable roots —to have a shelter to retreat to that reflects our deepest values, supports our needs, and gives us the true sense of safety, control and total belonging that we all crave.”

About Andrew Franz Architect PLLC:

Based in New York City’s Chelsea neighborhood, Andrew Franz Architect, PLLC, is a full-service architecture, planning and design firm that established a strong reputation for high-end residential works and today is increasingly called on for larger-scale projects including civic and public commissions, arts and performance venues, and facilities for nonprofits and foundations.

Andrew Franz Architect creates original and imaginative expressions that bridge classic themes and a decidedly modern sensibility. The firm’s rigorous, client-focused design process favors engagement, craft, and inventiveness. From master planning, site selection and feasibility studies through design, construction administration and interior design and decorating, the firm offers a full range of services. For more, see www.andrewfranz.com.

The post Silver Linings: Amid Lockdown, Architect Andrew Franz Glimpses the Future of Live/Work appeared first on Journal.

from Journal https://architizer.com/blog/inspiration/stories/architecture-andrew-franz-live-work/ Originally published on ARCHITIZER RSS Feed: https://architizer.com/blog

[janvba2film-blog]

Post J: Source Review Sheet 6

Wes Craven's Influence in Making the Horror Genre Subversive | The Mary Sue. 2017. Wes Craven's Influence in Making the Horror Genre Subversive | The Mary Sue. [ONLINE] Available at: https://www.themarysue.com/wes-craven-influence/.

“1972’s The Last House on the Left comes up surprisingly little in modern discussions of horror film, but it sparked a full-blown moral panic upon release, with its no-budget home-movie style prompting rumours it was in fact an actual snuff film.” - A testament to Wes Craven’s brutality on-screen.

“The horror genre, Stephen King once wrote, is innately reactionary, preying on fears of the evil outsider entering communities and lives uninvited. At first, that seems like exactly what Craven is doing here. Krug, with his charisma and hippie-ish affectations, is an obvious stand in for Charles Manson, who’d been convicted only a year before (although weirdly enough, the film is an acknowledged loose remake of Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring). “Mothers, keep your girls at home,” to quote Nick Cave, appears to be Craven’s message.” - This contains a useful quote by Stephen King, a horror master in the eyes of many, which may be useful when writing about the genre and comparing it to Craven’s style. Not only that but there is a mention of Charles Manson, once again proving that he likes to take inspiration from real-life events. And finally, it makes mention of one of Wes’ key inspirations - Ingmar Bergman’s work - even mentioning that it is a “loose remake”.

“This sounds like it could be part of the same reactionary fantasy—the conservative traditional family unit meting out justice to that which violated it—but the way Craven shoots it, it’s not remotely triumphant.Instead, it’s the same sickness that their victims represent infecting them.” - This is very much related to Wes’ social commentary on the Vietnam war, in which there was no clear delineation between good and bad and there was all-out savagery on both sides. The article also argues that Craven speaking out against “right-wing vengeance that had taken hold in Death Wish-era America— [which] was almost completely lost in the shuffle” was later explored in the Nightmare series through the fact that the ‘wholesome’ neighbourhood burning a paedophilic child murderer alive was somehow okay.

“Nearly two decades later, Craven, who had made The Hills Have Eyes and Nightmare in the interim, got even more overt with his political commentary in 1991’s The People Under the Stairs. Even before the horror sets in, this is not your father’s horror movie: our hero is Fool, a young black boy from the Los Angeles projects, rather than the typical array of middle-class white kids. In contrast to King’s description of the formula, Fool is the invasive force in this story, bullied into helping a local petty criminal burglarize the house of their wealthy slumlords.At this point, the story becomes a balls-out insane amalgam of “Hansel & Gretel” and political satire; the slumlords are a vicious, cannibalistic brother and sister who call one another “Mommy” and “Daddy,” just like Ronald and Nancy Reagan, and keep a pack of starving, deformed semi-feral children in the basement and (you guessed it) under the stairs. And Craven isn’t done playing with our expectations; even after he’s (accurately) cast white suburbia and the Reagans as the epicenter of evil; the titular people under the stairs prove to be Fool’s allies. It might be the first horror film named after its victims. The film’s climax, in which Mommy and Daddy’s long-abused tenants gather in front of the house to confront them, is like watching Les Miserables on shrooms, and you will love every second of it.There’s a lot more on Craven’s CV that demonstrates these same instincts—like 1988’s The Serpent and the Rainbow, which sets a zombie story against the backdrop of Haiti under the iron fist of Jean-Claude Duvalier, or 2005’s severely underrated Red Eye, which wrings its scares not from gore but from Cillian Murphy and Rachel McAdams’ stellar central performances—but really, Craven’s desire to set fire to convention came through in just about everything he made, with the possible exception of 1999’s Oscar-bait Meryl Streep-starring Music of the Heart, a combination of elements that is as weird as it sounds. Craven was, above all else, a true original, and, far too uncommonly among horror filmmakers, understood that the genre is about more than giving us what scares us—it’s about examining why it does.“. The length of these paragraphs are mostly plot summaries but they all link to the idea that Wes Craven’s central style is controversial social commentary through the medium of horror, bringing out people’s external anxieties to the big screen.

[lindawellnesswarrior-blog]

Wellness Warrior Adventure Belize

Linda Wellness Warrior Adventure, Belize

"Breathtaking and more exhilarating than imagined. I was history. Thankful for going on this journey.” -M. Wilkey

What happens when a group of 12 embark upon a Wellness Warrior Adventure?  A spiritually enlightening experience!

Back in March 2017, Linda Wellness Warrior hosted the first (of many) Wellness Warrior Adventures, in beautiful Belize. Belize it or not, It brings me great joy to travel abroad with groups on wellness retreats to experience places less traveled, and engage in local culture.

The goal of the trip was for wellness warriors to heal relationships with old habits, behaviors, and beliefs to re-emerge feeling wholeness of spirit! Old habits, behaviors, and beliefs can be questioned as you search for new and inventive ways to make progress. It was my mission to help guide participants, in putting themselves at the center of themselves and their future goals.

Linda Wellness warriors, including myself, conquered fears, and learned the beauty of surrendering. The demographics ranged from mid 30s – 70s, women and men. I was fortunate to have my parents accompany me this trip; a cherished experience. Other women traveled with their mothers and worked on breathing life into their relationships. This trip was my Yoga. Spending time with my father abroad has taught me as yoga has, to open and surrender to my father’s way of loving his daughter. Yoga teaches us when we accept ourselves for who we are, we’re willing to forgive and accept others for who they are. It’s why these retreats are important for our mental health. Practicing mindfulness isn’t always an easy feat during our day-to-day lives. Retreats allow us to conquer fears, surrender, be balanced, and hopefully, when we’re back to our everyday lives, we take the feeling from the experience with us and remember to take time out for ourselves. You don’t have to travel abroad to retreat. You can carve out a space in your home, take a walk, BREATHE and just be still. That’s really all a retreat is--a quiet space away from our busy lives where we can just breathe!

On our retreat, we rode horseback to Mayan Ruins and went cave tubing on underground rivers. The entire trip was symbolic of both the masculine and feminine, from the elements to the imagery; the combined energies, which in Yoga practice represents balance. That spoke to me deeply.

Xunantunich Ruins

Xunantunich in the Yucatec Maya language means “Stone Woman,” however, it’s a modern name the locals gave the site after reports of it being haunted by the ghost of a woman with glowing red eyes! It was a major ceremonial center. The 135 feet Xunantunich Ruins are not the largest of the Mayan settlements, but it certainly has its interesting features. During the 2.5-hour horseback ride, we rode under massive palms. Taking in the surreal view, I felt like we were being greeted by the ancestors! My horse’s name was Emma. It meant “Universal.”

Probably the most popular of the Mayan Ruins, is the “El Castillo,” Spanish for “The Castle.” Standing at 180 feet, it’s the second tallest structure in Belize…and we climbed it. It was a very warm day as we made our way up to the Ruins. Once there we then had to walk up a steep hill before we got to the steps of El Castillo. I took in the moment and laid in the grass, and did some yoga stretching. The steps were so wide!! As we climbed the massive stairs, a few of our elders were hesitant to continue, with one of them experiencing anxiety and hyperventilating, but she pushed through using the breathing techniques I taught her from our previous evening meditations. “We might as well keep going we already came this far!” I was so proud of the way one motivated the other! I think we all recognized that we’re wellness warriors and no matter what we’re doing this.

We were exhausted and hot by the time we reached the top of El Castillo but relieved! As we stood gazing out at the panoramic scene, with Guatemala in the distance, we inhaled the mountainous air, in complete awe of how majestic the view! One member of our group gasped, “Oh my God! look how high up we are…you can see everything!” We saw where we stood when we began our climb. We realized wow! This is where the Mayan King sat during sacrificial ceremonies. Another member said she felt as if she had been “transported” during the climb, sort of a deja vu or astral projection, having already saw exactly what she witnessed in that moment.

It was interesting that member of our group had that experience. The Mayans believed in mystical powers. The elements earth, fire, air, water and aether were constant themes throughout our tour. Aether was the 5th dimension according to the Mayans. They described the element as the glue that binds the universe together. We recognized just how small we are in this universe! The Mayans made huge sacrifices to get close to spirit, and left these ruins as reminders for us to get close to spirit. It made us all aware of the gift we received through generations. It was amazing to experience something that as stood against time, war, storms and battled the elements. 

Although I conquered my fear of heights I can’t lie, I was ready to get down!

Cave Tubing

Cave tubing represented the Mayan underworld. The caves were regular pilgrimages where the Mayans prayed to their gods to bless them with bountiful harvest and sustenance. Cave tubing also represented the water element and fertility. There were many phallic symbols in the caves.

Before we reached the entrance of the cave, our tour guide took us on a short walk, reminding us to use our imagination, pointing out the herbs, medicinal trees and other wildlife. Once inside the cave, we began our journey, gentle waves carrying us as we witnessed a living breathing river within a cave. Millions of years in the making of limestone, crystal formation--huge quartz crystals, and waterfalls. Holes making way for light above. We glided along different sections of the cave ranging between two feet to 65 feet! Entering this sacred underworld, we experienced what these caves meant to the Mayans--being carried through the darkness, emerging outside back into the sun. 

 We ended our excursion at paradise--Caye Caulker. Rooftop yoga, indulging, resting in hammocks and beach bumming.

The Xunantunich Ruins and our cave tubing experience symbolized the saying, “as above, so below.” Climbing the top of El Castillo (as above) followed by cave tubing through the underworld (so below), represented our thoughts. The way we choose to live our lives, show up in our lives – whether that’s good or bad for you, the important thing is that we recognize what we need to change within ourselves for those changes to show up exteriorly; how we choose to think about ourselves, our circumstances, our lives. We conquered our fears and persevered, pushing through despite our fears!

We closed out our journey on Caye Caulker, a small limestone coral island off the coast of Belize in the Caribbean Sea. After spending a few days at the Aguada Hotel in the Cayo St. Elena and St. Ignacio district. Aguada means watering hole in Mayan language. We held our evening ceremonial circles, lighting candles (fire element), being thankful and offering blessings and morning yoga to set the tone and intention for our adventures.

Thank you to our sponsors Lord’s of Boston, Abiola Abrams, author of Sacred Bombshell of Self-Love Handbook for the African Goddess Affirmation Cards, and M.A.D.E.-Organics for the Bug Off which helped us on Caye Caulker. Fun fact about Belize, it’s pretty dry and not many mosquitoes inland during dry season. I’d also like to acknowledge the women warriors and womenpreneurs we worked with along our journey. A Gill of All Trades,  Lusterity, Shana Bryant Consulting, the Collier Connection, our hotel managers at the Aguada and Beach Hotel, and our mainland transportation provided by Danielia Lanza the only female owned and operated transportation company on the island.

Linda Wellness Warrior Adventures are a great time for new beginnings, to conceptualize ideas, to invoke a sense of self!

Save the Date: Our next Wellness Warrior Adventure will be April 14-21, 2018 We hope you’ll join us! For more info: www.lindawellnesswarrior.com/retreats