#not pour wealth in. That’s just what colonialism is.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Good corrective on narratives on Tibet common among Anglo leftists

[heatherly84]

Got a little bit stuck, and then a lot insecure, so not finished, but I am posting it here before I delete it in a pique of nervousness and am RUNNING AWAY NOW.

Even when it rained, they fought for the view of the sky in Durraska.

The eye of the temple was open wide to the heavens, which were gray more often than not, and sleeping beneath it was a good way to drown or freeze to death from the seemingly endless rain that poured in.

Of course, sleeping in the rocks and the darkness, away from the sky, was no great comfort either. Water dripped from the ceiling all around the eye. Veins of it trickled between the stones of the walls. The eye was the only way in or out for the people who lived there- and the colonies of tiny rodents who had made Durraska their home longer than anyone- but water could find a way in anywhere. Even if you fled to the deep dark chamber below the iris, it still leaked in in drips and drabs.

Valmiki, who had once lived on Asephone before the Ginai banished him here, was the only one who never complained about the wet. This made him wildly unpopular with the rest of the Banished, and though most of them had such poor nutrition and hygiene that a full set of teeth was only to be found among the newest residents, Valmiki had the fewest whole teeth of any Banishedman in the whole of the temple.

Worbla was not as sympathetic as perhaps she could be to this. Hearing they lived in what would be unthinkable wealth on another world had a sound to it she and most of the others misliked.

"As if we should be grateful, eh, little friend?" she asked, grinning her broken-toothed grin at the plant growing crooked from the cracks in the wall.

The light couldn't reach the plant, but it didn't seem to need it. Nor did the lack of food- or what it might be a plant calls food- or fresh air seem to be doing it any harm.

The plant had arrived some spans before- Worbla thought it might even be years now, but there were no calendars in Durraska, and she could no more count the days and keep the count in her head than she could grow wings and sail out of the eye. But she could remember that the seed fell down the shaft and skittered across the floor to somewhere near her feet. She had paid no mind to it at the time, because pebbles often washed down from the surface into Durraska, and she had long since given up hope that anything useful would ever wind its way down here.

But not long after, there had been a blood rain- when the Ginai demanded a sacrifice of the Freedmen, and they would be hung upside down in four rows of three with their throats cut. The remaining Freedmen would be anointed with some of their blood, while the relentless rain would take care of baptizing the Banishedmen below.

When the bloody water poured down on them in great rushes like a flood, the seed had been carried away on it until it crashed into this spot in the wall. Worbla had watched with some interest as this strange white thing had become pinned against the mortar and bathed in blood, and seemed- peculiarly- like a living thing struggling to make sense of drowning.

The stranger thing was that the water attacking it became clearer and clearer of blood as it went, as though the seed were cleaning it up. Filtering it out. (Worbla hesitated to think drinking even now, but in consideration of what had happened since, what other word could there be?)

Worbla didn't remember exactly what compelled her to save it. She had little use for a pebble that could clean blood from water- hell, blood from water was the best protein some of them got half the time- but the damnedest thing was that she felt <i>sorry</i> for the thing. No face to it, no noise, but to her, it had just seemed alive. She had plucked it out of the bloody flood and pushed it into a crack in the mortar just above the water line, where it seemed safe enough. She cut her finger when she did, and the little pebble cleaned that up, too.

The little pebble, which turned out to be a seed, which had grown into a plant, was now the most priceless and protected item in all of Durraska.

[throwawaydracula]

Almost forgot to address this:

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the “foreign gentleman.”

I'd just like to mention that the maids' willingness to speak with Seward, let alone try to persuade him of anything, says good things about how the Westenra estate treats its servants.

The Victorian era saw a big boom in domestic employment; as wealth poured into Britain from the colonies, servants became an important status symbol, especially for the middle classes who desperately tried to imitate upper class conventions. Even lower middle class households would try to keep at least one "maid of all work". As servants became more and more a part of daily life, their employers started getting... uneasy. When only the upper class had been the big employers of domestic servants, no-one had thought anything was problematic about a certain level of glamour rubbing off on them; if you look at portraits of servants done in the 18th century, you can see their uniforms tended to be much more ornate and visibly expensive than they were in the 19th century. Waiting on a gentleman was the next highest rank to being a gentleman, in some cases. This would change in the next century; the rest of the working class would come to hold domestic servants in contempt.

With the middle class expanding rapidly in the 19th century and hiring servants of their own, it became necessary (in the minds of the employers) to make it clear who was whom, who served whom. Uniforms became much more drab and... well, uniform, and the etiquette surrounding master-servant relationships became more complex-- and much more restrictive. Appearing to be 'lax' with your servants could be a social death sentence. Undue familiarity or casualness was seen as the mark of a weak employer, and for the Victorians any weakness could imply moral weakness-- and there was nothing worse than moral weakness.

It varied from estate to estate and house to house, of course. But many cases were extremely dehumanizing. In some estates, if the employers' family or guests passed by, they were supposed to flatten themselves against a wall until their 'betters' passed. In at least one case I heard of, servants were actually supposed to fling themselves out of sight as best they could, to help to maintain the illusion that the house somehow magically ran itself, because heaven forbid anyone should be credited with the actual work of keeping everything afloat. I believe that one estate actually built an underground tunnel from the servants' quarters to the house proper, just to keep the help out of view as much as possible.

There's a detective story I know from the period which has an entire plot hinge on the fact that when people said things like "I'm staying alone in the house", what they meant was "I'm staying in the house with the servants but no guests or family". The ideal was breathing furniture, at worst.

But such conditions weren't universal, and it looks like the Westenras aren't afraid that their servants actually talking to their guests like human beings is a threat to their status. That the maids feel they can express themselves freely to a guest of their employers, who is himself an important doctor, is a good sign. That they feel they can try to argue with him is a very good sign. For all we know they tried arguing with Van Helsing himself next, and Seward just didn't hear about it.

I suppose with Mrs. Westenra and Lucy ill, one could theorize they feel a bit more free than usual; but they're not behaving like they've been conditioned to abase themselves before guests, which I think points to a better sort of culture in the Westenra house than one might find elsewhere.

[thecandywrites]

The Switch Chapter 10

And now we have reached the apex, next- the fall. 

The Switch 

Chapter 10

Kragan’s family was of course so excited at the prospect of being invited to not only be Yekmenian’s but be in nobility as the whole family was eager to move here. You watched on as Kragan’s family eagerly signed the written offers from Audrey and Lukher. Thaddius and Astrin as well as Kragan and yourself and his siblings who were of marriagable age and ready to strike out on their own- looked for a good place to build your estates on among the lands. 

You looked at what parcels of land had the best access to roads- so that it was easily accessible. Also that it always had a good fresh water supply for plumbing. Where it wouldn’t be prone to any storms or damage from the elements but also where the land was fertile to plant gardens and even a vineyard and an orchard and grazing lands for any flocks so that the estate would have a good food supply along with electricity. But the thing was- every piece of land had those things and you were spoiled for choice before you chose based on what the views would be like. 

The Yekmenian National Bank- which was the official title of the bank that Queen Audravienne had opened for her citizens. That had been a portion of the Yekmenian Royal Treasury- would give Kragan amazing rates of interest for any money he would deposit. You immediately deposited the rest of your funds that you had on hand. Audrey was more than happy to take actual gold bricks and bars- melt them down - add adani to them to make them adani gold drakars. And then deposited them into the accounts. Which each drakar was a third of the size of a gold bouillon brick from Solowards. So she- in one fell swoop immediately tripled your money for the price of a single gold bouillon in exchange for all the adani mineral to do it. 

You talked with Audrey very extensively about your own ideas and visions for what The Contessina Ships, and their ports would all eventually look like and feel like when the guest was on board. And how you could make a universally pleasing layout where the details and the finishes could be customized to suit the buyer. Tests were run to see how thin the materials could be made so that things like marble tiles for floors and walls wouldn’t necessarily be all that heavy. But be durable to withstand the forces that would be put onto them when in use. And wouldn’t crack depending on how heavy the person walking on them would be. You and Audrey used Thobin as your test subject to make sure that especially ships made for Dorierra- orcs of his size could easily walk through the entire ship. And especially learn the layout quickly and for there to be a safe room to easily get a bride and her party into it, defend the vessel, safely manuver the vessel out of danger and then get back on course. Audrey insisted that they build a mock up of the basic inner layout of the ship in a courtyard to make sure everything would be at the right height and width- just for the Dorierran ships. While the other ships didn’t necessarily have to be so accommodating of the larger builds of Dorierran orcs. Before you reached a decision of a set of parameters for each size of ship depending on how big and massive and sprawling the ship could be and how big the guests on board would be. 

All of Yekmeni and the surrounding colonies were overjoyed to be working on not just Salgria Shipping Ships but especially The Contessina Ships since mouras naturally had a flare and love for the luxurious when possible and would be doing a fair bit of the finishing work. The rest of your personal wealth was poured into an account that would pay the laborers to build the ships, and would pay the artisans for their beautiful crafts and workmanship and craftmanship to finish the ship. Since the ships would be built in three stages. The first stage- building the “skeleton” of the ship. Then the “fleshing out” stage and finally “finishing” stage. 

Audrey insisted that stone timber pines from the West Coast of Nuvaric from where Stormbreaker was- where her friend Benyana was the Clan Chieftess would be the best wood in all of the supersphere to use to flesh out the ships. Because while it took a bit to get used to working with it, it lasted usually at least ten times as long as any other wood.  And surely between adani steel in the frame of The Contessina Ships themselves, and the stone timber pine in the hauls and inner frames and walls. The Contessina Ships could always get upgrades and face lifts in finishing materials while also lasting at least a few lifetimes or at least a few generations of owners. And then all the various colors of marble to finish out the interiors of the ships would appeal to a variety of tastes and beautiful and wonderfully intricate but durable carpets to go on the floors whether they be stone or wood- for easy cleaning would be ideal. So that each one both looked and felt like a proper palace when you were on board the ships themselves. 

But after your initial healing from the stones- the more medicine that you took from Dr. Hayati- the worse you began to feel. The feeling of impending death slowly crept back into your heart and mind. And feeling that the number of your days start to tick down slowly became more poignant. You felt like you were cramming as much as possible into each and every single minute so that Audrey would have the same vision you did of the ships as both of you made dozens of finishing sets. With samples of marble, paints for the walls. Woods for the trim and finishes and sketches both vague yet detailed for every kind of ship as you both broke it down to a bare bones model that would be a base model and then built up from there before Lukher, Audrey, Kragan and yourself came up with the largest and most luxurious one as each variant had it’s own added title. And the most grand designed Kragan named The Contessina Magnifica. And it would be very much- a floating palace. And while the smaller skyships would look like little toy boats in the clouds. The Contessina Magnifica would look large enough even from the ground that one would feel like they could reach up and pluck it from the sky with their hand and it would come with a crew of smaller defensive ships to fly around it in formation to protect it and the occupants from any would be attackers. 

The plan was that once the ships had their adani steel frames, like a steel skeleton- and adani anti-gravity disks and adani propulsion engines and the beginning of the plumbing and electrical wiring installed- the ships would then be flown to Drauch to be “fleshed out” by the stone timber pines and then sailed back to Yekmeni to be finished. 

Kragan poured most of his money into the sails for the Contessina Ships. They would be a brand new wonder of engineering. The sails themselves would not only harness the wind- but the sunshine too. And even moonlight - as an energy source. Skyships had something of windmills at the bottom that helped turn a turbine engine which in turn would help turn the paddles of the windmills like propellers of a seaship. 

But because of the very advanced technology in Yekmeni and thanks to the ingenuity of not just the native Yekmenians but the mouras in the surrounding colonies- Kragan invented a new propulsion engine that was a turbine of but blades that would cut through the air faster than a propeller. And the engine turbines could be put on the bottom of the ship and with just a move of a lever and a joystick- could me moved and maneuvered in any direction so that the ship could move in any direction for ease of movement and quickness of movement so that you didn’t have to go at whatever the wind speeds were.  

And the engineers and artisans at Yekmeni made a special cloth that was both machine and cloth that had special cells that would capture sunlight and turn it into electrical energy to help power the ship, charge the batteries and the generator and engines and anti-gravity disks and the turbines.  And where the SSCS woven into the sails themselves- that thread would actually glitter during the daylight and glow at night. Especially under moonlight since the sails were dyed in special dye that would make the sails glow as if under blacklight at night and if a light were shone on them- from a lighthouse or in a storm- the sails themselves would reflect back as if painted with light reflecting paint. The sails themselves were an utter marvel too and would soon be put to use in the regular Salgria Shipping boats. And with the different classes- the sails themselves could have their designation. So that the sails of The Contesssina Magnifica Ships would have SSCS-M on the ships so that even at a distance you could tell what class Contessina Ship it was. 

All of it was so exciting yet it was a bitter sweet process for you. Because while Kragan and yourself threw yourselves into this project. You knew you would probably never see it completed. But what a wonder these ships would be when they were finished. And what fortunes they would make Kragan and his family- you could only fathom and fantasize about, as you would draw and paint picture after picture of possible looks based on Kragan’s initial design which ended up being the middle of the road model- called Originale. 

But as the feeling of impending doom grew stronger and things seemed to settle on specific plans and less about theory and more about making those theories into realities- you had been in Yekmeni a month. And while Audrey and Lukher always made Kragan and his family and yourself feel at ease and welcome here. This was not to place to reveal your truth. Because you knew the moment you did, especially if you did it here- it would kill all enthusiasm for the project and kill it in it’s tracks. And as much as you loved and enjoyed seeing Kragan soar so high in mind, heart and spirit. You didn’t have the heart to take the air from under his wings just as he finally achieved his new height. But you also didn’t want Kragan to wake up next to a dead corpse either. So you finally suggested that his family at least go home, and start to pack up their home and say their goodbyes and meet with their other family and friends in Forestrong.

Kragan’s older siblings basically told their mother to pack up their stuff and ship it here because they were excited to get their own building of their own houses and estates underway. Especially when so many of them already had a prospective mate already here in Yekmeni, or in Stormbreaker. Especially as Kragan’s brother Thaire was excited to get to Stormbreaker and see Brock’s younger sister Salri, as he volunteered to be in Drauch. And specifically Stormbreaker to oversee all the stone timber pine works. 

Audrey insisted that you spend your last night at Yekmeni under the stones “just in case the first time had missed anything”. But you knew she was really just trying to buy you more time again as both of you did your best to act like nothing was wrong. Which got harder and harder for Audrey to do when she noticed you try so hard and struggle with keeping up the appearance that you were fine.

When really, every day you woke up and pulled yourself out of bed was a feat. And Audrey could tell you were growing tired and weary. And when you told her that you could feel the end coming near again, she made sure to shut down any reasons for keeping you and Kragan here. She took on more and more of the directive control of The Contessina Project for you.  You trusted her judgment and her tastes implicitly because no greater friend or ally had you made than her. And she herself was angry and upset that Dorierra would dare charge you so much to heal you. But she didn’t seek any other advice or council of anyone else, out of respect for keeping the matter of your personal health a private matter only for you to decide. 

And while you got to go to the colonies, you were too scared to approach a healer and make any kind of inquiries because you were too afraid of the price they would ask. And too afraid of Kragan’s reaction and what he would risk or spend or leverage to try and help. Astrin had already had to tell him that he needed to wait for a few months to get more funds to pour into The Contessina Project because every bit of profit and income that wasn’t earmarked to care for the family and it’s needs or the company, it’s workers and it’s needs- was being dumped into The Contessina Project already. And you could already sense that things were beginning to be strapped tight. 

Even with Audrey’s generosity with turning any gold money or even paper money- using Dorierra’s exchange rates as her own- to gauge and calculate the wealth in your accounts - as even the interest accumulated was being spent as quickly as it could be accrued. And you just knew that if you said something now- everything would stop. People’s jobs and livelihoods were now on the line and hanging in the balance and you could not in good conscience deprive countless people- their means of income- just to prolong your own life. The needs of many outweighed your single life.  

But at the same time. You knew Kragan would be furious that you had kept this from him your whole marriage. He had given you countless opportunities to tell him and to come clean about it. And you were still too afraid to fully open up because you didn’t want things- that were finally going right- as all your plans were finally being put into actions- to end. You didn’t want to see how much he would be hurt and betrayed by this. And you loved him too much and cared for him too much to want him to suffer at all, or to be in any kind of pain or distress. And so- out of fear- you let him stay in blissful ignorance- trying to keep the blissful state intact for as long as possible. While also pushing off the inevitable for as long as possible. By Solowardian Law- a groom could sue his inlaws in the first two months of marriage for a “lame” bride. And you did everything in your power to make it to that second month. And you were only mere weeks away from it. But at the same time. You only hoped that you had that much time left at all. 

While you had stayed in Yekmeni, between Audrey ordering more clothes for you in the Yekmenian style so that you could always be comfortable, and even “sold” you jewelry at a very reduced rate so that you looked and felt more Yekmenian by the day. It still didn’t feel real to you. You still felt like a fish out of water and just a traveller- passing through, never staying for too long. 

Audrey even happily let you hold Ahi as much as you wanted. Since she knew you probably would never get a chance to hold a baby of your own. That and Ahi was just the sweetest baby. And had fat rolls for days and always hot so he barely wore a diaper most of the time. And between looking at him, and Ashurah’s son Harashu and Masairra’s twins Jahoel and Jahaline. All of them were this big and this chunky which thier fathers claimed almost all orc babies- at least very well fed ones looked like that and were the epitome of health. He was more olive green than brown as his coloring was almost exactly like the forest floor, save for his bright yellow eyes. But Kragan only seemed to be more turned on every time you held either Ahi or any of the other babies because he was bound and determined to give you a baby of your own.  

Once you finally left Yekmeni, you stopped off at Drauch and Stormbreaker and commissioned for not just stone timbers to be cut down, but for every one that was cut down- two more would be planted in its place on Stormbreaker lands since Stormbreaker had a magnificent stone timber pine forest in it’s territory and since Stormbreaker, Drauch and Suchi had become allies with Yekmeni. And Brock and Yana being close friends with Lukher and Audrey- it seemed only natural that you would take Lukher and Audrey’s advice and go to the best and most abundant source of stone timber pines- that would give you a very good price for such a precious material- if they got to work with it themselves and while they understood that sky ships and seaships were similar- they had key differences too but Stormbreaker seemed up to the task to learn and do all they could.  

Meeting Brock and Yana was like meeting old friends too- as Kragan and Brock were just as good of friends as Kragan was with Lukher. And Yana- while different from Audrey, was very fun to be with and be around. And getting introduced to more of the mountain moura colony culture was a wonderful experience. And their little Brive was just too precious. He was six months younger than Ahi but his pastel mint green skin and bright golden blonde hair in beautiful little curls was darling. And he was just as happy and gregarious as Ahi was. And he was about as round as he was long with lots of fat rolls himself. His little limbs seeming nothing but little fat rolls which was a very good sign of infant health. And to see so many other mouras married into the Stormbreaker Clan and so many hybrid children was amazing. While heartwarming, affirming and reassuring for Kragan. It was bittersweet for you to see it because you knew in your heart that there was no way for you to give Kragan such a priceless gift. 

The clan was all too happy to agree and happily took on the building contract. Part of Drauch was changed by the mouras in Stormbreaker to make adequate room for the ships and the lumber yards and the skyship yards. Work was immediately started- felling trees and preparing the wood for the curing process so that when Yekmeni would send out their “bare bones” ships. They would get “fleshed out” here- by adding the stone timber pine wood planks and fill out the haul and would be the beams for the walls and masts for the sails. As Kragan happily gave Brock and Thaire the construction plans for each and every single class of Contessina Ship that would be coming to be “fleshed out”. And then once the boat was fully-“fleshed out” - it would be towed back to Yekmeni to get the finishing touches put into it and the rest of the plumbing and electrical wiring installed along with the sails. 

Brock and Yana were especially happy for the opportunity because it meant that the forest wouldn’t get depleted. Because it would be in a constant state of being replanted as areas where the trees had already been felled to build the ever growing town of Stormbreaker. It also meant work and even more income- independent from their seafood sales at Suchi. Drauch and even Vraum could be stopping points for the Contessina Ships. Since Drauch and Vraum were unique in the world and soon gaining interest in as a world wonder to have floating cities made out of clouds that could move on the wind, even to other colonies around the world. 

Kragan and yourself were given a move in ready estate in Drauch to stay in while you would be there in the future. All you needed to move in were your clothing, food and other household supplies. But otherwise the estate itself was fully furnished and Yana used her own palatial home to use as the basis for it as she and the other mouras used the home as thanks for bringing Salgria Shipping and The Contessina Shipping Project to them and give them that much more independance from Suchi financially. 

But after your dealings with Stormbreaker- the weariness of traveling was soon felt in your bones and you just wanted to rest. You still didn’t want to tell Kragan in Stormbreaker either. Your fears intensified while the feeling of impending doom was getting too great to ignore. Even with the second healing from the stones, which you felt gave you about another month of life. Now you only had a week before the two month mark and you wanted Kragan to be at home by then. And with just a little bit of pleading- Kragan finally caved and brought you to his home so that you could fully rest and recover from moving from room to room, bed to bed and rest and recover from your efforts being poured into The Contessina Project ever since you got married. 

And while Kragan was embarrassed by his home’s simpleness and plainness. You assured him and reassured him that you didn’t need anything that fancy. You just wanted to finally have a rest without having to work on the project or having to worry about when you would need to go somewhere else to take care of the next thing. You just wanted a break from all of that. 

So Kragan and his parents and his younger siblings brought you to their surprisingly humble home and with Kragan’s older siblings no longer with you- Mildred packed up their things into trunks for Thaddius to send them and took up the room right next to yours so that she was always as close as possible. 

You were just grateful it was a home. You slept on the couch while Kragan and Captain Tilge moved your mattress and other things from the Violet Skye into Kragan’s room. And while it wasn’t that much of a room as far as size or opulance. You were just grateful to get a room where your bed wasn’t moving with the winds and stayed still. Because while it had taken you a while to get “your sky legs” so to speak. You missed solid ground. And you missed laying still and laying in a bed that was yours through and through. Where it didn’t feel like you were a guest but that was yours. Even as welcoming Audrey had made Yekmeni and Yana had made Drauch and Tilge had made the Violet Skye- it all still felt like Souja Tavern to you. None of it didn’t quite feel like home to you. And your soul demanded that you needed to rest in your true- home. Not a house that you were calling home for the time being with Kragan on your travels.  

Mildred regretfully woke you up when the room was ready and dinner was ready as you sleepily went to the dining room and tiredly ate. Barely able to keep your eyes open as you tried to eat. Kragan noticed your extreme fatigue and insisted that he help you to bed because you still looked so tired you were about to fall over and fall face first into your soup as Astrin seemed a little giddy at the development of you becoming increasingly tired ever since Yekmeni. 

Kragan helped you into bed and you didn’t even get a chance to take your nightly medicine before you were fast asleep as soon as your body all but collapsed into bed. 

“I��m really worried about Tessa.” Kragan admitted when he rejoined his remaining family around their dining room table.  

“I’m not.” Astrin grinned wider as she continued to eat what was at the table and keeping a watchful eye on her kids to make sure they were eating off of their own plates and not taking food from their sibling’s plates. 

“Why?” Kragan asked his mom. 

“Kragan, it’s been a month and a half since she got off that gods awful medicine from Solowards in Yekmeni. And she hasn’t had her menstruation since the wedding. Some women, when they’re really early in the pregnancy- just tend to sleep a lot because their bodies are too busy making another person.” Astrin hinted as Kragan gasped softly. 

“Really?” Kragan asked excitedly. 

“Yes really. But it’s still too early for the pregnancy to show up on the traditional tests. It’ll be another two months at least. But I’ll bet you- your britches that she’s already with child. The two of you have done nothing else nearly day and night for the last two months but try. Some women just get super tired in the beginning of their pregnancies and I think she’s one of them.” Astrin ventured.

Mildred hung back from re-entering the dining room as tears flooded her eyes. If only they knew. She didn’t even re-enter the dining room. And instead retired to her own room for the night. Much to Tilge’s disappointment because he was hoping to finally get invited to stay in Mildred’s room with her. Because the two had grown their own relationship and had become quite close. Tilge always practically bending over backwards to help and support and befriend and charm Mildred and try to sweep her off her feet.

But Mildred still refused physical closeness or intimacy. And still kept him at arm’s reach emotionally and mentally. Which Tilge had thought she was just playing hard to get. But really it was Mildred knowing that soon, you would pass. And that soon, she’d be going back to Solowards to live and serve out the rest of her life at your family’s estate. Despite you saying that once you passed, she was free to do with her life as she pleased. And that if she didn’t want to go back to Solowards, she didn’t have to or was obligated to. And while she had always served with distinction, she was not a slave. And didn’t belong or was owned by you or anyone else in your family. You had paid her double for following you and helping you with the last moments of your life. And you just wanted her to be happy. 

Mildred came back into your room and simply sat on the bed and lovingly pet your head and running her fingertips through your hair. Remembering with bittersweetness- all the memories of watching you grow up. And now to be so young but already at the end of your life- Mildred felt it wasn’t fair at all. That the world’s sweetest and brightest shining star would only shine so bright for such a short time. It would just be another few days before it would be past the marriageable probationary time period. You were almost there. And she would personally see to it that if you made it there and a day longer- she would consider it a job well done. 

Mildred wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks and used her handkerchief to sniffle into because carrying this weight with you had been just as equally heavy for her to carry too. She felt like a coward for hiding behind the ‘It’s not my place’ rule of serving a master. She could now only hope and pray you could live out for the rest of the week. She had mentally dug her heels in and would be seeing to you as if you were an invalid if she needed to. And had actually had a vial of actual poison that she had hidden inside a small board game that the doctors had given her that if and when your suffering was stretching on and you were suffering senselessly. She could end it for you. Mildred did her best to regain her composure before she checked to make sure you were still breathing before she left the room when she heard someone climb the stairs and the stairs creek and groan with the movement. 

“She’s still sleeping Sir. Good night Sir.” Mildred offered when she saw it was Kragan before she slipped into her room when all Kragan did was nod in understanding. 

“Goodnight Mama Mildred.” He offered her retreating form as she did her little waive as she shut the door and no sooner had she hid herself in her room before she did her best to weep as silently as she could as she got the poison out and made sure it was now at the ready for when you would need it before she slid into bed and silently cried herself to sleep. 

You barely registered Kragan coming to bed, as the mattress shifted with his weight before he gathered you into his arms and his warmth seep into you as Kragan noticed that the heat pattern of your body had changed now that he took a moment to really become attuned to you. 

There was heat pooling in your abdomen. Usually you were always just a touch colder than him. But now, he could distinctly feel the warmth all collect and pool in your abdomen. Even to his well trained and sensitive touch- your abdomen, that now no longer had so much pain. He could feel that your lower belly was in fact just barely larger than normal. He couldn’t help but tear up and smile at the thought that you were pregnant. Then he shimmied down in the bed and noticed that your womanhood even smelled slightly different. A little stronger and more potent but while his mouth watered, he wouldn’t give into his craving for it and risk waking you up. 

“If you’re in there. I’m here. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a son or a daughter, I will love you with my whole heart and soul regardless.” Kragan whispered before he pressed a soft kiss into your belly. Before wriggling back up and gathering you in his arms. He didn’t know how else to sleep now. He didn’t care what bed he had to sleep on or how rich the room was furnished. If you were comfortable, that’s all that he cared about. And the last two months had been the best and most exciting months of his life. And he felt like you were the catalyst that would give him all the motivation he needed to build you an empire- worthy of your name. And give you something worthy for you to rule over, besides his heart, mind and soul. You could sleep for the next nine months straight if it meant that you would be ok and that if you were carrying a child, that that child would be happy and healthy. 

But Kragan woke up alone in the bed in the morning and only the sound of you vomiting in the grass outside of his bedroom as Mildred was already up and dressed and helping you as you laid in the yard since his house didn’t have indoor plumbing. 

“Tessa! Are you ok?” Kragan asked as he came downstairs and out of the house in a robe. 

“Yeah, I tried taking my morning medicine. I threw it right back up and even the smell of it is making me sick and I didn’t want to wake you or anyone else up.” You croaked as you looked miserable as Mildred was nearby with a bucket of water and a steaming teapot as she poured you a cup from her pocket and poured you a cup of peppermint tea for nausea. 

“Well if it’s making you sick, stop taking it altogether.” Kragan urged you. 

“You have felt worse the more you’ve taken Dr. Hayati’s medicine. It isn’t the same as your old medicine. Your old medicine never made you this sick.” Mildred commented. 

“But the old medicine was still harming me internally, period. And even by now, I would be weaning off the old altogether. Maybe the doctors didn’t put enough Green Tansey with the Violet Eye or something. I’ve just felt awful since I started taking the new medicine. Like I feel like I never should have taken anything after those stones did what they could. And Hayati didn’t say that I would feel worse before I would feel better or anything like that. Maybe I should just stop taking it all together and see how I fare for a few days.” You ventured. 

“Yeah, I think that’s wise Tessa.” Kragan readily agreed. 

“Tessa? Are you ok Hun?” Astrin asked as she came out of the house in her robe and came over. 

“Yeah, just feeling really nauseous this morning. Just the smell of Dr. Hayati’s medicine made me hurl.” You admitted as Astrin smiled brightly. 

“Well that’s normal. I would think it’s morning sickness. Besides, when a woman comes to be with child, her tastes change and her sense of smell becomes much more acute.” Astrin hinted as Mildred turned to look at to see how you would react. 

“It’s a possibility.” You tried to smile politely before another wave hit you and you hugged your other bucket and hurled into it. That little bit of peppermint tea coming back up and out in a hurry. 

“I know just the thing for you hun. Let me get it prepared for you.” Astrin urged as she went back into the house. 

“Do you think you might be with child?” Kragan asked as he sat down in the grass with you. 

“If the blood in my underwear this morning is an indication- no.” You muttered as you spit out the vomit tainted saliva in your mouth into the bucket. 

“Oh, so your moon blood did come, it just came late.” Kragan noted as his shoulders dropped a little in disappointment. 

“Well either way, we should stop the medicine regardless.” You insisted to Mildred. 

“Yes. I can have it disposed of by this afternoon.” Mildred offered. 

“No, just..hang onto it for a while. And we’ll see if this resolves with me no longer taking it.” You urged her. 

“Ok.” Mildred agreed before a messenger came to the house as Kragan stood and saw who it was. 

“Is everything ok?” Kragan asked as he came up to them and greeted them. 

“Yes, the first three Contessina Ship steel frames were finished yesterday. They are being towed to Drauch in Stormbreaker as we speak. But Stormbreaker didn’t think they would be done that fast and doesn’t have the plank steamers ready and the trees haven’t even been cut down into planks yet, let alone dried out or aged or anything.” He answered. 

“Kragan.” You called out as Mildred helped you hobble over as you had overheard what the messenger had to say. 

“Hmm?” Kragan asked. 

“If they don’t have the plank steamers, are there extra steamers that can be pulled from your other shipyards that can be brought to Drauch? And you can build new ones in Drauch while the others are still working in Drauch? Don’t hold up production just because Yekmeni worked faster than Drauch did. Even if you have to pull whole crews from here in Forestrong or Fitsdale or wherever just to train the new builders in Drauch? They know how to build fishing boats in Drauch but this is a new venture for everyone. They’ll need all the help they can get.” You put to him. 

“It’s either that or have the ships brought to the other shipyards but if I do that. Stormbreaker won’t be pleased because I gave the contract to them for their cheaper but better lumber.” Kragan answered. 

“Do you have workers that can go and stay anywhere? Drauch is still plenty big enough and has plenty of empty houses to host all kinds of families if they need to. You can either rent out the spaces for the workers to stay or you can outright buy the whole neighborhood in Drauch from Brock and Yana just for the shipbuilders to stay and give them a raise for moving just to accommodate the move. And Drauch has all kinds of amenities that make moving to it wonderful. Audrey literally tripled our money in Yekmeni. Take a third of it to buy the section in Drauch if you have to. And the food is awesome in both Stormbreaker and Drauch. Just go to Brock- get the ok. And then go to your shipyards and ask for volunteers. And the bonus of your workers moving to where you need them should be enough of an incentive.” You urged him. 

“But we just got home yesterday. You need me here to..” Kragan began to argue. 

“I’ll be fine. Just let me stay here and rest and recuperate. I’ll join up with you later or you can come back and get me once you get this sorted out. Duty and business calls, you need to answer it. Don’t let me hold you back. This needs immediate attention and immediate action. Give it the attention it needs and take the action it requires.” You urged him. 

“But I don’t want to leave you. What if you need me for…something?” Kragan frowned. 

“I have Mama Mildred. She’ll take care of me the same way she always has. I’m in good hands. And between her and whoever else wants to stay behind. I’ll be fine.” You reassured him even though right now, you could barely keep standing because of your depleting strength. 

“You sure?” Kragan put to you.

“I’m positive.” You nodded. 

“Go, get your father, discuss what you can do and how you can make this work and what you need to do next. It’ll be fine. You’re a very intelligent man, you’ll figure it out.” You reassured him before Kragan caved and brought the messenger inside. Just as Astrin was in the middle of making breakfast for the family herself as Mildred immediately tried to pitch in and at least help and over breakfast. 

Thaddius and Kragan agreed that your solution was best and would have to leave when they hadn’t even unpacked. Kragan laid with you one more time but he found that there seemed to be a wall to keep himself from seating fully into you this time but he was just happy he could give you your pleasure twice before getting his own before finally pulling himself from you and hoping that that seed would have a chance to take root if the others hadn’t. 

“The moment you need me or want me or get hungry for me, you call me ok?” He urged you. 

“Ok.” You agreed before you kissed him sweetly and saw him off. Wishing you had more time and wishing you could have had a chance to tell him the truth but you didn’t want the truth of the matter to derail him. Not when The Contessina Project was getting underway much faster than you had anticipated. 

By nightfall it was just Astrin, and her younger children, Mildred and yourself left in the house. You stayed out and watched Kragan and Thaddius and Tilge board the Violet Skye and shrink to barely a speck in the dusk as the sun set and the glorious colors of the sunset stretched out over the sky. And even as beautiful as it was, it felt like Kragan had taken your heart from your chest when he left. 

You just sat in the grass and cried. Because in the end- all those chances to tell Kragan the truth, had officially slipped through your fingers like sand or water. And you felt so unworthy of Kragan’s love and trust. Because you knew he kept no secrets from you. And you hated yourself for keeping this from him. You hated being a coward, and you hated the fact that you didn’t have the strength to go with him. And you hated the fact that even at his childhood home- you still didn’t feel at home. But you couldn’t go home to Solowards and your family’s estate now. This is where you asked Kragan to take you and to leave you. And this would be where you would die. Alone- except for Mildred. 

So here you sat, sobbing in the soft grass- knowing you were never going to see your husband face to face again.

[dog-day-morning]

The word of God tells us we shall suffer for the cause of Christ, he who seeks a greater reward must attain a greater faith. Unto whom much is given that much more is required. You wanna eat that whole caramel cake, you crave that sweet tea, you pursue that woman in a nightclub hoping to get her in a compromised position, face down tail up because face it, we're not willing to bow down to the will of God, but we’re so happy, and ready to give in to that round mound of doo doo brown. The 3 Hebrew boys Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego went into the fiery furnace defying Nebuchadnezzar's declaration to worship him. These men had the inspiration, strength, and courage to say, even if He doesn't deliver us, we know that He can. That kind of faith is called perfected faith. We can be lazy because we refuse to work with what God gave us before the day of calamity comes to devour us. Tribulation is kicking into high gear, and many of God’s people are none the wiser. There are people who were working 3 jobs before, and after this pandemic became a global concern who know what is on the horizon. You don't need an Issachar spirit to discern the times; read the Bible. He also said to the crowds, “When you see a cloud rising in the west, you say at once, ‘A shower is coming.’ And so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, ‘There will be scorching heat,’ and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time? The gov't has pulled back on unemployment benefits forcing many to find a job. The 2 righteous servants in the parable of the 3 servants increased the wealth of their employer who trusted 3 men with different amounts of talents [money], and the 1 who didn't work diligently for his master inherited weeping, and gnashing of teeth. God invested in us, and He expected a greater return from this major investment. Jesus was the greatest financial venture ever made. The Father placed His faith in His Son who in turn gave Him many more sons that walk amongst us waiting for the Day of Judgment. This investment which supersedes all, but are intertwined will never decrease, and forever increase. The 144,000 isn't a spiritually inspired interpretation based on mine, and Mima getting the Holy Ghost or having an encounter with the Holy Spirit to speak in tongues. Sit down grandma, your Depends are leaking brown stuff that reeks of formaldehyde, and raw chitlins. God is looking for a righteous Nation to worship Him not themselves. These men, and boys who represent the 12 tribes of Israel have never been defiled by women, and hopefully not by men either. You lucky mother You can take the word literally or as a misinterpretation. Those who don't believe in the written word who believe that God's word isn't infallible aren't all to blame for this heresy. Those who originally interpreted the King James Bible added to, and took from are suffering for a misleading interpretation. The prophetic which God didn't let man corrupt altogether has pretty much played out verbatim. We may be dying to a world that is trying to kill our faith that God has no intention of doing until He finds His true worshippers, and He’ll never destroy one's faith in Him. Winter is coming and you and I must be prepared. We must live like today is our last without being caught up in fear. I'm suffering from a form of laziness called jackass. God shall supply all your needs, but faith without works is dead. The ant has the intuition to work throughout the Summer knowing that Winter is coming. A lot of these drones won't live to see the finished product. Ant mounds look like the Pyramids of Giza that secure the Queen, but where is the King? They serve the one who gives life that sustains the colony, she is their goddess, but what happens if the Queen dies? There's more than one Queen serving the colony who can breed an entire colony independent of one other. fulfilling their role while working together in unison with the others who all serve a greater purpose. This

is a major element that drives the Kingdome of heaven. Christ is just like His Father In the Kingdome that includes the Holy Spirit which they will pour upon all flesh again soon. There are no cowards or sinners in the Kingdome. The angels are not as drones, they are blessed warriors.

Revelation 21:8

8 But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.

1 Corinthians 6:8-10

8 Nay, ye do wrong, and defraud, and that your brethren.

9 Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind,

10 Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.

Alkebulan we need to wake up and get right. Black American's of the tribes of Judah, Gad, Reuben, and Issachar you need to aim at my forehead, and scatter my scatter brained grey matter all over the pavement. When Joe Biden told a radio podcaster if you don't vote for me you're not Black, he must be color blind. This vaccine that suspiciously looks like the Mark of Whodunnit. They can plant a microchip in your arm that can track your every move, financial transaction, and possibly your dreams while you sleep. Some Walmart stores are refusing to take cash when you check out; they only take debit, and credit cards. These are signs that we’re living in the End Times. The Last Days. I'm looking at this as a sign to get the hell outta this city, and decompose. What in God's name am I afraid of? Jesus took a beat down like a man on a mission.. You're not weak or simping if you gave your life for a people you fed, healed, gave sight to, preached to, taught them a new way to live, pray, love, told them about a Kingdome greater than Jerusalem, and you didn't kill anybody in the process knowing what they were going to do to your physical body in an almost retarded like bid to destroy their salvation. I've done none of that; my bad. Stop looking for men, especially zaddy to deliver us. “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” Some of us foolheartedly called Bill Clinton the first Black president when he's not, never can, or will be to me in any sense, Barack wasn't either. Thomas Jefferson, the third elected president, who served two terms between 1801 and 1809 was described as the “son of a half-breed Indian squaw (Black) and a Virginia mulatto father (Black).” Abraham Lincoln, the nation’s 16th president, served between 1861, and 1865. Lincoln had very dark skin, and coarse hair and his mother allegedly came from an Ethiopian tribe. His heritage fueled so much controversy that Lincoln was nicknamed “Abraham Africanus the First” by his presidential opponents and cartoons were drawn depicting him as a Negro. Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Dwight David Eisenhower, and the scourge of the South Andrew Jackson were all n**gahs. I’ll see you come Hanukkah you self-hating black, Uncle Ruckus’s. I don't celebrate Thanksgiving, why should I be overjoyed about the genocide, and enslavement of God's people? Christmas is what it is. Hopefully you will celebrate this holiday season together fulfilling God's prophetic word. I can't unless you kill me. The Christmas holiday is as pagan as Joel Osteen is at scamming. David Duke, you might wanna go to ancestry.com, and take a DNA test. You might be 30% Swahili. By the looks of those big, gorilla nostrals you had before that rhinoplasty. You, and Bull Connor may be related to Idi Amin. Your biggest shame is your greatest blessing. Personally you can kiss the skid marks in the middle of my skid marks after I take a fresh dump. Conservative, political pundits, and wannabes whose names I won't mention, but one in particular who looks like he smoked 23 blunts in 15min. with no filter. Please keep him in California, and let him drown with his zaddy, and pancaked tail, bowed hipped women. Use your lips as a floatation device dude. These people are ashamed of the God who has blessed many, and plenty. These people suffer, hopefully not always, from the white savior or white zaddy complex. The truth isn't in any of them, that's why they're so adept at lying when making bold-faced statements before the public that opposes their previous opinion like people don’t have YouTube or google. I’ll Bing a factoid or Yahoo that mother to get the truth I may even pay for it, gimme a dollar. My inability to walk amongst men as a man has stagnated my propensity to live That's BS, my Apostle said something this past Sunday that's stuck on my forehead. YOU'RE LAZY!!! I am what I am, a pain in the rear end. This has gone on way too long. Sometimes

I feel as though God wants me to kill myself because the PO PO won’t. I would feel better if my natural family would stab me in the neck, not my back, with a piece of diseased, pork, spare rib from a boar hog, and let me die from a rare form of trichinosis. The people have spoken while I’m playing Jay, and Silent Bob. Father, get me outta here. Elohim, 9/16/2021

[thestarkerisobvious]

Sixteen - The Masked Librarian

amazing art work by @starker-sorbet​  A snugglefic for @mrstarksbabyy​

Sixteen

1 The Masked Librarian

After his sixteenth birthday, Peter used his birthday money to buy several notebooks and spent the summer filling them up with the facts he had gleaned from Tony, along with the books he had gotten from the libraries.  For fear they would be found, he wrote a lie in bold marker on the covers:  

                                                Novel Ideas:  

                                              Ideas for a Novel

Putting a timeline together with the information he got from Tony was impossible.  Tony was far more concerned with his duties around the farm than who was actually ordering him around.  

Peter’s constant questions finally made it clear – Tony had never been terribly concerned with whom he was serving, as long as he was fed and had a job to do.  Who was the son, nephew or uncle or son-of-the-uncle of whom ultimately did not concern him.  The title of “Master” wasn’t even passed on directly from father to son in every case, although it was, Peter finally ascertained, only given to a male blood relative of the original Post homesteader.  There were other problems, too, with the things Peter was being told.  Tony had no interest in years or wars or anything in American history that Peter could plot along a timeline.  Peter quickly learned there was no point in asking “which war?”  Tony had never understood which wars were which, just that men sometimes left for them.  To Tony, all the wars were “The War.”  To further complicate things, Peter strongly suspected that New York City was referred to as “New Amsterdam” by the Post family long after it was really called something else.

What he could find in the libraries was sparse.  The best he could find was the same stories they had been told when they bought the house: that two Post brothers had come from Germany and married a woman who was related to the royal family in Portugal.  That the boys were always taught German in honor of the patriarchs and the girls Portuguese, for the same reason.  That a Post had been a famous hero in the Civil War until he died by Direct Encounter With A Cannonball.  No other details.

Until the 1920s.  That’s when things got interesting..  The Post Homestead, at one time, had been a type of artist colony, which was to say, the sprawling Post family were famous for inviting artists to live, sometimes for years, as guests in their multi-generation household.    This had started out as a series of artisans hired to tutor the multiple Post daughters.  Over the decades this had become a tiny thriving community.  Mostly painters and sculptors, according to the books, but there were musicians too.  This had caused a conflict between the Post family and the town – for a period of the time the Post Homestead had been bringing in jazz musicians at great expense, much to the delight of the tiny artistic community.  To the town at large, not so much.  (Those of the African American persuasion were welcomed to come and work in Devil’s Hollow, but not “let the sun set” upon them.  The Post Family apparently did not share those same reservations.)

What happened after that was hard to piece together.  Tony wasn’t around to ask, and even if he was, he might not have known the answer.  But the death of Jedediah Post certainly must have been a turning point. 

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Peter because that was the most newsworthy event he could find.  Jedediah Post was a man of considerable wealth, and left a great deal of it to the towns around him, as well as three different museums in New York City.  But none to Devil’s Hollow.  The amount of art the family had amassed was significant, including paintings, sculptures and something called “art deco” which, as far as Peter could tell, involved a lot of very fancy furniture.  The donations were large and it was easy to track down stories about them.  Some of the museums in New York City he had even been to, although he had never seen the art in question (he was more of a Science Exhibit man himself) but some Aunt May had seen. 

The breadth of the donations was breathtaking, but mostly Peter’s research turned up bitterness and resentment.  Jedediah Post had left nothing to the Devil’s Hollow library, nor the museum (there had been one in those days) nor the school.  Apparently After-You-Die Donations had been a local phenomenon in Devil’s Hollow, particularly from the Post family.  That ended, it appeared, with Jedediah. 

Was there a reason?  Did Jed Post attempt to create an artistic community at the Post Homestead, and resent the town’s undue influence on whom he was allowed to invite?  Or did he simply make more friends outside the boundaries of the town than in?  And was that why the sprawling Post family all relocated elsewhere?  Whatever had happened, sometime in between the 1930’s and the 40’s the last Post son was living there completely and utterly by himself. 

Was he hated by the townspeople because he was a hostile misanthrope, or did he become a hostile misanthrope BECAUSE he was hated by the townspeople?   Whatever had happened, the Post estate had gone from a busy, noisy, bustling place to a house with one resident.  

Evan Post.

Evan Post… and Tony.

When Peter wasn’t pouring over his books he was remembering what it was like to be wrapped up in the arms of the thing that lived under the bed.  Which reminded him of his promise to the thing that lived under his bed.  He took long walks daily, getting sunlight and climbing every available surface that looked climbable, doing all those things that he had been promised would make him “healthy.”  Exercise by itself was boring, but the further he could walk the more wildlife he could observe.  The higher he climbed, the same.  Aunt May started to call him “The Spider” as he came home daily reporting all the wildlife he had observed from dizzying heights.  The exercise did him good, it made him hungrier at night and soon he had grown several inches and put on more weight.  He admired himself in the bathroom mirror, he enjoyed standing on the scale.  He was proud of his new body.  

He couldn’t wait to show Tony.

The long walks into the forest and the many hours sitting in trees gave Peter time to think about what life had been like for his friend in the years between Jedediah and Evan Post.  Which led to even weightier thoughts about what life had been like for Tony in the years between life in the monastery and life with the stylite Simeon the Elder.

Primarily, Peter thought about Tony, and what Tony liked to eat.

In the monastery, it appeared Tony and the others (the ones he called “us”) were fed just like guard dogs.  Or more correctly, like hellhounds.  They were fed on cattle and “infernal vapors” and, on rare occasions, people.  All until he was sent to live with Simeon on a pillar where he learned how to feed entirely on feelings.

Peter went over it in his head many times, the things Tony had said about Simeon and his other monk-lover, the one he had left behind without a single thought.  Simeon he had loved, Peter was sure of it.  “I was his beloved,” Tony had said.  (He had also spoken about touching, about pretending to be shy, about needing to be ‘taught.’  Peter tried not to think about that, but he did.  He thought about it a lot.)  

It was true, Tony might have loved Simeon the same way he loved the fields of cattle being raised to feed him, but he loved the man nonetheless.  Spent 12 years with him on a pillar, when he was supposed to be convincing him to return to the monastery.  Protected his ability to ask questions. Took away his hurt and his desire to hurt himself.   Lived on that, and nothing but that, until the day he was forced to kill the man.  That was something he could not control, Peter was certain, any more than he could control being after “sent into the ground.”

The next thing he knew, he was working in the New World.  Was he fed with farm animals, too, working on the farm as he did?  The only thing Peter could think of was the roaring twenties and the artists that lived and created at the Post Homestead.  The layout of the little artist colony was easy to see from his vantage points in the tops of trees or in his hiding place in the empty barn.    Barns, silos, and animal stalls had been razed and almost a dozen cottage-like guest cottages built by Jedediah in his day, only to be raized to their foundations by Evan decades later.  Had Evan despised growing up in that cacophony, unable to find a quiet place to himself, destroying all vestiges of it in his old age?  Or had he treasured that life, growing up in the safety of his title as son of the lord of the manor, removing the artists village when he finally understood he would never see the likes of it again?  Had he hated people as an old man because he had hated people all his life?  Of had he considered the composers, painters and sculptures the ‘normal’ people, and hated the people of Devil’s Holler’ because they were anything but normal?

Even knowing what Evan Post had done, Peter could still sympathies.  He himself had to go to school with boys his age who complained that the “for’ners, n-words and queers” were taking over the country, while he sat in silence and day-dreamed about the day he could go to college in New York City and be surrounded by “for’ners, n-words and queers” again.

Peter tried to picture it, sitting up in a tree and observing the whole of the Post Homestead.  A little village of people, creating, despairing, hoping, disappointing, arguing, loving, scheming, fearing.  And Tony underneath it, grazing on it all.  Tony spoke of feeding from artists after the work was done, or else the work would never get finished.  Did he know it instinctively?  Or did he learn through trial and error?  How much art was never complete because he fed too soon?  It couldn’t have been much, the finished artworks that DID come from the Post Homestead were legion.  Did the artists even know they were feeding Tony their light?  Was it voluntary?  Mandatory?  Tony remembered a grandmother that called him “a musa,” The Muse.  Did they think Tony was the cause of the art that was produced in this place, or did they realize he was simply growing stronger from it?

And where did the money come from?  The Post Homestead was an actual farm, and then one day it wasn’t.  Were the artists all brought here because Jedediah Post was a very rich man, and knew what he wanted to spend his wealth upon art?  Or did Jedediah invest his money into feeding Tony, which in turn made him a very rich man?

And how difficult was it for Tony, feasting on the light of sculptors, painters and controversial Jazz musicians, to learn how to live on nothing but the hate and fear of Evan Post?  What did that turn him into?  Tony readily admitted that he had driven off everyone who had come to live in the Post Homestead before Peter’s family, driving them away because all he wanted to drink was fear.  Couldn’t stop seeking out fear, causing the fear, even when he realized his own greed was driving away his only source of food.

And he had tried to inspire fear in Peter and his little family of three, Peter remembered.  When his quiet family moved into the vast house they decided, that very first night, that there was a good reason why the Post Homestead was considered haunted.  Their quiet country home was anything but quiet. It wasn’t as noisy as their New York City apartment, of course, but still not quiet.  Not only did floors creak and doors slam in empty rooms, but entire wings groaned and floorboards squeaked in the exact rhythm of footsteps.  The wind howled under the porch like an angry monster.  The first night in their new home not a single member of the family slept a wink.

So, naturally, the little family sat at the breakfast table the next and formulated a plan – a research plan.  That very day they set out for the tiny town library, got library cards, and searched out books on architecture.  When the library proved lacking they drove to the next town and did the same.  Soon Peter had a pile of books to read and May and Ben set out to fix up their Still-Quieter-Than-New-York-City farmhouse.  Peter found the books fascinating, had read them to May as she worked in the kitchen or Ben as he worked on the fences, but when those two ran him off he mostly he found himself reading out loud to himself in his room.

And, just like that, the noises quieted down.

The wolves, too, that had howled with alarming frequency when they first arrived (alarming because they had been assured there were no wolves in the woods anymore) dried up the very weekend Peter had come home with an armload of books about canines.  At the time it seemed to Peter that he had superpowers.  Whatever alarming phenomenon their haunted house produced, Peter could make it go away just by researching it.  He joked about it with Aunt May as he read to her about plumbing at the breakfast table (the obvious reason for the growling sounds coming from the basement.)  She called him “The Masked Librarian.” 

Now, he realized, he had been doing something else entirely.  Tony had lived on a diet of fear.  But Peter was only providing Tony with questions, the joy of gaining new information, followed by more information.  The thing Tony called “light.” 

Sometimes Peter wondered if Tony would be happier in a household with more emotional displays – Peter knew that “light” was not simply the positive emotions.  In addition to fear and hate, Tony fed on anger, sorrow and righteous indignation just as well.  But Peter’s little family had certainly put Tony on a strict diet.  May was stubbornly, sometimes grimly, cheerful whereas Uncle Ben raised his voice so very rarely Peter could remember every single instant.  Peter was by far the most emotional of the trio, reading books about pollution that made him cry, about endangered animals and acid rain that made him so angry he felt like punching the walls.  Tony had requested all of those kinds of books, had requested laughter and tears and anger and questions. 

Had requested everything but fear.

He had described Peter as ‘fearless,’ and in many ways that was true.  Maybe Peter had inherited some stubborn, determined optimism from the same ancestor as Aunt May, or maybe he had learned it hanging onto her apron strings.  In any case when he had first discovered that there was a voice talking to him from under his bed, fearlessness and determination had certainly served him well.

But now that the thing that lived under his bed had a name and a backstory, Peter certainly felt some real fears creeping in.

Especially as the season that Tony had told him to wait for came creeping in, a sixteen-year-old Peter was aware of some budding feelings.  His body, he was told, would be changing.  He thought he was prepared for that.  But he was finding, much to his alarm, that his brain was changing too.  Watching the foxes chase rabbits from his perch high in a tree, or watching the owls devour their prey whole from his hiding place in the barn, Peter poked at those fears gingerly, teasing around the edges.

All his life, it seemed, pretending the fear wasn’t real had served him well.   Now he wasn’t so sure.  Normally, when Peter Parker was alarmed by something, he looked it up at the library.  But he wasn’t sure there were any books on this subject.

So he did the only think he could have done, he reviewed it in his brain.  Reviewed everything he knew about Tony.  Everything he knew about the thing that lived under his bed.

As he went over the story in his mind, he found himself with two things that he decided not to label ‘fears’ after all.  He decided it would be more expedient to label them ‘regrets.’

Alright, three.  Maybe four.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

November 25, 2020

Heather Cox Richardson

It doesn’t feel like much of a Thanksgiving this year. Lots of chairs are empty, either permanently, as we are now counting our coronavirus dead in the hundreds of thousands, or temporarily, as we are staying away from our loved ones to keep the virus at bay.

Lots of tables are empty, too, as Americans are feeling the weight of an ongoing economic crisis.

Rather than being unprecedented, though, this year of hardship and political strife brings us closer to the first national Thanksgiving than any more normal year.

That first Thanksgiving celebration was not in Plymouth, Massachusetts. While the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags did indeed share a harvest feast in fall 1621, and while early colonial leaders periodically declared days of thanksgiving when settlers were supposed to give their thanks for continued life and-- with luck—prosperity, neither of these gave rise to our national celebration of Thanksgiving.

We celebrate Thanksgiving because of the Civil War.

Southern whites fired on a federal fort, Fort Sumter, in Charleston Harbor in April 1861 in an attempt to destroy the United States of America and create their own country, based not in the American idea that “all men are created equal,” but rather in the opposite idea: that some men were better than others, and had the right to enslave their neighbors. In the 1850s, convinced that society worked best if a few wealthy men ran it, southern leaders had worked to bend the laws of the United States to their benefit. They used the government to protect slavery at the same time they denied it could do any of the things ordinary Americans wanted it to, like building roads, or funding colleges.

In 1860, northerners elected Abraham Lincoln to the presidency to stop the rich southern slaveholders from taking over the government and using it to cement their own wealth and power. As soon as Lincoln was elected, southern leaders pulled their states out of the Union to set up their own country. For their part, Lincoln and the northerners set out to end the slaveholders’ rebellion and bring the South back into a Union in which the government worked for people at the bottom, not just those at the top.

The early years of the war did not go well for the Union. By the end of 1862, the armies still held, but people on the home front were losing faith. Leaders recognized the need both to acknowledge the suffering and to keep Americans loyal to the cause. In November and December, seventeen state governors declared state thanksgiving holidays.

New York Governor Edwin Morgan’s widely reprinted proclamation about the holiday reflected that the previous year “is numbered among the dark periods of history, and its sorrowful records are graven on many hearthstones.” But this was nonetheless a time for giving thanks, he wrote, because “the precious blood shed in the cause of our country will hallow and strengthen our love and our reverence for it and its institutions…. Our Government and institutions placed in jeopardy have brought us to a more just appreciation of their value.”

The next year Lincoln got ahead of the state proclamations. On July 15, he declared a national day of thanksgiving, and the relief in his proclamation was almost palpable. After two years of disasters, the Union army was finally winning. Bloody, yes; battered, yes; but winning. At Gettysburg in early July, Union troops had sent Confederates reeling back southward. Then, on July 4, Vicksburg had finally fallen to U. S. Grant’s army. The military tide was turning.

President Lincoln set Thursday, August 6, 1863, for the national day of thanksgiving. On that day, ministers across the country listed the signal victories of the U.S. Army and Navy in the past year, and reassured their congregations that it was only a matter of time until the United States government put down the southern rebellion. Their predictions acknowledged the dead and reinforced the idea that their sacrifice had not been in vain, as Lincoln himself did just three months later in the Gettysburg Address.

In October 1863, President Lincoln declared the second national day of thanksgiving. In the past year, he declared, the nation had been blessed.

In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, he wrote, Americans had maintained their laws and their institutions, and kept foreign countries from meddling with their nation. They had paid for the war as they went, refusing to permit the destruction to cripple the economy. Instead, as they funded the war, they had also advanced farming, industry, mining, and shipping. Immigrants had poured into the country to replace men lost on the battlefield, and the economy was booming. And Lincoln had recently promised that the government would end slavery once and for all. The country, he predicted, “with a large increase of freedom,” would survive, stronger and more prosperous than ever. The President invited Americans “in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea, and those who are sojourning in foreign lands” to observe the last Thursday of November as a day of thanksgiving.

The following year, Lincoln proclaimed another day of thanksgiving, this time congratulating Americans that God had favored them not only with immigration but also with the emancipation of formerly enslaved people. “Moreover,” Lincoln wrote, “He has been pleased to animate and inspire our minds and hearts with fortitude, courage, and resolution sufficient for the great trial of civil war into which we have been brought by our adherence as a nation to the cause of freedom and humanity, and to afford to us reasonable hopes of an ultimate and happy deliverance from all our dangers and afflictions.”

Lincoln established our national Thanksgiving to celebrate the survival of our democratic government.

Today, more than 150 years later, President-Elect Joe Biden addressed Americans, noting that we are in our own war, this one against the novel coronavirus, that has already taken the grim toll of at least 260,000 Americans. Like Lincoln before him, he urged us to persevere, promising that vaccines really do appear to be on their way by late December or early January. “There is real hope, tangible hope. So hang on,” he said. “Don’t let yourself surrender to the fatigue…. [W]e can and we will beat this virus. America is not going to lose this war. You will get your lives back. Life is going to return to normal. That will happen. This will not last forever.”

“Think of what we’ve come through,” Biden said, “centuries of human enslavement; a cataclysmic Civil War; the exclusion of women from the ballot box; World Wars; Jim Crow; a long twilight struggle against Soviet tyranny that could have ended not with the fall of the Berlin Wall, but in nuclear Armageddon.” “It’s been in the most difficult of circumstances that the soul of our nation has been forged,” he said. “Faith, courage, sacrifice, service to country, service to each other, and gratitude even in the face of suffering, have long been part of what Thanksgiving means in America.”

“America has never been perfect,” Biden said. “But we’ve always tried to fulfill the aspiration of the Declaration of Independence: that all people are created equal….”

Biden could stand firmly on the Declaration of Independence because in 1861, Americans went to war to keep a cabal of slave owners from taking control of the government and turning it into an oligarchy. The fight against that rebellion seemed at first to be too much for the nation to survive. But Americans rallied and threw their hearts into the cause on the battlefields even as they continued to work on the home front for a government that promoted the common good.

And they won.

I wish you all a peaceful holiday.

—-

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[solarflaresrp]

Below the cute you will find overviews of each planet and settlement within Sol. These overviews by no means covers the entirety of each location’s lore, however, it will give enough information to start brewing those character ideas!

EARTH

There is no one alive that remembers Earth as the small blue marble floating through space.

Innovation came to a halt with the outbreak of World War III. In the wake of the third World War, most of North America, central Europe were left completely uninhabitable through nuclear warfare. Whatever damage the climate crisis had done, the war finished, leaving the rest of the world in a constant overcast and constant acid rains. Even after three centuries there are large swaths of Earth that are uninhabitable, leaving Terrans to live on top of one another in the Safe Zones.

When the last of Terran companies took their business off planet, Earth’s economy plummeted and created an even bigger wealth gap between the rich and poor. With conditions on Earth becoming even more dire, a mass migration to Luna and Mars took place. The price was high however, and those who could not afford it or work on the colonies were left behind.

Government systems, while they still exist, have dissolved and have very little power and influence over their people. Large cities, such as Cairo, Buenos Aires, and Seoul, have morphed into city states, their infrastructure nearly breaking under the weight of the population. Most people still on Earth are considered part of the working poor and will most likely never see space.

Because of this, Mars’ military is able to recruit Terrans heavily with the promise of Martian citizenship after their contract ends. While some are able to get it, most return to Earth, as their contracts did not meet the minimal conditions required by Mars’ government.

Terrans know they have been forgotten and left to rot by the other settlements, only useful to outlaws on the run from Luna or Mars. Those who claw their way off Earth are often looked down on by the rest of Sol. But Terrans are resourceful and hardened by their experiences on the planet that gave birth to humanity.

LUNA

Luna comprises six sectors, each one governed by a Luminary and represented by five Ataraxia on a federal level. They are very proud of their status as the oldest human settlement off Earth, though don’t mention how they only have Mars beat by a scant few months, you’ll get some nasty looks.

Their history is almost entirely uneventful, except for a year long, bloody revolt to gain their independence from the Terran governments just over a hundred years after the first settlement was established. Ultimately though, Earth’s weakening state allowed Lunites to establish their own government, their own laws, customs, and culture.

Due to the lack of atmosphere, Lunite cities are entirely domed. Though, several cities also span several miles under ground as well, especially as the population on Luna increased over the last couple centuries. Many of those who live in the underground portions of the domed cities have unfortunately been disproportionally those of a lower socioeconomic status, which as led to an uptick in crime over the last several decades. 

In efforts to make ends meet, a red light district has dominated the largest underground neighborhood on Luna, drawing in visitors from all over Sol. Prostitution while not inherently illegal on Luna, is incredibly frowned upon and considered to be Terran-like. 

All cities are found on the side of the moon that faces Earth, though that isn’t to say Lunites haven’t found uses for the dark side as well. Primarily the dark side of Luna is used for scientific research, military training, and for Light Races.

MARS

Of all the human settlements across the solar system, Mars is by far the wealthiest and most powerful. While Terran governments turned their attention and focused on settling Luna, the wealthiest Terran families with incredible influence and power turned their eyes on Mars. These families are known as the Founders, and to this day hold incredible power and influence over all Martians. Some revere them, others despise their existence, there is no in between.

The first settlements had two massive failures that lead to loss of life, but the Martians bounced back and their cities are among the most technologically advanced due to their desire to protect Martian lives.

About a hundred years after Mars stabilized the Martian government changed their focus to terraforming the planet, beginning with strengthening the atmosphere so it can withstand the solar winds that ripped it away and turned it into the dry, dusty landscape it is now. However, in the two hundred so odd years since scientists began this terraforming process, only a handful of cities across Mars are not entirely domed.

These cities reside in mostly the eastern provinces Valtameri, Aigean, and Tethys and require daily oxygen tablets in order to move around outside the domes for long periods of time. Many of the poorer working class Martians live in these dusty cities and are supplied the necessary tablets from the companies they are employed by. However, these tablets often lead to long term complications and lose their effectiveness over time. Many of these Dust Cities are also where many of the Terran’s the Martian military recruits are sent to live when they are not stationed on a fleet ship.

(The wealthy receive a cocktail mix of serums that allow their body to naturally produce more oxygen and process out the dust in the air without any side effects.)

UNITED STATIONS

What began as a collective agreement to mine the asteroids for resources that Earth could no longer provide has now turned into four massive stations that have become their own independent entity from Luna and Mars. Thanks to technological advances and Martian wealth, each station is capable of sustaining hundreds of thousands of citizens between them. It was a struggle to gain their independence, as Mars had incredible wealth and power poured into each station, but ultimately Stationers realized that they could bleed Martians dry by cutting off access to the mined resources.

(After all, Martians didn’t know how to navigate the complicated flight paths to avoid total destruction of a ship and its crew. And if Stationers gave them false flight plans, well, it only helped ensure their upper hand.)

After Mars relented officially and independence was won, the stations were faced with the choice to become four independent settlements or unite under one metaphorical flag. In the end, many stationers were in agreement that unifying was the only way to ensure Mars didn’t attempt to regain control in the future. With access to important resources in the asteroid belt, the United Stations brokered treaties and trade agreements with Mars, Luna, and even Earth firmly solidifying their position in the solar system.

While each station now does a little bit of everything, the United Stations kept the original purpose each ship was built for. However, ten years ago the fifth ship, Poseidon was lost in orbit and forced the United Stations to quickly refit the Hermes Station to accommodate Poseidon’s loss without losing profits.

The truth of Poseidon’s loss is whispered behind closed doors and those who had family members on the station hold a festering resentment for the cover up and every year on the date of Poseidon’s loss, many stationers travel to the capital city on Hermes to demand answers. As the years have gone by though, the amount of stationers that travel to Hermes has dimensioned greatly.

The Stations:

Demeter (Agriculture) — Produces most of the Stations food supply. Has the fewest “cities” within the station, instead many fields can be found with residents spread out on many of the levels. Most residents are considered “simple folk” as they are known for rarely traveling outside their station.

Hermes (Technology, Government, and recently: Shipbuilding) — Most of the solar system’s androids and synthetics are built on Hermes and they constantly push the technological boundaries to create new tech for themselves and other settlements. Due to having the largest city among the stations and its location among the other stations.

Apollo (Medical, includes manufacturing prosthetics) — While each station has several medical centers and hospitals of their own, Apollo is home to the best hospitals, clinics, and research opportunities for the medical profession. As a result of this, these residents tend to be the healthiest of all the stationers and as a result are among the wealthiest too.

Hera (Textiles such as clothing and cloth based goods) — The best fashion in all of Sol is created on Hera station, anyone who wants to be a household designer name comes to Hera to study under the best of the best. Of course, the grimy underside of that is the factories that pay among the worst wages outside Earth to worker who put the clothing together. Often referred to as the two faced station, residents are either among the well off or among the exploited.

Poseidon (Formerly: Shipbuilding) — The Lost Station. Before its loss a decade ago, most of Poseidon’s residents were made up of those who were criminals forced into labor to pay for their crimes or engineers that were constantly pushing the boundaries of what space traveling ships could accomplish. Similar to Hera, these two different worlds within the station were sharp contrasts of each other and often led to issues on the station. While everyone in Sol has been told an unfortunate accident occurred, the truth is a parasite wormed its way onto the staton via corner creepers and is turning those unfortunate enough to be exposed to this parasite to lose all sense of themselves, whittled down to the barest of human instincts, which often means once infected one turns into a violent hive minded zombie like being. Rovers have begun calling them “Hivers”.

EUROPA 

Once it became clear that humanity was going to sustain permanent life off Earth, scientists on Luna and Mars eagerly awaited the moment they could send humans into the outer reaches of Sol and gather first hand scientific research rather than through robotic rovers. It took nearly three hundred years, but finally Europa was established as a scientific outpost by Luna. The journey to Europa was long and the original settlers spent weeks drilling through the huge ice sheets to establish the underwater domes.

Over the next hundred years, scientists and their families expanded and the prospect of a new life in a brand new settlement drew many from across Sol, especially Luna citizens who were desperate to get out of the underground cities. Despite the blue collar and white collar workers settling on Europa, the main occupation most Europans have falls within the sciences. Many study the organic lifeforms that have evolved in the massive ocean, in attempts to better understand how life on Earth perhaps began as well.

In the last thirty years, rising tension with Luna has shifted public opinion of the settlement that technically controls them. Europans pride themselves on their resilience and ability to push the scientific boundaries, many of them have zero interest in getting involved with the complicated political dynamic between the United Stations, Mars, and Luna.

ENCELADUS 

Established as Mars’ response to Luna reaching into the stars for hands-on scientific research and for the first fifty years, remained purely a scientific outpost but now has become more about selling a destination vacation to Sol residents. Much like Europa, Enceladus is covered in snow and ice, though the moon’s surface isn’t as harsh as Europa’s allowing domed cities to be built above ground and utilize the planet’s seas and hydrothermal vents as a constant source of energy.

Due to the fact Encleadus is the smallest and most distant settlement in Sol, they are the slowest to get the latest and greatest technological advancements. Enceladites are viewed as rural and a bit “slow” though their reputation is still far, far better than Terrans. And many of them are quite content with this view and are happy to leave the tourists with their flashiness to take advantage of the snowy slopes while they go about their life. Many brilliant minds live on Enceladus and want to simply be left alone to do their research.

Unfortunately, over the last decade, Mars has begun to defund the research centers and shift their investments into the resorts that take advantage of the snowy landscape and slopes found in the south pole of the moon, where tourists can also witness the phenomenal views of Saturn. This has led to increased frustration among Enceladites who come from the original families of scientists, feeling as though all their hard work has been spat on.

[alexsmitposts]

The End of Days Is Coming Fast and It’s Ugly The average citizen of Earth is all tied up these days. Scarcely anyone has free time to take on one more task, to truly understand what goes on in the world, or glean any meaningful benefit from world affairs. Life goes on, albeit in a more chaotic sense, as it always has. The rich get richer, as they say, and the poor get poorer. There’s a simple reason to explain it all, but humanity is never allowed to come to terms with it. The solution to all our problems is patently simple. But the choice? Well, we’re conditioned to shun revolutions of thought and deed. Now that I have opened a misty veil into the nebulous unknowing of world affairs, let me reveal once more, the dastardly cause of all our strife. The powers that be, whether, in the north, south, east, or west, want everything for themselves. You knew this since that first overheard conversation between old men, in Athens, Beirut, Charleston, or Dublin. And if you’ve dared to rear your head and lift your voice with the newfound freedom of digital means, beware, for they will soon smash you back down into the dark chamber of servitude, where you and I belong. Today’s case in point? The sister of billionaire Warren Buffett, Roberta Buffett Elliott, and an institution painted philanthropic, to cover a deceitful ghastliness. In this report, I have included Tweets from some of the panel that the Buffett Institute has assembled. The gist of these Tweets will further enlighten you. In my email this morning there was a message from Annelise Riles, Executive Director of Northwestern University’s Roberta Buffett Institute for Global Affairs, a school I was not even familiar with before. The subject of the email was a Foreign Policy – Northwestern broadcast entitled “How to Stop Fake News” The tagline reads: “Stopping fake news is the big problem we have to solve before we can more effectively address the global challenges facing humanity.” The story of Roberta, Warren, and her fascinating husband David Elliott, is a subject worthy of a book, but for the sake of brevity, a $100 million dollar gift to create the Northwestern institute in 2015 was no charitable donation. The now-deceased husband David, was head of the largest Peace Corps operating in the world about the time J.F.K. was assassinated. Just to tweak the reader’s interest in how “agents” of liberal change are created. Returning to the latest Buffett Institute initiative, it’s important to note that like every other supposed philanthropic gift by billionaires, there was a windfall beyond a tax writeoff. And now, with brother Warren and his elite colleagues pressing hard to dominate our world, the rebelliousness of independent thought must be squashed. The elite accomplishes our quietness via the same old methods. They not only own almost all the newspapers and TV stations, they also donate billions to cultivate journalists, scientists, politicians, bureaucrats, educators, and military leaders who will propagate their agendas. Now, independent traditional and social media are a huge problem for those who want utter control. Now that the term “conspiracy theory” no longer has weight in light of exposed real conspiracies, the danger for the Warren Buffett or George Soros types of the world is acute. This “How to Stop Fake News” should be a wake-up call for every citizen of our world, a call to action to prevent the complete takeover of freedoms and elusive democracy. Make no mistake, the US President declaring war on Russia and Vladmir Putin in recent comments, the hardcore language aimed at Iran, China, and many other “perceived” threats to American hegemony, are the other warning signs. This new initiative involves high-ranking members of the European Commission, Putin hater Olga Yurkova (Co-Founder, Stopfake.org), Marwan M. Kraidy (Dean and CEO, Northwestern University in Qatar), Justine Isola (Facebook), and others. One look into the backgrounds of these people will tell you the Roberta Buffett Institute is already presenting a narrative to students that is mightily skewed in favor of the liberal order. With Biden in charge now, and after Trump succeeding in destroying conservatism for good, Buffett and his fellows are ready for the push to subdue Russia or anything standing in the way. At least, this is my analysis. Here in Greece, the Prime Minister just declared social media the “enemy of democracy” because the people are losing confidence in the government’s ability to immunize and protect citizens. This is not “fake news” Prime Minister Mitsotakis is on record saying this. For a few years now, institutions like Freedom House have been trumpeting the notion that social media is rotting democracy from within. The so-called “left’ has blamed this supposed decay on conservatives and the far-right. A Politico piece before the 2020 election suggested that Americans were becoming “superspreaders of misinformation.” At the other end of the spectrum, Annelise Riles, the lady in charge of the Buffett Institute, writes for Times Higher Education (THE); “Universities can help the US retake its seat at the global table.” Must I continue, or is the writing on the wall here? Riles was the recipient of a Marshall Scholarship herself, so what we are seeing is the most effects of replanting neo-colonialism, and the latest in the ongoing war for this world. We must understand fully what former President Donald Trump’s role was in all this. Trump’s Tweets, the bombastic and often ridiculous content he spread, the sheer callousness and narcissism he foamed at us with, it set the stage for his colleagues to silence all moderators. Now, the liberal order Trump was supposed to expose, the Deep State and the Swamp he was sworn to unseat, has complete control (almost) of media, business, and even academia and medicine. Currently, there is nothing whatsoever standing in the way of their turning us all into slaves. Putin and Russia represent a huge problem for them because the capitalistic systems they created will soon fail without new resources to leverage. Russia means growth for these people, and without the treasures of Russia, Iran, Venezuela, and other nations, the Warren Buffetts and Rothschilds of Earth cannot go forward. Their empires of Wall Street hot air will collapse within a decade. They must, you see, either command all the world’s mineral and human wealth or control us utterly and completely. The inevitable is unarguable. There is no bottomless vessel, from which to pour milk or honey endlessly. This liberal order that reshaped its power, will transform every freedom into a task that serves them. Much of our life is already dedicated to them, they take a piece of every move we make. It will only get worse. But humanity must be left standing. End of story. By the way, this is not fake news, it is my real opinion based on decades of study, research, and inside information

[pablolf]

In medieval Europe, those who could afford to do so would generously season their stews with saffron, cinnamon, cloves and ginger. Sugar was ubiquitous in savory dishes. And haute European cuisine, until the mid-1600s, was defined by its use of complex, contrasting flavors. "The real question, then, is why the wealthy, powerful West — with unprecedented access to spices from its colonies — became so fixated on this singular understanding of flavor," Srinivas says. The answer, it turns out, has just as much to do with economics, politics and religion as it does taste. Back in the Middle Ages, spices were really expensive, which meant that only the upper class could afford them. But things started to change as Europeans began colonizing parts of India and the Americas. "Spices begin to pour into Europe," explains Krishnendu Ray, an associate professor of food studies at New York University. "What used to be expensive and exclusive became common." Serving richly spiced stews was no longer a status symbol for Europe's wealthiest families — even the middle classes could afford to spice up their grub. "So the elite recoiled from the increasing popularity of spices," Ray says. "They moved on to an aesthetic theory of taste. Rather than infusing food with spice, they said things should taste like themselves. Meat should taste like meat, and anything you add only serves to intensify the existing flavors." The shift began in France, in the mid-1600s, adds Paul Freedman, a professor of history at Yale University. "It was a way to also show off the wealth of the French provinces," Freedman says. The rest of Europe soon adopted this new style. "It's a redefinition of what elegant is," Freedman says. "It's sort of like — in fashion — for a while having more frills, more jewelry was fashionable. But then someone said that a basic black dress with some pearls is much better."

How Snobbery Helped Take The Spice Out Of European Cooking

[route22ny]

ON 19 OCTOBER 2016, in the third and final presidential debate, Hillary Clinton opined that Vladimir Putin would “rather have a puppet as president of the United States,” meaning Donald John Trump, than a formidable adversary like her. As Trump short-circuited like a Star Wars droid on the fritz (“No puppet. No puppet. You're the puppet!”), she continued:

It’s pretty clear you won't admit that the Russians have engaged in cyberattacks against the United States of America, that you encouraged espionage against our people, that you are willing to spout the Putin line, sign up for his wish list, break up NATO, do whatever he wants to do, and that you continue to get help from him, because he has a very clear favorite in this race.

So I think that this is such an unprecedented situation. We've never had a foreign government trying to interfere in our election. We have 17 intelligence agencies, civilian and military, who have all concluded that these espionage attacks, these cyberattacks, come from the highest levels of the Kremlin and they are designed to influence our election. I find that deeply disturbing.

As usual, HRC was right. But even the most cynical viewer could scarce have imagined, in the fall of 2016, just how on the nose she was.

Trump’s activities since taking office—the gutting of the State Department, the jackals in the Oval Office, Helsinki, Mueller obstruction, Ukraine skulduggery, and his willful non-response to the covid pandemic—make clear that the longtime mob money launderer has spent most of his presidency doing Putin’s bidding, just as Clinton predicted. Allow cyberattacks against the United States? Check. Encourage espionage against our people? Check. Spout the Putin line? Always. Sign up for his wish list? Like a porn addict on OnlyFans. Break up NATO? Western Europe is as divided now as it’s been since the forties. Continue to get help from him? Every fucking day.

Three years after that third debate, almost exactly to the day, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi stormed out of a meeting with President Trump concerning his strategically obtuse decision to withdraw US troops from Syria—a move that was ore in Russia’s interests than ours. “Why,” she exasperatedly asked the press, “do all roads lead to Putin?”

It’s actually quite simple: Trump has been mob property his entire life. The difference is that now, in 2020, the mobster who owns him is not “Fat Tony” Salerno, or “Big” Paul Castellano, or Sammy “The Bull” Gravano, or even Semion “The Brainy Don” Mogilevich. The mobster who owns him is Vladimir Putin—which makes Trump, by extension, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Russian government.

Previously, I wrote about Trump’s longtime association with the mob, both Italian and Russian, and his almost certain career as a top echelon Confidential Informant for the Justice Department. He is, as I said, “second generation mobbed-up.” Although he is not, and never can be, an actual mobster—a front can never be a member of the family, for obvious reasons—the unscrupulous Trump is an extremely useful asset to his underworld associates, and has been for decades. Front men, after all, are a vital cog in the global crime syndicate machine. That dirty money’s not going to wash itself.

While the Trump Organization does deals overseas, for most of his career Donald Trump was a stateside operator. The bulk of his revenue is homegrown. As a business professional of my acquaintance who worked for years in Russia colorfully put it: “The thing to remember about Trump is that he’s a venal crook, not some international criminal mastermind. His primary source of wealth, such as it is, comes from a string of golf courses, hotels, and mixed-use office buildings spread around the world, but the corn nuggets in his crown of shit are in the New York metro area and spread across the beaches of Miami-Dade, Palm Beach, and Broward County, Florida.”

So how did a Queens-born front-man and mob money launderer, whose business was overwhelmingly domestic, wind up an asset of a hostile foreign government?

To understand this transformation, it is instructive to think of Trump not as a human being but as an asset, in the strict sense of the word—a piece of property, like a beach house, a private jet, or an HBO Go password. Just as two different families can share a beach house, and your buddy down the street can use your login to stream Succession, so Trump can be utilized by more than one entity at a time. He can also be sold outright—or rather transferred, like the deed to a house. None of this is up to him. At all. To paraphrase Elvis Presley: he’s caught in a trap, he can’t walk out, because the mobsters own him baby.

As for Vladimir Putin, while he may have started as an intelligence operative, and he may pretend to be a diplomat and statesman on the world stage, his true profession, at this stage of his career, is mob boss—probably the most powerful mob boss in the world, more powerful even than his longtime associate from back in his Dresden days, Semion Mogilevich. (There was, and is, a lot of blur between IC and OC in Russia.)

Putin and Mogilevich are two foci of the small circle of oligarchs—there are subtle distinctions, but for all intents and purposes, oligarch is basically just a euphemism for mobster—who own almost everything of value in Russia. In mafia states, the mob runs the show—charging protection for businesses, taking bribes, imposing restrictions on airports, seaports, etc. The Russian mafiya is closer to the East India Company administering the entire colony of British India than some Scorsese picture. It steals from the people, and manipulates the weak central government, to keep itself in power.

(Sidenote: per Robert I. Friedman’s Red Mafiya, Mogilevich has complete control of Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow. So if a self-styled NSA “whistleblower” contrives to spend 40 days there avoiding the media, coughEdSnowdencough, you can be damn sure the “Brainy Don” authorized it).

An ex-KGB chief, Putin succeeded Boris Yeltsin as president in 1999. He’s been in charge ever since. Under his reign, Russia has regressed from a burgeoning democracy to a veritable dictatorship. Putin consolidated power, destroying the independent judiciary, clamping down on press freedoms, using false-flag operations to win popular support, and exploiting his power for personal gain. He is more like a tsar than a president—although the Romanovs did not possess nuclear weapons, and their wealth, obscene as it was, paled in comparison to Putin’s own.

Bill Browder, the American-born British national who was an early investor in Russia after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and who left the country after the government became too corrupt to continue doing business there, tells a hair-raising story about Putin: After the rise of the oligarchs in the early 2000s, Putin had the richest, most powerful oligarch—Mikhail Khodorkovsky, head of the energy concern Yukos—arrested. At a humiliating show trial during which the accused oligarch was kept in a cage, Khodorkovsky was found guilty of fraud. He was sent to prison, and his sizable assets seized.

After this sobering display, the other oligarchs approached Putin and asked what they needed to give him to avoid the same fate as Khodorkovsky, whose fate none of them wanted to share. Putin replied: “Half.” Since then, ill-gotten gains have poured into his coffers. The oligarchs boast fabulous wealth, but by virtue of claiming half of their money, Putin bests them all. Browder has suggested that Putin may well be the world’s richest individual.

And if this all sounds like the world’s greatest mob boss making the world’s biggest mob-boss flex, well, you say “tomato,” I say whatever the Russian word for “tomato” is. Whatever he might have been before that series of power moves, Putin emerged afterward as a no-doubt-about-it mob boss. Khodorkovsky, the fallen oligarch, himself said as much, in a recent interview.

Whether Putin is more powerful than Mogilevich is anyone’s guess. But only one of them is concurrently the head of state of a G8 country, one of a handful of nations that has nuclear capability—and, despite what revisionist historians at Fox News would have us believe, America’s chief adversary since 1945.

Donald John Trump’s association with the Russian mafiya—as opposed to the homegrown Italian one—began, best as we can tell, in 1984, when the Soviet soldier-turned-mobster David Bogatin purchased five of his condos for $6 million. Trump Tower was one of just two buildings in all of New York City that allowed units to be purchased by shell companies. Fishy deals like this did not deter Trump, who had traveled in underworld circles all his life.

By ’84, as covered previously, Trump was already a Confidential Informant for the FBI. He’d been on the radar of the KGB since 1977, when he married the former Ivana Zelníčková, a Czechoslovakian national who someone managed to emigrate from that Eastern Bloc country to Canada. As Luke Harding writes in his masterful and must-read book, Collusion (excerpted here by Politico):

Zelníčková was born in Zlin, an aircraft manufacturing town in Moravia. Her first marriage was to an Austrian real estate agent. In the early 1970s she moved to Canada, first to Toronto and then to Montreal, to be with a ski instructor boyfriend. Exiting Czechoslovakia during this period was, the files said, “incredibly difficult.” Zelníčkováa moved to New York. In April 1977 she married Trump.

According to files in Prague, declassified in 2016, Czech spies kept a close eye on the couple in Manhattan.…There was periodic surveillance of the Trump family in the United States. And when Ivana and Donald Trump, Jr., visited [her father] in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, further spying, or “cover.”

Like with other Eastern Bloc agencies, the Czechs would have shared their intelligence product with their counterparts in Moscow, the KGB. Trump may have been of interest for several reasons. One, his wife came from Eastern Europe. Two—at a time after 1984 when the Kremlin was experimenting with perestroika, or Communist Party reform—Trump had a prominent profile as a real estate developer and tycoon. According to the Czech files, Ivana mentioned her husband’s growing interest in politics. Might Trump at some stage consider a political career?

The KGB was really, really good. Are we to believe that the Soviets would not at least try to use Ivana—and her father Milos, stuck behind the Iron Curtain in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic—to get to Trump? Would not some cooperation be expected as the price of her being allowed to emigrate in the first place?

The Russians began to actively cultivate Trump in 1986, soon after his landmark real estate deal with Bogatin. As Harding tells it, Trump was invited to Moscow by Natalia Dubinina, the daughter of the Soviet ambassador to the United States, whom he met at a luncheon in New York in ‘86. The following year, he took her up on the offer. “On July 4, 1987, Trump flew to Moscow for the first time, together with Ivana and Lisa Calandra, Ivana’s Italian-American assistant,” Harding writes. “Moscow was, Trump wrote, ‘an extraordinary experience.’ The Trumps stayed in Lenin’s suite at the National Hotel, at the bottom of Tverskaya Street, near Red Square….The hotel was linked to the glass-and-concrete Intourist complex next door and was—in effect—under KGB control. The Lenin suite would have been bugged.”

Donald John Trump was a textbook KGB mark. The agents must have been drooling. Harding cites an internal memo circulated by the agency at the time, advising how to spot potential recruits: “Are pride, arrogance, egoism, ambition or vanity among subject’s natural characteristics?” Like a great baseball prospect, Trump was a five-tool player. Harding continues, writing about the internal memo:

The most revealing section concerned kompromat. The document asked for: “Compromising information about subject, including illegal acts in financial and commercial affairs, intrigues, speculation, bribes, graft … and exploitation of his position to enrich himself.” Plus “any other information” that would compromise the subject before “the country’s authorities and the general public.” Naturally the KGB could exploit this by threatening “disclosure.”

Finally, “his attitude towards women is also of interest.” The document wanted to know: “Is he in the habit of having affairs with women on the side?”

We don’t know what, if any, kompromat was gathered on that first trip to Moscow. But we do know that Trump is a serial philanderer, with a taste for Eastern European women. This wasn’t exactly a state secret; by ‘87, he was already a tabloid legend. Are we really to believe that the KGB—arguably the best intelligence agency in the world at human intelligence gathering—would not have tried to honeypot him?

It was upon his return from that fateful Moscow trip that Trump began to branch out in his interests. “For the first time he gave serious indications that he was considering a career in politics,” Harding points out. “Not as mayor or governor or senator.

“Trump was thinking about running for president.”

And indeed, in 1988, Trump flirted with the idea of entering the presidential race, going so far as to deliver a speech in New Hampshire. He toyed with running again in 2000, on the Reform Party ticket, even hiring his old friend Roger Stone to run the exploratory committee before ultimately dropping out. Is it really a coincidence that his dormant political ambitions manifested themselves immediately after his Moscow trip, and never went away?

So, yes, the Soviets were absolutely, positively recruiting Trump on his 1987 visit to Moscow—which began, not coincidentally, on the Fourth of July (Russians love that kind of symbolism). But the KGB was not the only spy network interested in the real estate developer. The trip also attracted the attention of the Central Intelligence Agency and the National Security Agency—the latter, by this time, becoming the bigger outfit, owing to the emphasis on signals intelligence collection that began in the late seventies.

As the pseudonymous mob expert known as Lincoln’s Bible put it, during our recent telephone conversation: “It’s 1987—the height of the Cold War. Ronald Reagan is president. The Russia desk is the largest, most important desk in the largest intelligence agency in the world (the NSA). And Trump was already a top echelon Confidential Informant for law enforcement. How could they not have known about that trip? It would have been gross negligence not to have known.”

And if our intelligence community knew, would they really not bother interviewing Trump upon his return from Moscow? He’d been wined and dined by the Party elite, after all, and they would have wanted to hear all about it. Beginning in 1987, then, Trump was not only a Confidential Informant for the FBI, but was also being utilized by the CIA.

Again: the two intelligence services were really fucking good. If the KGB was all over the guy, the CIA would have known, and thus taken some kind of action. “There is no universe in which he wasn’t being surveilled/tracked and used by our guys,” Lincoln’s Bible told me. “Not one that I can see.” If so, Trump’s counterintelligence file is over three decades old.

Moscow also marked a transition of sorts. Ownership of the mob asset known as Donald Trump began its gradual transfer from La Cosa Nostra to the Russian mafiya. Not long after the trip, Trump spent time aboard the Lady Ghislaine, the yacht owned by the British publishing magnate Robert Maxwell. That sounds perfectly above board, until you consider that Maxwell, born Jan Hoch in Czechoslovakia, was a seditious little fucker. His classified dossier at the British Foreign Office described him as “a thoroughly bad character and almost certainly financed by Russia.” He was affiliated with Israeli intelligence and the KGB. He was business partners with Semion Mogilevich, so he was mobbed up. And his daughter, Ghislaine Maxwell, would in 1991 begin a long and scandalous relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. For all we know, nothing untoward happened on that yacht. But given the nexus of key OC figures—Mogilevich, the two Maxwells, Epstein—it is hard to write it all off as mere coincidence.

Four-and-a-half years after Trump’s visit to Moscow, the USSR fell. Rapacious “oligarchs” raced to gobble up the country’s wealth and natural resources. Untold billions, maybe trillions, of dollars were removed from Russia, most to banks in quasi-Western places like Cyprus. This created unprecedentedly vast opportunities for willing money launderers in the West—and Donald John Trump was well positioned to benefit from the windfall.

Trump needed the help. By the early nineties, his casinos were going bust, US banks had stopped lending to him, and he desperately needed Russian capital to stay afloat. My business professional contact who lived in Russia explains what likely happened, incrementally, over the next two-and-a-half decades:

Take someone who cannot get credit from a bank headquartered in the English speaking world because he’s already burned every major US and UK bank in New York and London. Canadian banks don’t take American risk that American banks won’t take and Australian banks won’t touch him because their government blacklisted him from doing business in the country. But he has a massive cash need because if he does not have lines of credit to keep servicing his previous debts and his lifestyle and his next big thing, he can’t attract investors into his businesses to keep the ball rolling.

This is a critical point. Trump is not just greedy for his own sake. He has to keep earning, or he will have outlived his usefulness to his mafiya whoremasters. His very life depends on his ability to do deals.

The professional continues:

So Trump needs money that doesn’t ask a lot of questions. He’s happy to pay extra—and pay it he will—because in his mind interest comes without cost: he can write it off his taxes, or he can flush it in bankruptcy, or he can pass it on to his customers, or he can get his investors to give him enough to wash it all out, or he can refinance if and when the straight lending world comes back to him. He’s happy to take Russian money because in his mind, it’s an asset to him to have Russian lenders; it makes him more likely to play the real estate market in Russia.

But he knows that if his name and a Russian lender’s appear on the same finance document, that’s discoverable: by the IRS, by the agencies he probably reports to, by the gaming commissions, by the state regulators, by his ex-wives, by his last set of creditors, by the next bankruptcy trustee he has to deal with. So how does he get money from a Russian bank into his pocket, and how does he repay money to the Russian bank, without leaving that paper trail?

Simple. He does not borrow directly from the Russian bank. He borrows from a straw-man bank, like Deutsche, and has the Russian bank act as a silent guarantor.

The Mazars and Deutsche Bank documents almost certainly contain damning information that confirms all of this, and that will collapse his Trump Tower of Cards—which is why Trump has moved heaven and earth to keep them secret.

Whoever ultimately controlled the dirty rubles in the nineties, when Trump first opened his doors to the Russians, in the twenty-tens the kopek stops with Vladimir Putin. Would any Russian bank be able, in this day and age, to funnel hundreds of millions of dollars to Deutsche Bank, or any other straw-man bank,” without Putin’s awareness, if not approval? If you borrow money from a loan shark, but the transaction is made through your local branch bank, guess what? You’re still borrowing money from a loan shark—and in that world, the penalties for nonpayment are brutal.

In the event, by the time Trump began his presidential run in 2015, the transition was complete. He was no longer a creature of the Italian mob. He was fully owned by the Russians—by Mogilevich and the mafiya, and ultimately by Vladimir Putin. The president really is Putin’s puppet, just as Hillary Clinton claimed.

What’s more, plenty of people in the intelligence community and the Justice Department know this is the case, because they have seen his counterintelligence file, or have worked with Trump in his capacity as CI. Robert Mueller must know. James Comey must know. Andrew McCabe must know. James Clapper and John O. Brennan must know. And while all of these individuals have dropped hints, none save Mueller have produced actual receipts—and a lot of his Report remains redacted. It’s no accident that Trump has done everything in his considerable power to impugn these people. He knows what they have on him, so he must attack their credibility.

To wit: When Lisa Page texted Peter Strzok that Trump is “not ever going to become president, right? Right?!” and Strzok replied, “No. No he won’t. We’ll stop it,” they were discussing national security, not Democrat/Republican politics; two of the FBI’s best Russian mob experts were highly, and rightly, concerned that an asset of a hostile foreign power would win the White House. No wonder Trump wants us to believe their text exchanges were romantic in nature, and constantly frames Page and Strzok as lovers—the truth could end his presidency.

Alas, Page’s worst fears were realized. The President of the United States answers to the Kremlin. That sounds like something from a bad movie, but in the time of the worst pandemic in over a century, it has immediate, and grave, real-world consequences.

“We have been taken over,” Lincoln’s Bible said, “and a quarter of a million innocent civilians are going to die because of it.”

***

As with “Tinker, Tailor, Mobster, Spy,” this piece was written with a lot of help from Lincoln’s Bible.

Photo: President Ronald Reagan Shaking Hands with Donald Trump and Ivana Trump During The State Visit of King Fahd of Saudi Arabia at The State Dinner in The Blue Room, 2/11/1985. From the Reagan Presidential Archive.

[jmkitsune]

So like last night I found a project I started back in like November/December last year, I wanted to “novelize” the batman arkham games while...tweaking the story a bit to flow better in some places (I love the series over all but there were parts I felt...needed help)

so I guess that counts as a fan fiction

I was told a few weeks ago by steph when I was having issues with my views on my writing ability that I need to not make some BIG project but I need to try something...smaller, I guess this would count maybe

so I’m just gonna put the first section I wrote below the cut

I haven’t finished the project, I got like 140ish pages but yea

I’m stating this AGAIN because I know SOMEONE will say it if this is read- YES I did try to novelize/write the Arkham Game series as a prose vs a script so no its not some “you’re ripping off the games” 

...that was the point, I wanted to see if I could take it and retell it in this format and see if it came out as good.

The last will and testament of the deceased, Thomas Wayne: In the event of my death, I hereby declare that all my worldly possessions pass to my son, Bruce Wayne. Bruce, I ask that you honor the Wayne family legacy, and commit yourself to the improvement of Gotham City, its institutions, and its citizens. Please, be strong. You are young, but destined for great things. Make the most of your opportunities. Use them to give back to a city that has given us so much, to change the lives of millions of people. Do not be frivolous with this wealth. Please, do not waste it all on fast cars, and outrageous clothes, and the pursuit of a destructive lifestyle. Invest in Gotham. Treat its people like family. Watch over them and use this money to safeguard them from forces beyond their control. My deepest regret is I will not see you grow into the good man I know you will become. And finally, my son, I ask that you never abandon this city to fate. We have lived through dark days, and no doubt there are more to come. But it is the good and great men who stand up for Gotham when others turn and run. In death, I will love you forever. Your father, Thomas."

—Thomas Wayne

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cave was dark, damp and cold which was normal. However there was a bitter extra coldness tonight, colder than most nights, it was Christmas eve and the sun had been set for hours now, the snow outside had been falling for hours. As the elevator carrying it's occupant reached the bottom and opened its doors, a large collection of screeches and flapping echoed throughout the cavernous space. The colony of bats screamed as this person disturbed their slumber and awoken them with his large machinery. They tore through the cave, flying every which way until after a few moments descending deeper into the depths of the cave far from sight and sound. Only echoes of their cries and flapping remained for a short time. The occupant stepped out of the elevator with purpose, a stern and almost rage filled expression on his face. The height of his persona felt increased only by the shadow he cast as he strut through the tunnels towards a much larger, open cave filled with lights and equipment. The far side of the cave was a large waterfall, pouring down and blocking an opening in and out of the system that this man had made his base of operations. The large space was filled with computers and machinery on one floor; and in the center, a platform with a black as night flying craft.

The body suit on the man covered him from neck to toe. Made of a tight weave that protected his body from the cold that filled the cave and the outside as well, he also wore heavy armored boots. This man stood 6'0 and was built sturdy. Not massive but stocky enough that you knew he could throw a punch, though outside this dark cave he never gave the impression of that. An angry man, he never seemed to do anything about his anger in public. He couldn't, he had an image to maintain.

Bruce Wayne made his way to the series of monitors and computers, patching into the local news stations and the Police radio bandwidth. As the different frequencies and channels came into focus one monitor displayed News crews attending a press conference at Black Gate Penitentiary. A decorated officer on the screen at the podium was heard mid speech.

"...knowing tonight, we put to rest one of Gotham's most heinous and relentless killers of our time- Julian Gregory Day."

One of the reporters in the crowd spoke next to the assessment.

"Commissioner Loeb!, Commissioner Loeb – any comment on rumors circulating that it wasn't actually the GCPD who found, apprehended and delivered Mr. Day to custody?" He asked, his voice a little evident of the cold weather over at Blackgate, but strong and convicted in this line of questioning none the less. At this the Commissioner left the podium and a man in his early to mid thirties stepping up to replace him, his glasses fogging a bit from the temperature, the man had auburn hair and signs of facial hair forming on his face. He wore a GCPD jacket over a Policeman's uniform and bullet proof vest, he must have been on assignment before arriving or he felt better to prepare for anything tonight at Blackgate.

"There is no such thing as a bat-man!" Captain James Gordon spat in response to the question. His hand pointing to enunciate each syllable for the crowd. Which of course got a buzz from the reporters. All of them shouting Captain Gordon, over and over trying to garner his attention to ask follow up questions. Camera flashes created a strobe effect on the screen as Bruce half paid attention while looking over at another screen and filtering the sound to that monitor instead of the news.

"All Units, all units, Code 10 at Blackgate Prison! Communication is Down. Possible 2-11." A woman's voice filtered through on the Police Scanner. Behind Bruce, an older man, dressed in a nicely pressed tuxedo, carrying a dome covered silver dinner tray quietly entered the cave and watched and listened to the sight before him as he made his way to a table where he softly lay the dinner tray carefully next to a brass framed photo. A black and white family photo of a slightly middle aged man, his beautiful wife and young son. The three looked happy, and the young boy's smile was ear to ear, teeth shining on his face and a sense of prosperity came from the photo as it reflected off the surface of the tray next to it. The older man gazed for a half second at the photo before returning his attention to his master. Alfred Pennyworth, never too thrilled with Bruce's decisions to take up this crusade, gave his undying support regardless because he had served this family for as long as he had. Raising Master Wayne since his parents' death Alfred couldn't help but wonder what the late Thomas and Martha would think of their boy tonight.

Gone was that smiling happy boy, and replaced by a hurt and angry young man. At 28 time had barely tempered his scars. Only inflamed them. Taking a multi year journey around the world, learning many forms of Asian martial arts. Bruce would travel to China, Japan, Thailand, eventually winding up in Korea. In North Korea he found a secret Korean castle, where he would meet the Martial arts Master: Kirigi. The master would take Bruce in as a servant while he trained with his other students in TokagureRyu and other Shinobi.

Knowing an art similar to Japanese Ninjutsu, Kirigi trained Bruce in the ways of the shadow warrior. Learning how to use the shadows, devoting himself to a single ideal and in that devotion learn patience, develop agility, master deception, partake in theatrics and utilize the power to fight 600 men. But most of all Kirigi instructed Wayne in the method of using fear. Two years ago Bruce had returned from this trip and filled in Alfred of his success under Kirigi and how this meant he could begin his crusade to save Gotham. It was then he took up the cowl as Batman.

"Delta 6-4 Enroute" a mans voice broke Alfred's concentration on those memories, reminding him that Master Wayne needed him in the now, tonight was a sordid one. Being Christmas Eve, Alfred had hoped that Bruce would stay in tonight, be a normal billionaire playboy for the cameras on Christmas, however for another year, he shooed away reporters wanting interviews with the young rich industrialist and instead took up his only focus- the mission.

"Dispatch 5-9. Confirm code 10- this a break out?" Another man came through the radio.

"Suspect identified as Black Mask. Repeat: Code 10 suspect is Black Mask. All Units at Blackgate. Code 6 Code 6. Commissioner Loeb being held captive. Repeat. Commissioner is 701." The woman's voice repeated with urgency. On one of the monitors in front of Bruce a file had opened and revealed many pictures of a man in a white pinstriped suit wearing a black skull mask, all with information filtering in along with the photos. Bruce had collected as much information on this man as he could. Black Mask- the alias for a one Roman Sionis. Alfred's gaze followed as Bruce crossed the space from his computers to a spot on the platform they stood on as it raised from the floor, a glass case with metal framing. Inside spun something Alfred had grown accustomed to seeing, and sometimes repairing when Master Wayne was too overzealous on his night's out. The tailored suit of the vigilante. The mantle Bruce claimed after returning home from his trip abroad. The mask he wore to enact his mission to save and protect Gotham, his home.

The Batsuit was black and gray, an armored and caped body armor he could wear to hide his face and protect himself from the scourge of Gotham's dark underbelly. Bulletproof, knife-proof, however the suit did lack in some flexibility leaving Bruce forced to have stiffer movements and have to be deliberate in his actions. For now it suited him well, protected him and struck fear in those who saw it before he beat them into unconsciousness. Designed to withstand or significantly reduce the impact of bullets, the armor up til this point has allowed Batman to barely flinch when shot, causing a psychological strike in those attacking him, fearing that the urban myth that was batman- was impervious to bullets.

Suiting up, and going from the public figure of Bruce Wayne to the legend that was spreading in the city. The enigmatic shadow that struck out and launched a violent onslaught on those who would dare commit crimes in the city. Someone who was the reason thugs collective breathed sighs of relief upon the rising of the sun each morning. Batman. Gathering his equipment as well, a grappling hook gun, a collection of shuriken that were in the shape of bats, and other assorted equipment donned his large belt at his waist. When he was fully equipped with his gadgets and ready to go, he slowly reached back into the container where his suit was housed to lift the cowl and bring it to his face. Sliding it down and over Bruce Wayne's profile snuffing him out for the night. Awakening the other- the Batman to his next patrol. The night had begun and Batman was needed.

The large craft in the center of the cave roared to life as Batman pressed a series of keys on one of his gauntlets. Lifting itself from the ground with loud engines the VTOL hovered in wait for it's pilot to embark them in their starry night flight across the Gotham skyline. Batman marched towards it, his cape billowing behind him wildly as the engine's caused a powerful draft from their force. Batman could just barely make out Alfred's voice behind him.

"You do realize it is Christmas Eve, sir?" The butler called, his arms out and making a hopeful gesture that he could assuage the Bat into taking the night off. However this hope dashed as Batman climbed into the control seat of the jet and rose into the craft, doing last moment system checks of his vehicle. Alfred resigned his hopes and made his way across the platforms to retrieve the dinner tray he had originally came down to the cave with. Knowing he'd better leave it upstairs in the kitchen so that if Master Wayne returned hungry he could heat up his dinner. Alfred Pennyworth would die on the spot the day he served anyone a cold Christmas Eve dinner.

The Batwing rose higher in the cave, it's wings folding down, extending to their full length in readiness to exit it's lair, Batman inside gripped the controls tightly and focused his vision on the horizon line as the Batwing faced the waterfall and screamed out of the cave at an intense high speed. The waterfall barely breaking under the Batwing's trespassing on it's path downward. Batman piloted his craft at top speed to reach Blackgate as soon as possible.

[royalchemy]

What is a trope you’ve always wanted to subvert?

easy peasy meme: accepting!

@sinnhelmingr

i feel like every oc i write blossoms out of a need to spite subvert some trope. with samar, there were a few. 

one some level, there’s the gentleman and a scholar trope. i’ve referred to samar more than a few times as “a lady and a scholar,” which she is. but oftentimes the original trope has connotations of whiteness, classism, colonialism, etc. and i also wanted to strike out against misconceptions about “scholarship kids.” like, samar comes from a culture that isn’t so fixated on wealth and class stratification, and instead pours everything into community and education. it’s basically a trade utopia where the humanities are fully integrated and not considered class privileges. and so samar leaves that world to attend a boarding school and later university in a culture that’s far more concerned with political and financial legacy. it’s touted as meritocratic, but it’s really not. and so i wanted to use all of that to really unfurl all the things that frustrate me personally about academia and bureaucracy.

another thing is more semiotic in nature. i try to eschew any negative connotation re: darkness with samar. no black/white magic dichotomy. it may exist in her academic realm, but she doesn’t buy into that and it’s not a part of her native culture. so much of what’s deemed “bad” symbolically (think death, darkness, bats, bones, snakes, anything chthonic etc.) is rooted, pun intended, in western colonialist thought and it just doesn’t make sense to apply that theory to samar. and she comes from a very solarpunk culture, so sunlight is a very important spiritual staple, but that doesn’t mean that anyone has to hate or fear the dark. it’s harmful to perpetuate fear of darkness when it’s what you (or your neighbor) might see in the mirror. so instead, i picture her culture and religion having a much more balanced outlook. the night is what you carry in your skin, and the sun gives you everything you need to greet it. the night wishes to tell you her secrets, and you must listen. you must learn. and so i wanted to explore how that difference in philosophy might serve samar in academia, and what kinds of fallacies she might uncover just from love of darkness, instead of fear.

[the-busy-ghost]

I think as much as I generally am pretty fond of regency romances, my big problem with Scottish ones is that they don’t really tend to engage with late eighteenth and early nineteenth Scotland on the same level as the writers do for England, and it just doesn’t seem realistic so much as a suitably Wild setting for the brooding hero and nothing more. And I don’t need total historical accuracy in my books but like something that I can vaguely recognise as my country would be nice (and although some Jacobite romances are a bit more accurate, I’ve never been much into the Jacobites so I’m talking really 1770s-1830s here, Jacobite romances are a whole other rant). 

I mean I’m sure there must be at least some writers who do their research and everything for Scotland. But often I’ve come across writers who have really researched regency period England for their books, and even included some of the important social conditions and background politics, but then they’ve turned there hand to Scotland and it’s this same old ‘dark and brooding kilted hero sweeps the heroine off to his forbidding castle in the mountains, where he lives like it’s the fifteenth century and has nothing but loyal clansmen surrounding him, and is probably fighting a ‘clan war’ with a neighbour, or being attacked by English invaders despite this being the year of our lord 1828’ and while that’s fun sometimes, it’s frankly not realistic for either the actual reign of George III, the regency period, or the reign of George IV.

Apart from the fact that this is a relatively modern period we’re talking about, and not mediaeval, this was a period of immense change people. This was the period of the Enlightenment- of Lord Monboddo speculating about evolution and Watt’s steam engine and Adam Smith’s ‘Wealth of Nations’ and Dr Johnson’s tour of the Hebrides- but it was also a period where serfdom for the colliers and salters had only been ended in 1775, when Scots were profiting off sugar and cotton plantations in the West Indies and the slave trade (it became illegal to own a slave in Scotland in 1778 but the Scots had a dab hand for colonialism after the Union), when the tobacco lords who gave Glasgow its first great economic boom had just been put out of business by the American wars. It was a time when the Kirk was still able to put the fear of God into local communities but David Hume’s philosophical ideas were some of the most important of the day. It was a revolutionary and difficult time in many places- anti-conscription feeling accidentally led to the Massacre of Tranent, and weavers marched on Carron Ironworks in the Radical War of 1820 with ideas that weren’t so dissimilar to the ideals of the French Revolution. It was the time of the United Scotsmen but also of Henry Dundas. Dundee was making money from the whaling industry and was about to have its jute and linen boom which made it an important centre of female employment, Aberdeen was being transformed into the Granite City and had as many universities as the whole of England, the New Town of Edinburgh was being built in all its classical splendour and the Old Town was still tumbledown and poverty-stricken, while Glasgow was in the middle of its growth from a minor burgh to the biggest city in Scotland and the second city of the Empire, the workshop of the world. Robert Burns was making toasts to the lassies, while John Anderson provided for women to be able to attend lectures in physics (or rather natural philosophy) and other sciences at the college he founded, though women wouldn’t be able to graduate university in Scotland until the 1870s. Scots were becoming a major feature of the British army, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes eagerly. Cattle droving was about to come to an end, and sheep farming began to boom. It was the time of the Sutherland Clearances and all the breakdown in the old clan structures and economic problems and mass emigration and  that was occurring across the Highlands- and elsewhere- at that time. 

Other than the Clearances, which were partly linked to the erosion of the old clan system in the late eighteenth century, perhaps the most important thing happening at the time which would concern regency romance was the beginnings of Tartan tourism. Because under James MacPherson and Sir Walter Scott and others like them, and especially after George IV’s visit to Edinburgh, this was a time when the romantic image of Scotland began to be developed intensely- its formerly unprofitable and dreary Highlands became wild and beautiful pleasure parks for the rich, the Highland chief, the Jacobite, and (though less enduring) the border Scot became figures of romance rather than reasons to keep Scotland down. Highland landowners were suddenly eager to show off their kilts and parade around in tartan even if many of them, for example MacDonnell of Glengarry, were clearing their clansfolk off the land at the same time. So basically, regency romance is set in a time where the conditions that CREATED the Scottish romance were flourishing (for better or for worse), and yet they very rarely acknowledge that. 

I’m a person who’s more into the Middle Ages and I’m no expert on eighteenth or nineteenth century Scotland, so I could have missed things but it’s a fascinating period. I’m hardly an expert in romance novels either- and as I say there could be some out there that DO do their research, while at the same time I understand the escapist side of romance. But I feel it’s just not common enough to rather see Scottish romances address some of the things that were ACTUALLY going on in Scotland during the regency period and the years around it, even if it was just in the background, because I promise you they make a far more interesting setting for a story than a Brooding Highland Chieftain who would have been more appropriate two centuries earlier (and even then would need more research). 

 Or if you really want your brooding Highland landowner, why not explore the way that his life is different to his predecessors- his relationship with his people not as strong as it was, struggling to keep his estate afloat without driving off his tenants (if he’s a good guy, which is about as escapist as we’ll get for the period), or he’s in the process of transforming an ancient tower house into a fine and imposing baronial residence worthy of a Scott novel, or dealing with the fact that his father was exiled for supporting the Jacobites (and also the moral problems of his father maybe fleeing to run a plantation in the Carolinas or wherever) and yet now he’s feted for his family’s Jacobite connections in the very circles of Edinburgh society that are Whig to the core, or maybe the fact that all his neighbour landlords- usually Scots by the way- are pouring their money into English educations and fashionable carriages and balls in Edinburgh and London while their people are driven off the land (does your local Scottish rake at a London ball give a rat’s ass? Is he even FROM the Highlands?). And that’s just the traditional Highland story with a different twist- it doesn’t even begin to go into the regional variation, or the different classes, or the culture of the cities, or old Lowland burghs and farming communities contrasted with new mill towns like New Lanark, the growth of coal mining, or the Carron Ironworks. That I think would be much more recognisable as Scotland, and probably also really develop the world of the regency romance, where Scotland plays a role beyond that of Gretna Green and Highland Holdfasts. Just give me the real Scotland, its bad bits and its good bits, because that was always better than the fictional version, no matter how many bare-chested and kilted Noble Savage types you throw in my direction (and I like a man in a kilt as much as the next person, but come ON).

On a final note, consider this- this is the period where kilts become Fashion Items, rather than functional wear (oh and they were also banned for a bit before this too). And also why would you pass up the opportunity of seeing George IV in a kilt and pink pantaloons?

Oh and lastly people need to learn what a laird is it’s... it’s a very specific thing...it’s not just a lord.

[believingfairytales]

January Wrap-Up!

I’m trying something new! I don’t know how sustainable it is, but I want to be more active in telling people about the things that I read! So here goes #1! Hope you like it. 

This month I read THREE romance novels. Minor spoilers below! 

Wilde in Love, by Eloisa James

4.5/5 stars 

The Hero, Alaric: a celebrated travel author who comes home to find scores of adoring fangirls following his every move, putting posters of his exploits on walls, and an infamous unauthorized play made about his life (that is definitely not true). 

The Heroine, Willa: witty, sarcastic orphan, skeptical as to the veracity of the author’s exploits (especially in light of the ridiculous play). Toast of the ton, popular and beautiful, always behaves with perfect propriety, never shows her true nature to anyone. Values privacy above all else. (you can see how this would be a problem, with the adoring fangirls mentioned above)

The best part: THE BABY SKUNK. Willa has always wanted a kitten, so when a passing peddler mentions that he has a tiny baby destined to grow up to be a scarf, our Soft-hearted hero buys the BABY SKUNK for the heroine. Hilarity ensues. Fake engagement also a huge bonus!

The worst part: the weird epilogue. No spoilers, but it was just weird and felt forced. 

The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband, by Julia Quinn

3.5/ 5 stars 

Loosely based on the movie While You Were Sleeping (one of my faves!)

The Heroine, Cecilia: Searching for her injured brother in the American Colonies during the Revolutionary War, after her father’s sudden death leaves her in a precarious position. Her only lead is that his best friend is in a coma in the hospital nearby. The hospital staff, however, will only let family visit, so she claims to be his wife to gain access. 

The Hero, Edward: Second son of an earl, Captain in the British Army wakes up from a week-long coma with three months of memories lost and his best friend’s sister for a wife. Understandably confused, he agrees to help her look for her brother, at the same time piecing together what happened to himself. 

The Best Part: the love letters! Cecilia wrote her brother many letters, usually with an addition for Edward, who wrote back. They were half in love with each other before they ever met in person. He recognizes her instantly upon waking from the coma because he’d stolen her picture from her brother’s things many times just to look at her face. Adorable.

The Worst Part: honestly the whole “he thought they were married when they were making love” thing kind of skeeved me out. Like that is some grey area of consent and I’m not really into it. Julia Quinn has had this problem for me before, too. Also she totally could have told him several times that they weren’t married, before it even got to that point. Also the anti-climactic conclusion to the “what happened to her brother” subplot felt really forced and fake. I almost suspect he’s going to turn up later, but who knows?

Much Ado About You, by Eloisa James 

4/5 Stars

Our Heroine, Tess: Tess and her three younger sisters have been recently orphaned by their horse-mad father, who poured all of his wealth into his stables, with very little left for his daughters. They’re left in the care of the Duke of Holbrook (who goes by Rafe), a man of approximately 35, who was definitely not expecting his wards to be (mostly) adult women (he bought them rocking horses, it was hilarious and cute).

Our Hero: Lucius: A good friend of Rafe, shunned by his aristocratic mother for the crime of playing the stock market and making himself the richest man in England. Lucius has no depth of feeling for anything, until he sees Tess. 

Aside: Tess and her sisters’ personalities seem to be possibly modeled after the Dashwood sisters from Sense and Sensibility, except that there’s an extra. Tess is a clear Elinor: oldest, sensible, responsible (thought to be boring by outsiders). Imogen is beautiful, crazy in love, doesn’t care about her reputation, and drives her sisters insane (A clear Marianne). Josie is only 15 and doesn’t have much of a role in the book, but seems spirited and adventurous like Margaret (although she’s CHUBBY and I’m SO EXCITED to read her book in the future). And then there’s the extra: Annabel, pragmatic and completely anti-romance. Her only aspiration is to marry a rich man so she never has to worry about paying the bills again (has anxiety attacks at the thought). 

The best part: The roman bath scene/ initial proposal is pretty funny...and I guess also all the side characters? There isn’t really a clear-cut best part. This is the first book in a series about a family, and a lot of time is spent on sisterly bickering and fleshing out a background for all the characters. That being said they’re all pretty interesting....

The worst part: ...except for Tess and Lucius, who are honestly just a little boring. They kind of have to be, though, because Imogen’s tantrums etc kind of steal the show.  That being said though, this book was still thoroughly enjoyable, and I’m definitely reading the next ones. 

To conclude:

I had a lot of fun with these, and my new TBR system seems to be working pretty well so far because I haven’t hit a slump yet! Stay tuned next month for the next 3 of the Essex Sisters books, and hopefully at least one other!

[elizasepistolarytravels]

Mexico, racism, and storing extraction in our bodies. A year on.

Today I want to talk about racism in Mexico. 

The point for me in these letters is to talk about stuff that I find sometimes has not been named enough, not as a final statement, but more a need to digest and process in the way that I have found useful- through setting literal pen to handmade paper, to think about topics important to me as I am going through the process of making my paper: shredding, mulching, and at last hanging up a new blank sheet to dry for me to pour my thoughts onto. 

This thought has been churning in me in its complexity for a whole year, and at last it has a semblance of structure. So here goes the story:

Since I arrived in Mexico, I have not been able to shake off an uneasy feeling, and a growing concern for a reality I am finding harder and harder to accept, now that its fibers are made evident. My experience of Mexico has been similar to living in a cast system, and I want to talk about that and possible places to start to open this up. 

My journey started when I arrived last January to the cool slopes of Valle de Bravo my head full of dreams, to start my course in alternative education in a town that I was conscious was full of interesting people and projects that promised practice in the ways of transitioning to a possibly better future. While the dreams have not left, this more extreme aspect of my experience I think can shed a light on much of what I think is lacking in these spaces even in countries like the UK where there is much more social acceptance of these discussions. 

Mexico is a place of myths: one dear to its heart is that around the concept of mestizaje. The mestizo has a heart of fire from Spain, flamenco and the corridas while lashes sprouting from agave spines and desert dreaming eyes twirl as if they were all one. The reality of the mestizo is a little less exciting, and much more of what you would expect: the mixing of peoples and ethnicities that happened in the Spanish colonisation is much more the stratification of peoples into a cast system according to their lineage and their ‘whiteness’ and much less a tale of a beautiful melting pot and a story of when ‘colonisation was ok’. Today, there is still this cast system, and much unnamed pain still stores itself in these spaces between people, in even in the most ‘woke’ environments. There may not be here as much ‘overt’ wealth separation, but I argue that if we do not address how the extraction and violence of colonisation has stored itself in our white (and whiter) bodies and continues to create separation in us, and thus, systemically racist structures, we will not achieve any of the community based projects we have set out to create, treating the effects and sources of racism being one of the most important points in creating transition towards a future that can regenerate the world.

While it is true that many of us have dark eyes and dark hair, in amongst these spaces where people look like me, there is an unspoken knowledge that in reality much of our ancestors really have lighter skin because they never spoke Masahua, toltec, or tsetsal to each other; they spoke Spanish, French, maybe English or German. Our kinship was never of this land, and the mestizaje that did happen was always absorbed as much as possible back into the homogenising force of colonisation, back into the racist idea of whiteness. And that is why we are the wealthier and the whiter, that all appear together, that is why there are still ‘clubs’ (leisure centres) in Mexico city where you can pay a good sum to be cut off from the rest of its squalor, the ‘club France’ or the ‘club Spain’, where you can live out the extent of colonisation today, mixing only with people of your ‘line’. I have simultaneously seen spades of temazcales, plant medicine offerings, drumming and ancient healing practices (a genuine interest for things that I understand), and people going back to the same race relations where the darker skinned and those who speak a language of this land are the ones who uphold these lifestyles of relative ease of the whiter and wealthier. I am not saying that the search for meaning, for the return of ritual is wrong, but that this dynamic is evident of the deep embeddedness of the cast system in the Mexican psyche so much that much of of what I described here I think is completely obscure to most people and not seen as a problem. 

Again, the search for growth is not wrong, but the point of all this was to remember that you are deeply interconnected and interdependent with the people and beings around you, and that you and your little ego is not that important really. Ritual reaffirmed what actions and practices and interconnections were going on in your community already, they do not substitute them. My problem with these spaces is that I do not see any real attempt to create interdependence with people outside of your socio-economic (and racialised) class, thus maintaining the same racist structures of our predecessors. After a plant medicine ceremony, people go back to their houses where their help is darker skinned, has less formal education than them, and this will be the only point of contact with someone outside of their cast. Wage labor can never be fertile land to create interdependence, to create actual friendship and care. I feel that racism in Mexico expresses itself in those subtle ways only those on the receiving end know how insidious it can be: in the lack of care for breaking down the structures that keep us separate, unseen, and really interdependent. Lets face it, people do not really want to knit society with those who cannot participate in the cultural game of appearing woke like they do, they can only be seen with them in the form of ‘helping them’, ‘giving them a job’. To be actual friends is very very rare, and you can only participate in the game of appearing woke if your body has inherited a certain history of privilege. 

I see that despite all the good, sustainable initiatives and the ‘healing’ done in these circles, we are not open to see how our white bodies have stored racist, capitalist and extractivistic structures of wealth, that make it that even as a middle class student making it by, if unchecked, the same structures of oppression and pain will perpetuate themselves, and there will be no real planetary healing, no real chance of changing anything for the better in any really substantial way. The hoarding of value expresses itself in the overconfidence of whiter bodies, in the looks of comparison and the implication that something about you is not enough, spurring the original wound of capitalism and the need of endless consumption, hoarding, and taking from those you deem expendable. Colonialism in white bodies is the search for charisma, is the search for medicine for your own self agrandizaition, for it being commodified and consumed, folded back into capitalism, with no context and connection to creating interdependence with the people who imparted such knowledge. You will remain a cristal tower to the world around you, and you will find yourself saying that you have tried to connect with people outside of your cast, but, it’s like they don’t want to. And it’s not on them.

To counter this, I find that to start, try and create other spaces to exist outside of waged labor together, even if it is just in the form of conversations where you genuinely care about the others wellbeing. Trade from a point of equality, of truth. Breaking from racist woke structures demands that we paradoxically break some of the uber-confidence that I have argued, is the residual storage of wealth extractivism and colonialist violence that gets stored in how we use our bodies. It demands a de-sensitisation to reactions to how we can be culturally different, just let the differences be, see them without needing to sort and categorise or see how this could benefit you. Be humble in ways where you feel no one needs to take up more space then they need to. In the same way, no one needs to dress differently, put on an accent, play being the other, pretend something is different then it is. It is a genuine curiosity to know your neighbour, the complexity of their life, their highs and their woes just like you, and see how we can help each other out, fumbling towards being friends who do not shy away from the realities of being born into a world of separation and what that implies. I am in no way dismissing my paradoxes and how I struggle, even in my own family, where this relationship sometimes still plays on, and leave me forever uncomfortable. 

We will still exist in a world in Mexico where wage relationships as a standard are the reality, and if like many, you benefit from the help of people in your house, the issue is not the exchange of value, but wage relations in this way is an extension of colonialist history, and mostly the only history, and that the numbing to the reality of the roots of this separation is what keeps this going. Lets look into what lenses we were given, how we hold our bodies, where our priorities lie. 

Much love. 

E xxx