#note also: these 'kinds' of tragedy are not mutually exclusive

[queenlucythevaliant]

I made a silly uquiz while dog sitting"

(This is very Tumblr-core. There are many like it, but this one is mine.)

[dearlydesecrated]

"OF ALL THE FATES TO BEFALL YOU, YOU'VE JOINED ME IN TRAGEDY? HOW REASSURING."

Lucia / Lu ✨ Adult (21+) ✨ She / Her ✨ Fandom & OC Content

Welcome to my all-in-one blog, DearlyDesecrated! (If you've seen my other accounts, my email retrieval failure says "But you didn't!") It’s always harder to talk about myself than it is to talk about my interests (whatever they may be at the given time) but I suppose introducing myself is step one, aha. As you’ve seen, I’m Lucia (though Lu is also acceptable) and I love to write, draw, and daydream. I enjoy gaming too, I lean more toward story based ones (RPG’s and Sims mostly) though I do enjoy trying out new games outside my usual. I also enjoy anime and manga, so expect some of my interests from a little bit of everywhere.

I enjoy gushing and ranting about my interests but I also enjoy gushing with others about theirs. If you ever wanted to rave about how sweet your F/O (Fictional Other, for non self-shippers!) is, the new manga/anime you just finished, talk head canons and/or theories, or just talk about your day or some good news you got recently... My message box is always open and anonymous asks are welcome when my ask box is open! I adore talking to people of all sorts and walks, as long as you're respectful you'll find I love learning things and prefer to be corrected especially when it's n a constructive manner. I’m pretty low energy most days (between work and household things) so I love just sitting down to talk about my favorite things/people with mutuals and like minded people. That said....

Before you Contact/Interact:

‼️ GENERAL

This blog is SFW with mild - if any - suggestive content. I may more mature jokes but there won't be any kind of outright/explicit or blatant NSFW on this blog. That said, I require anyone who sends me a private message directly to be over eighteen (18+). This is for my comfort and anyone who dms / pms me with an ageless or blank blog, - and anyone who is discovered to be a minor at any point during our interaction - will be blocked on discovery. Do note; You may interact with my ask box and blog content regardless of your age (providing you aren't breaking Tumblr's ToS) and I do have anon enabled if that's something that helps you. I'm just uncomfortable interacting privately with minors as a whole. Thank you for your understanding 💕

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Generally aside from the above, I'm very inclusive and my DNI is basic and common things. This is lgbt+, mental health, physical health, race, culture, ALL INCLUSIVE safe space as long as things on all ends are respectful. Hate, racism, sexual and gender exclusion/discrimination, predatory and/or illegal behavior / actions will get a block without warning or explainination. TL;DR? Respect AND Trust is a mutual reward, think about how you want to be perceived before you interact.

‼️ ART • ANIME/MANGA • GAMES • ETC

First and foremost; please DO NOT edit, repost, crop, repost, or otherwise modify and redistribute my illustrations, literature, or designs without express/explicit written permission. Never enter anything I make in Generators, AI softwares or websites, or NFTS. I have not and never will give permission for this. Moving on...

I love music, anime, manga, manwha, game, yada blah blah- Give me your recommendations! I'm INCREDIBLY open to everything (no NSFW links or recommendations, of corse) and I'd love to get into a series, fandom, trilogy / novel, etc and have someone to rant and rave with! I don't shy away from anything so even if its not my usual cup I'll try a sip just for the experience.

Working on a fic / novel / book? New WIP looking so tasty you want to tantalize someone's senses with the upcoming meal? Made a new plush and the stitch is seals? Perhaps the new book you read just blew your mind with he plot twist or the new fall anime you were eyeballing disappointed the hype train... Needless to say I want to hear about it! I want to see it! Reading compression required? These glasses aren't for show! 👓You receive; an anctive ear for you interest. And can tell you about Capoeira, a brazilian martial art I had the pleasure of learning that mixes dance with combat! Or the pattern I found on Pinterest for Animal Crossing... The new design I'm working on, etc!!

‼️ SELF-SHIP PROTOCOL

No restrictions for interaction but I would ask that as with any space, public or private, you remain respectful. There's a wide cast of people out there and if something isn't your taste that doesn't mean no one else can like the flavor.

My S/I (self-insert) has a crap ton of lore because I like the idea of a singular S/I for all of my interests that I can build around every aspect of my self-ship content. It's a whole process and I'm super excited to rant and rave about it!

Tell me about your S/I (even if you omit F/Os) - are they just general insert depends or the verse / fandom? Maybe they have a deeper lore and that ties in to their differences by verse, if any!

Talk to me about your F/Os! Any recent art of them you love? A story that moved you? Something you saw that reminded you of them and gave you warm fuzzies? Or maybe you want to gush about a character in general? I have two ears, pull up a chair.

💗 Asks, Likes, Replies, Reblogs, and Follows welcome and Appreciated!! 💓

[1-ufo]

Thanks! So, I’m writing a story where magic exists but most people don’t notice it, and if they do, they quickly forget about it (so the magical world is naturally separate from the mundane one). A lot of writers (including Neil Gaiman in Neverwhere, which I recommended earlier) have used this or similar effects to add an element of wish fulfillment (yes, magic is real, it’s just very well hidden) to their stories.

However, in a mundane world where so many people suffer and die from disease, poverty, and violence, hiding the existence of magic and keeping it separate would be problematic. We would all escape from our ordinary lives to a secret magical realm (or at least visit) if we could — but the right thing to do would be to share it with those in need, regardless of who could perceive or remember it.

2020 made this point painfully clear. If that secret magical realm exists, then all of its inhabitants are sociopaths. Otherwise, someone would have used magic to prevent the pandemic… or the explosion in Beirut… or to save George Floyd or Breonna Taylor… or to summon rainclouds to put out the wildfires in Australia or California. That these tragedies happened at all is revealing.

Can you think of any solutions to this ethical dilemma?

I’m assuming that your story takes place in a world where the things that you listed about 2020 also occurred?

So one of the things I do when I run into stuff like this when writing is I think about other ideas that parallel the problem I’m trying to solve. It requires a little bit of abstract thinking because it’s not one to one with the exact problem I’m writing about. But that’s where artistic license comes in.

In this case, I find your dilemma very similar to that of religion, Christianity especially, and the belief in God. for example you have the varying beliefs of God: he is Good or he should be Feared. Does he or does he not exist? Should we live our lives morally and saint-like via Pascal’s wager just in case he does exist? Or should we live our lives to the fullest because we don’t know that there’s actually an afterlife, including indulging in things considered indulgent sins by some sects of the religion? (Note: I’m offering the polar ends of these ideas while also acknowledging that nothing is that black and white and some of these things aren’t mutually exclusive)

In this case, I would explore the rationalizations of peoples beliefs in God. The age old question if he is so good then when does all this bad stuff still happen? The rationalizations that people have for this might offer you some direction in how to tackle this with your magic element.

(Another disclaimer: I’m not equating God with Magic here, though I am agnostic myself. I don’t mean this in any kind of condescending way toward people who believe in god or not. It’s just the closest thing we have to finding belief in metaphysical ideas and concepts that we can’t physically see or touch or the moral quandaries that Anon is trying to find. Even when I was still a Christian I wondered about these very things myself. And am speaking from the view of my own experience and the great deal of research I’ve done on these topics. I understand why people believe and respect that. I understand why people don’t believe and respect that as well. I myself am Open to /something/ though I can’t put my finger on what with my limited human experience. So please I mean no disrespect to anyone with drawing this comparison and just want to put this out there. This is about solving dilemmas within story telling no more no less.)

[bestworstcase]

“…but he’s the god of creation…” and? these are not mutually exclusive categories, nor is the text particularly subtle about which brother holds authority over death and the dead.

which two colors does rwby symbolically and literally associate with death? what colors do the characters experience when they cross the threshold? white, in the liminal void between the living realm and the afterlife, and then gold as they leave that void and pass into the realm of the dead. not the black and purple associated with dark’s power, but the colors of light’s power.

and while we have almost no information regarding the nature of the afterlife, other than the fact of its existence, we do know one critical thing: it is not a realm of knowledge. each of the three times we’ve seen ozma brought fully or partially out of the afterlife, he returns disoriented and confused with no idea what is happening. and the second time, when light speaks to him in the liminal void, ozma is not only completely unaware that salem isn’t dead but assumes that he must have been with her in the afterlife and is taken aback to discover that isn’t true. ergo, the afterlife is either a place where the dead do not possess self-awareness, or one the dead cannot leave without forgetting everything they experienced there; once people die and cross the threshold, they effectively lose one of the fundamental aspects of humanity—dark’s gift of knowledge.

[note here how easily light takes advantage of ozma’s ignorance and disorientation to manipulate him.]

likewise, dark refers to the act of retrieving ozma from the afterlife as an act of creation, implicitly placing the dead and the decision to bring people back from the dead into his brother’s sphere—and it is, of course, light who cares about the “delicate balance of life and death,” refusing (as chthonic deities are wont to do) to even entertain the notion of bringing ozma back. meanwhile dark yoinked him out on a whim because it pleased him for a moment to be kind to the only human who’d ever approached him as her creator instead of as a monster.

[sidebar: the uh, skeleton sprawled at the base of the stairway leading up to the dark’s abode—and the sword driven through its ribcage—suggests that salem’s rebellion was not dark’s first rodeo and at least one poor schmuck got run through with their own weapon by the very god they intended to slay before salem made the mistake of also provoking the one accustomed to people groveling at his feet. “a… tragedy… has befallen your home. at the hands of my brother” indeed.]

[sidebar #2: the line of reasoning that light intervened when dark brought ozma back out of concern for future petitioners who would come to ask dark for the same favor and vex him into murdering them is pretty silly given that dark’s entire problem with their current arrangement was that nobody dared approach him; like, dark WANTED petitioners. he WANTED humans to ask him for things. that was literally why he brought ozma back, no strings attached; no one had ever prayed to him before and he desperately wanted them to so he immediately rewarded the one brave enough to try.]

moreover, light elects to punish salem for her defiance by locking her out of the afterlife altogether—and again dark does not care except insofar as salem’s distress amuses him. both the choice of punishment and dark’s reaction to it are incongruous with the common fanon interpretation that death only occurs because dark insisted upon it and light would gladly create an immortal utopia if only his malevolent brother would allow it—a god who doles out immortality as a punishment is not a god who only begrudgingly allows death to happen for the sake of compromise, and likewise a god who laughs at the anguish of a mortal cursed to live forever is not a god who demanded death in exchange for allowing life to exist. no: in light’s view, salem circumvents his authority over the dead and the afterlife, and he retaliates by permanently revoking the privilege of joining them in eternal rest.

by the same token, ozma—light’s chosen one—is made immortal in a manner that does not violate the life-death cycle light is so particular about; he lives, he dies, he rests for a while, and then he returns as a new person. [indeed i think it’s quite possible that everyone on remnant is part of a reincarnative cycle and that what makes ozma unusual isn’t that he reincarnates per se but that he does it too fast, and so continuously inflicts his memories of all his past lives on himself.] it seems evident that light acted unilaterally when he tasked ozma with redeeming humanity for salem’s defiance—whether dark is aware of this new test or not, light set the exact terms alone—so for the god of light to design his champion’s form of immortality this way, as an unending cycle of life and death, again suggests that light thinks it’s important for death to happen because it matters TO HIM, not because it’s a compromise he made to appease his brother.

and as for his brother, even in the narratives of brother-cult doctrine (which by virtue of having been founded and cultivated by ozma, champion of the god of light and fearful of destruction as he is, is obviously very biased in light’s favor), dark is not at all described as a god of death: he created the moon, the deserts, the mountains, crags and canyons, earthquakes and volcanoes, tornadoes and floods. he is responsible for plate tectonics and weather and the tides—all essential natural processes without which life as we know it very likely could not exist—and he delights in the resilience and ingenuity humans show in overcoming every challenge he sets for them, delights in seeing them figure out how to build homes that earthquakes cannot destroy, delights in their ability to thrive and prosper in the face of adversity.

and while the brother-cult myth presents the grimm as an unstoppable existential threat to humankind and the god of darkness as apocalyptically callous to the plight of humans who couldn’t defend themselves, we know that doesn’t line up with reality because dark is the one who gave ancient humans magic. salem can crumple up a fully grown nevermore like tissue paper with a snap of her fingers. cinder blew a hole as wide as a city bus through like four layers of reinforced steel with a single fireball. to ancient humans the grimm would have been a mere NUISANCE; the god of darkness made these creatures and he also gave his favored creations a more than fair chance to fend them off. which tracks with his characterization as a wild god intrigued by the way humans deal with problems by learning from and then overcoming them.

the god of darkness is not a chthonic deity, nor is he a god of death; he’s a god of nature, equally if not more so than his brother (who complains that his creations are spoiled by the existence of weather, plate tectonics, and the moon).

the god of light is a chthonic deity in this essay i will

[melis-writes]

The Other Woman [Michael Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 1 – An Offer You Couldn't Refuse.

Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist. / Fanfic Playlist

18+, explicit smut read.

"Don’t trust Mafiosi like we did. Mafiosi are not your friends; they’ll use you and then they will kill you." / “Welcome to the Corleone family, Marina.”

"To hell with the mafia" was all you could think after working for the Cuneo and Stracci crime families as a governess only to witness tragedy, violence, and the ruthlessness of Mafiosi and their influence in your hometown of Hell's Kitchen. It was Don Michael Corleone who made you an offer you couldn't refuse; a harmless one seeking to hire a private tutor to live on the Lake Tahoe compound with one major difference: Michael was no ordinary Mafiosi and his wish to legitimize the family business served as trust for you to accept employment for him, only to find yourself slowly ensnared by Michael--potentially about to spell disaster through the mutual sexual desire and attraction when you first meet with the Don.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions and depictions of death & violence / Mentions of sexual themes.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: The first chapter of my newest Michael Corleone x Reader smut fic is finally here!! 😍 Scandals, forbidden love, lust, the kind of love and sexual desire that can either move mountains or ruin lives is entrenched within this new multi-chapter fic. 😏 I wouldn't say it's a slowburn fic, but it will definitely build up passion and desire, especially considering Michael in canon never cheated on Kay (unless you count Sicily? 😅) or was ever interested in mistresses, so to be able to write his canon personality wanting one is going to be very interesting in this fic. 😛 This first chapter in specific is heavily based on background context and info about the reader and setting of the fic to really set the tone for what's to come all in the next chapters!

Hired by the Corleone family as a governness, you relocate to the Lake Tahoe family compound, looking forward to your future in Nevada until you meet your employer—Michael Corleone. Your future is then ensnared only in lust and forbidden love for Michael since the beginning, and you find yourself yearning for a married man you can never have. Desire and passion clash with one another as Michael takes you to be his mistress—only having an exclusive sexual relationship with you while his sex life with Kay dies out. Knowing from the beginning you’ll never truly be with Michael and that your place in his life is worlds apart from Kay’s as the other woman, the love you have for him consumes you until it threatens to burn out everything you’ve ever had with Michael.

If it’s one thing you grew up with when you had nothing and even when you grew to have everything, it was the strength, bond, and love of family.

It didn’t just begin and end with the family you were born in, but also the locals in your neighborhood and those you’d come to meet and love like family throughout the years too.

Before the Corleones told you they accepted and loved you like family and before your heart ached to have the impossible with Michael Corleone and Michael alone, you were just like any other person who grew up in Hell’s Kitchen in the late 1920s and early 1930s.

You were away from the influence of the mafia in Sicily, unbeknownst of how your family’s lives would change during the Great Depression, and how your choice of career would inevitably impact your life in every way imaginable.

Although you were always certain about who you were and wanted to be, your heart led you astray into dangerous territory and you didn’t stop yourself from getting too close to the fiery passion of what it meant to be Michael Corleone’s secret lover and mistress.

But before you had Michael, you had your own family, and everything you learned about love, trust, and kindness came from your parents and your two older brothers—Vincenzo and Giovanni whom you were always close to.

When the Great Depression hit, your family lived and dwindled in poverty for years to come. You were just a little girl at the time but you remembered how you and your family shared everything until you all had nothing.

Before the stock market crash, your family opened up a little grocery store where they sold fresh vegetables and fruits—having used all of their life savings they brought over from Sicily when they immigrated to the United States.

Despite making a modest living selling necessities, when the rest of the neighborhood couldn’t afford it and when shipments began to run dry, you remembered having sleep in exchange for dinner and that your parents would always make sure you and your brothers ate before they did.

You felt and learned compassion and love from your parents and brothers from a very young age and you looked up to your family with admiration. You would share these very same traits when you’d come to mature as a young woman yourself one day.

You are Marina Alighieri, the youngest child and only daughter in your family that was born in Hell’s Kitchen whereas your brothers and parents were born and raised in Bagheria, Sicily.

You grew up speaking Sicilian, Italian, and English on a regular basis, interacting with the locals in the tight-knit neighborhood that Hell’s Kitchen was where your family’s little grocery store was a staple in the Italian community.

Despite having nothing truly owned underneath their own name and with very little emergency savings, your parents were selfless and insisted on giving you and your brothers a safe, healthy upbringing with education throughout the years.

Your father had taken out many loans he knew he would spend many years paying back just to afford school uniforms and textbooks for you and your brothers—something you were very well aware of, grateful for, and insistent on repaying your family and giving back to the community that took care of you all in some way for the help in the future.

You weren’t aware however that you began to give back when you had begun attending fifth grade which consisted of sharing your textbooks and notes with the children on the street who couldn’t afford to go to school, and recapping your daily lessons with them every day after school.

You knew many families at that time were up to their necks in debt, some of their children had to work just to make ends meet, and others could not afford to take out any more loans than they already had to feed hungry mouths at home, but your selflessness and kindness did not go unnoticed.

Whatever you learned at school that day, you were adamant about making sure the other poor children who couldn’t afford to do so did.

You had a knack for teaching others as a child and you weren’t even aware of it, but as you stood on the sidewalk by your home, recapping your daily lessons, the neighbors saw how their children and the children of others sat in awe on the porch, listening to you and asking questions to understand further.

It was acts of generosity like this for nothing in return but to help others and keep the bond of community that associated the Alighieri family with compassion.

After all, everybody knew everyone in Hell’s Kitchen when it came to the Italian community. There was still a taste and feel of home because of how everyone stuck together, continuing to practice cultural traditions and speak Sicilian and Italian.

The neighborhood looked out for each other and the concept of loneliness and homesickness ceased to exist.

When you were just ten years old, you began to see more immigrants from Italy move in and settle into the neighborhood, welcomed with friendly faces and warm smiles, but it also marked the arrival of the mafia as well.

As a child, you didn’t know any better just what the Cosa Nostra was, but your family did and before you knew it, you found yourself sitting next to your brothers on the couch one evening as your parents spoke to you about the “new men in the neighborhood”.

“Quando invecchierai, capirai di più. Questi nuovi uomini fanno parte di famiglie molto grandi, potenti e ricche.” (When you get older, you'll understand more. These new men are a part of very big, powerful and rich families.)

Your parents didn’t lie about their true nature. You learned the English word “mafia” and “Cosa Nostra” that day with your brothers, just as you were taught to refer to them as “families” and not to be crude and forward.

“Sono siciliani, proprio come noi. Sono uomini d'affari molto importanti. Devi sempre rispettarli ed essere gentile con loro.” (They're from Sicily, just like us. They're very important businessmen. You always have to respect them and be kind to them.)

“Parla a questi uomini solo quando ti si parla e parla loro con rispetto. Non infastidirli o farli arrabbiare e mantieni rispettosamente le distanze quando puoi.” (Only speak to these men when you are spoken to, and speak to them with respect. Do not bother them or anger them, and respectfully keep your distance from them when you can.)

Although your family had practically grown up around the mafia in Sicily and were very well aware of their presence, influence, and reputation in any given surrounding areas that concerned them, they were not involved nor had they met or spoken with any mobsters.

They only wanted the same for you and your brothers not just out of fear and respect, but because there was nothing your family—ordinary, poor people—could offer or do for a mobster.

It was then your family’s intention to keep their heads down just as they did in Sicily and live quiet, normal lives as if nothing had changed, requiring absolutely no assistance or service from the mafia no matter how bad things got with money.

Your parents also knew sometimes it was impossible to avoid the mafia for the rest of your life, and even if you spent all of your good days boasting about how you could always stand on your own two feet without a dollar or crumb of bread in your pocket, there would also be days where you would be crawling to the mafia on your knees for help.

Your family knew they were no different than the average person, but in truth, they just feared the brutal repercussions of the mafia and what they’d want in return should such a thing occur.

As time went on, nothing drastically changed in Hell’s Kitchen except for the fact the mafia was unavoidable and they ran the neighborhood almost entirely.

Crime families sprung up all around New York and although you wouldn’t be familiar with their names and faces when they came down to Hell’s Kitchen, you could always pick out mobsters from an ordinary wealthy man by the immaculate, silk suits mobsters wore, their fedoras, and their gold jewelry.

Once the last of the Great Depression’s effects had passed and prosperity began to spring up again like a newfound well in a desert, some business owners and families who could afford it began to pay the mob for extra protection over their homes and stores from thieves and hooligans.

Although the mafia took advantage of this, they saw Hell’s Kitchen as a family-oriented neighborhood to conduct business, live, and call home. It was not somewhere they wished to brutalize and trick locals—after all, there was nothing to gain from robbing the poor when they had nothing, and when the entire neighborhood knew one another.

Still, it was hard to ignore the fact that almost right after some crime families settled in New York, prosperity and wealth came in abundance right after.

The mafia wanted to rebuild New York’s boroughs and neighborhoods from poverty, wishing not to see Italian families suffering and facing discrimination for being immigrants.

Small-time jobs such as setting up a new business, cleaning, and construction were provided by the mafia one by one, popping up in different neighborhoods.

A man named Vito Corleone was beginning to steadily establish his name in Hell’s Kitchen as an upcoming mobster and Don was the one who provided your mother with a cleaning job and your father with construction work to rebuild and renovate crumbling old buildings in the neighborhood.

Even your brothers chipped in to help and the money was steady and stable to come for some good years.

In the meanwhile, you continued going to school upon entering high school, and you also began to take lessons in French.

Succeeding in school with high grades and praise from your teachers, you never once stopped coming home to teach the poor kids yet again, except you also began to realize their numbers grew less and less as families could now afford to send their children to school.

Your parents and brothers were no strangers to hard work and just from the jobs, Vito Corleone provided, your father paid off all his loans he took out to finance you and your brothers’ studies in a much shorter amount of time.

Your family not only continued to run their little grocery store but your parents also pitched in their savings to open up a small pizzeria in Hell’s Kitchen too.

It helped all the more that Vito Corleone and his wife Carmela were the first to eat there, which attracted the positive attention of mobsters who lived in the neighborhood.

Other Italian families who set up businesses and stores began to see the support from the mob making use of their services too, and the neighborhoods in Hell’s Kitchen became barely recognizable from their state five to ten years ago as the quality of life improved.

1941 came and so did your acceptance letter to Barnard College in Manhattan for a degree in teaching.

Of course, the years spent teaching your friends and the children of poor families on the street only gave you an appreciation and love for teaching that you knew you wanted to do for the rest of your life.

You celebrated your entry to university with a very proud family when you came home from high school, waving the acceptance letter you received in the mail wildly up in the air when you burst into your parents’ pizzeria with excitement.

It was nothing but happiness to share all around Hell’s Kitchen, not just exclusively with your family. Although your family was the first to open a pizzeria in the neighborhood, others had to but there was no competition or monopoly; rather your family supported and were close friends with the other pizzeria owners.

It seemed then and there in 1941 and onwards that life was good and only going to get better. Your next milestone in life came when you graduated from Barnard College in 1945 with your degree but were already accepted to Adelphi University in Garden City for a master’s degree—eager to learn more.

There seemed to be a world of opportunity awaiting you as you began studying a Master of Arts in Childhood and Elementary education, wishing to become a classroom teacher or private tutor after your second graduation.

Your grades and initiative to study had paid your way through university two times with scholarships that were in abundance so your family didn’t have to pay as you studied either.

You had also learned French very fluently and knew it would only be a bonus when it came to teaching regardless of whether you become a teacher or a private tutor.

You graduated with your master’s degree in 1947 but also with uncertainty as to just what you wanted to do with your career.

You loved the idea of teaching in a classroom and becoming a private tutor but the days of you being unsure and unable to pick between the two came to a very quick end since the news of your graduation didn’t just reach your family, but also the mafia’s ear.

All you had been doing in that short time frame after you graduated and moved back home was spending some time with your family while thinking about your future career endeavors and looking for work.

You had only been home for three days when the mob decided they could make use of your level of education and what you could offer to them—for pay, of course.

In a way too, there was no longer a rift of trust between your family and the mafia because it was the mafia that provided your family with the livelihood they had at the time, and your father became aware of this when Carmine Cuneo—one of Don Cuneo’s capos—paid your father a visit at the pizzeria.

“Bruno Alighieri, da quanto tempo. Mi manca venire nel tuo negozietto come facevo una volta.” (Bruno Alighieri, da quanto tempo. I miss coming to your little shop like I used to.) Carmine took off his fedora in respect, greeting your father.

“Salve signor Cuneo. È passato molto tempo, davvero! Come sei stato? Come sta il Don?” (Hello Mr. Cuneo. It's been a long time, indeed! How have you been? How is the Don ) Your father brushed his flour-covered hands off on his apron and smiled politely at the mafioso.

“Stiamo entrambi bene, grazie. Posso dire che anche la tua famiglia sta bene. Ho sentito della laurea di tua figlia all'università, e anche per la seconda volta. Congratulazioni da parte mia e del Don personalmente.” (We're both doing well, thank you. I can tell your family is doing good as well. I've heard about your daughter's graduation from university, and for the second time too. Congratulations from me and the Don personally.) Carmine gave your father a familiar look that was a mobster’s universal signal for expecting something in return. “Ora hai una figlia istruita di successo, due figli laboriosi, un prospero negozio di alimentari e una deliziosa pizzeria. Dio è con te e la tua famiglia, amico mio. Che Vito Corleone ha lasciato il segno in questo piccolo quartiere povero di allora, ma ora il Don vuole farti un'offerta.” (Now you have an educated successful daughter, two hardworking sons, a prosperous grocery store and a delicious pizzeria. God is with you and your family, my friend. That Vito Corleone left his mark in this little poor neighborhood at the time, but now the Don wants to make you an offer.)

“Sì, naturalmente.” (Yes, of course.) Your father swallowed hard, wondering what the wealthy, powerful Don could possibly want out of him and your family. “Cosa posso fare per il Don?” (What can I do for the Don?) Your father knew he didn’t owe Don Cuneo a thing, but he wasn’t in the position to refuse anything from Cuneo either.

“Il Don è un uomo gentile ma ha problemi di fiducia, capisci. Non si fida del sistema scolastico pubblico soprattutto quando i suoi figli hanno il suo stesso cognome in questi tempi terribili con le nostre famiglie. Il Don sta cercando un insegnante privato o un tutore che venga a insegnare ai suoi figli nel Bronx. Tua figlia cerca lavoro?” (The Don is a kind man but he has trust issues, you understand. He doesn't trust the public school system especially when his children have the same last name as him in these dire times with our families. The Don is looking for a private teacher or tutor to come and teach his children in the Bronx. Is your daughter looking for a job?) Carmine explained.

“Sì, sta cercando un lavoro.” (Yes, she is looking for a job.) Before your father could say anything further, Carmine grinned and continued—looking pleased with his answer.

“Non devi andare lontano per sapere che un insegnante viene pagato circa $ 232 dollari al mese. Il Don rispetta te e la tua famiglia, Bruno. Vogliamo assumere tua figlia per lavorare per noi e insegnare ai bambini, quindi anche noi la rispetteremo e le pagheremo ciò che si meritava. Come suonano 400 dollari al mese?” (You don't have to go far to know that a teacher is paid about $232 dollars a month. The Don respects you and your family, Bruno. We want to hire your daughter to work for us and teach the children, so we will also respect her and pay her what she deserved. How does $400 dollars a month sound?) In truth, it didn’t seem like Carmine was exactly asking, but persuading your father to consider it.

“È molto generoso da parte del Don, grazie. Ma questa è una decisione che deve prendere mia figlia, dovrò dirglielo.” (That's very generous of the Don, thank you. But this is my daughter's decision to make, I'll have to tell her about this.) Your father replied, knowing he would not make a choice for you to work anywhere, let alone for a mafia family.

“Certo, ho capito. Se tua figlia decide che le piacerebbe lavorare per noi, puoi contattare il nostro consigliere Francesco che in un modo o nell'altro aspetterà una risposta.” (Of course, I understand. Should your daughter decide she'd like to work for us, you can reach our consigliere Francesco who will be waiting for an answer one way or another.) Carmine reached into his pocket, placing a blank business card over your father’s pizzeria stand with just a phone number written on it. “Prenditi tutto il tempo che ti serve.” (Take all the time you need.) In reality, a mobster’s patience did not exist and this was code for “have your daughter decide immediately”.

When your father closed up the pizzeria that night and was getting ready to go home, he was finally able to push aside his thoughts for the day that concerned work and customers so he could focus on what could actually mean life or death—a mafioso’s request.

Your father began to realize there would be no possible scenario where he or your brothers could stand against a single mafioso—let alone a Don or entire crime family—for any reason whatsoever.

Even if Don Cuneo was planning on holding this against your family somehow in the future, it would be a waste of his time because your family would not dare to do so.

On the other hand, your father also realized on the way home that if you did work for the Cuneo family, you’d have money from the mafia, their protection, and as a civilian employee, you would also not have anything to do with the mafia’s affairs. It may not entirely be a double-edged sword after all.

Your father was the only one who thought of every possible scenario ten times over and weighed the pros and cons. All he had to do was explain to you what Carmine Cuneo said to him earlier and instead of asking questions or juggling scenarios in your head, you took the business card from your father and picked up the telephone to ask the operator and get connected to the Don Cuneo’s consigliere and make your decision.

Francesco Cuneo was already awaiting a call from a young woman named Maria Alighieri but he wasn’t expecting conversation—just a simple answer he could get to his Don, then the preparations for employment would be made after the final confirmation.

You remembered your hands felt stiff when picking up the family telephone in the hallway and you’re surprised you were even able to speak to the operator coherently; it was that deep-rooted fear of the mafia inside of you that sparked your anxiety and you had never spoken to a mafioso before either.

The phone only rang once before it was connected to consigliere Francesco Cuneo and he already knew it was you on the line.

“Famiglia Cuneo.” (Cuneo family.) The man spoke in a deep, sharp tone.

“Accetto.” (I accept.) You spoke back, giving him your answer.

“Eccellente. Farò sapere al Don. Parleremo ancora, signora Alighieri.” (Excellent. I will let the Don know. We will speak again, Mrs. Alighieri.) The consigliere hung up on you immediately after.

Having agreed to the mobster’s terms, you began your career as a hired governess to the Cuneo family in 1947.

You were provided your own living quarters in a separate flat by the Cuneo estate; small and shared with the nanny, chef, and maid, and also strictly not allowed to be anywhere else but the designated areas at the appropriate time to teach the Cuneo children.

Strictness, secrecy, and hard rules were just part of the lifestyle you had to accept when working for a crime family, and you easily settled and got used to this. After all, the pay was phenomenal, always given to you on time, and you had absolutely no possibility of being caught up in mafia affairs—accidental or not.

Just as you had been taught and told as a child, you kept your head down and your mouth shut; you didn’t speak to a mafioso unless spoken to, minded your own business, and did your job without issue.

It was only until 1950 that you left the Cuneo family’s service but it was nothing to do with being unsatisfied by your job or a potential mix-up in mafia affairs, nor were you fired.

Your mother fell ill with pneumonia in the winter of 1950 and the Cuneos were more than understanding of your reason for leaving, being kind about it and praising you for putting your family before your career.

There had been no harsh feels or loose ends, and Carmine Cuneo didn’t come to bother your father again—even after your mother had been nursed back to health and was back on her feet.

By the time you were able to work again, you had heard the Cuneo’s hired another governess in the meantime, which was understandable and to be expected.

“Ha senso. Auguro loro il meglio. Erano buoni datori di lavoro.” (It makes sense. I wish them the best. They were good employers.) You had said upon hearing the news you couldn’t be rehired now.

“Il tuo altruismo alla fine ti ripagherà. Te lo prometto.” (Your selflessness will pay off in the end. I promise you.) Your father smiled at you after he had gotten off the telephone and had the news confirmed to himself. “Ma questa volta hai un'altra scelta. Vuoi lavorare di nuovo in classe o per la mafia? Non mancano entrambi.” (But this time you have another choice. Do you want to work in a classroom or for the mafia again? There's no shortage of both.)

You could tell just by the look in your mother’s eyes next to you that she was unnerved about your potential answer.

Although there was no longer that deep-rooted fear of the mafia since your family had more than enough experience with them throughout the years, there was still a sense of worry within your mother for your well-being around mobsters—no matter how generous or secretive they were.

“Voglio lavorare di nuovo per la mafia.” (I want to work for the mafia again.) You were quick to reply but your lack of hesitancy came from the fact you had no bad experiences literally living next to mobsters and the money was simply too good to give up now.

There was no lack of acceptance either because you came with skill, experience, and whether you liked to admit it or not—trust in the mafia.

A week later in the middle of the night, you received a call from the consigliere of the Stracci crime family on the family telephone.

The consigliere had confirmed to you that your father made inquiries for your employment and the Stracci’s had heard. They could offer you a career as a private governess, but the consigliere didn’t mention that Don Stracci was most amused by your previous experience with the Cuneo's.

As soon as you heard the monthly payment was $500, you accepted immediately and that was that only this time you would be moving to Staten Island with no reason to quit for the foreseeable future with the mafia providing you a living until the mafia would take it away from you and ruin your family’s life seven years later.

By the end of your career working for the Cuneo family, you had more to think about than simply the new lifestyle and career that you had, but also a love life—as brief and passionate as it was.

Your university days were not spent alone stuffed in textbooks and of course, your family had been overjoyed to see you bring a young man named Ennio Lombardi—a Sicilian who was from Manhattan—back to Hell’s Kitchen to meet your parents and brothers knowing very well he was your romantic interest.

The two of you had been penpals since graduation and once he had come down to see you in the Bronx—unaware of your career of choice—a romantic relationship blossomed soon thereafter.

There was no rush for marriage or pressure from your family—after all, both of your brothers had been newly engaged at the time as well.

The prospect was always in the near future, but you wanted to advance your career further and settle well in life with Ennio who was doing the same at a law firm.

You were waiting for Don Cuneo’s permission to marry as that would impact your career and housing status, but once the news of your mother’s illness broke out and you returned to Hell’s Kitchen, Ennio came with you.

As your mother was slowly nursed back to health, your engagement was official with Ennio, and blessings were provided on both family's behalves who would come together to meet after your mother’s health properly recovered.

Once you decided to continue working as a governess to the Stracci family this time, your wedding plans for the near future had to be put on hold as you settled into your new career and once again would have to request formal permission to do so.

You could have said to yourself back then that the idea of getting married and settling down was not a demanding thought in your head, but all of that could be easily explained due to the fear of falling back into poverty with your family, hence why you focused almost entirely on your career.

Your initiative to work and stay out of mafia affairs would unfortunately not result in future prosperity or happiness as both your discreet involvement with the mafia and your family’s open relationship with them would result in your family’s demise soon thereafter.

You could only speak for yourself all those years knowing you had no real connection to the mafia and were considered a “civilian” by the crime families, however, the same couldn’t be said about your family who was getting increasingly involved with the mafia behind your back.

The first of many horrors to come was the Barzini family’s frustration that mounted with how popular and powerful the Stracci’s had grown in Hell’s Kitchen—thinking an entire neighborhood felt allied to the Barzini family’s rivals.

The Barzini’s were known for their quick temper and hostility, but just how aggressive and brutal they were was completely unknown until Don Barzini’s men came to eat at your father’s pizzeria and decided they were offended when served with a bill.

Simply for the sake of not being able to eat for free or being as easily recognized as a Stacci buttonman would be, the three men who had dined there almost beat the life out of your father in the middle of his own restaurant.

Just out of pettiness, the family pizzeria was also burned down and your father—who was beaten to a pulp—barely made it out of the fire with your mother, only by the help of the neighbors who had witnessed what happened.

Your family was told to “remember” the Barzini family had special rights and privileges in this neighborhood now and with your father badly beaten and half of the pizzeria burning down, that would just serve as a simple punishment—proving things can and would get more brutal if there was a need to and with the Barzini’s, there always was a need and reason to be cruel.

Naturally, your first reaction and course of action after being in tears and hearing what happened was to get to Hell’s Kitchen as soon as possible to see your father, only to hear your family on insisted you’d stay in Staten Island no matter what—afraid the Barzini’s might hurt you too, especially if they catch wind of a civilian working for other mobsters.

All you had was a confirmation from your mother over the telephone to remain quiet and continue as normal, only now you’d receive updates via letters and calls about how they were doing, the repairs on the pizzeria, and your father’s health.

You sent as much money as you could spare at the time, but your parents still needed to use a majority of their emergency funds for the pizzeria’s repairs and to get it up and running again,

In the meanwhile, as the pizzeria was closed for maintenance and repair, money was scarce simply running the small grocery shop with your brothers.

The list of tragedies didn’t end there either. Your brothers had also financed a loan together under both of their names to purchase the family’s first vehicle but this of course was before they realized the Barzini’s were as hostile and violent as they were.

Nonetheless, just three months after the initial incident when your brothers were one day late paying back their share of the loan that month due to the bank closing early, your mother and father witnessed your brothers get shot twice in the head in broad daylight right in front of their eyes at the grocery store stand.

Your family learned one way or another that the Barzini’s also targeted and humiliated others in Hell’s Kitchen too which raised the brows of the Stracci family who could no longer ignore the Barzini’s terrors unleashed on Hell’s Kitchen.

Because of tensions skyrocketing, you weren’t even allowed to travel for the funerals of your brothers and almost fell straight into a state of depression as a result.

When you needed someone to be there for you most—a shoulder to lean on, someone to tell you weren’t okay and that you were hurting being so far away from your family and seeing them suffer in the hands of those men similar to the ones that pay you a living, you had nobody.

Your fiancé Ennio stayed clear of Hell’s Kitchen the moment he heard of the pizzeria incident. He didn’t call your parents nor did he go to meet or help them out of fear that the Barzini’s would target and harass him as well.

A part of Ennio’s selfish reasoning was that you weren’t in Hell’s Kitchen either, but if you had known he became so close to your parents over the past few years only not to bother to even visit them at their worst, you would have most definitely questioned why you were deciding to marry this man in the future.

Once your brothers were also killed, that was just the icing on the cake. Ennio quickly figured out your family had something to do with the mafia, and there was no way you could come clean and tell your fiancé about your career either without digger yourself a deeper hole.

Without a word or final communication, Ennio stopped reaching out to you completely. For months after, all the letters you sent were promptly returned to you until one came back from Ennio’s family—a wedding invitation.

Ennio had left your life entirely and disappeared—that was your “break up”, and he had also found someone else. Not only was it a slap in the face, but the wedding invitation sent to you mocked you a great deal seeing he now chose another woman and was going to marry her instead.

There wasn’t a single night after that where you didn’t cry yourself to sleep and have a migraine at least twice a week—hiding your stuffed-up emotions and heartbreak of everything for the sake of work.

It wasn’t long until your mother had called you in deep worry, practically begging for you to return home that you also opened your eyes to see that a mob war could potentially start between your employers—the Stracci family—and the Barzini family that caused enough damage and heartache to you and your family for two lifetimes.

‘To hell with the mafia,’ was all you could think and truly there was no worse time to be working for a mobster than 1957.

You and your family had learned the hard way that it was impossible to repay a mobster’s debt and meet their demands. Mafiosi always got what they wanted in their way, and now all your family could do to warn you were beg over the telephone to come home, be safe, and be away from these people forever.

“Non commettere gli stessi stupidi errori che abbiamo fatto noi e i tuoi fratelli. Non fidarti di un mafioso come abbiamo fatto noi. I mafiosi non sono tuoi amici. Ti useranno e poi ti uccideranno.” (Don't make the same foolish mistakes your brothers and we made. Don’t trust Mafiosi like we did. Mafiosi are not your friends; they’ll use you and then they will kill you.)

You had no choice but to listen. Even in your heart, you could sense danger, and in your mind, you knew the truth too.

~

Fortunately for you, when it comes to civilians mobsters don’t care when, why, and how you leave so as long as you aren’t personally close with the family or under the suspicion you may have accidentally heard “too much”.

The Stracci family didn’t even you for a reason, you simply parted ways with the family and moved back to Hell’s Kitchen but the Stracci’s were more than well aware of just what was going on in your home neighborhood too.

You departed Staten Island not just with your last paycheque but also a sum of $1000 for the trouble caused with the Barzini’s back home; the Stracci’s knew at the very least it would be enough to cover your father’s medical bills ten times over, and it also showed you that they cared about you somewhat too.

Until tensions simmered down, you knew you’d be better off laying low with your family as if you all had a choice, but now your only choice was to teach in a classroom and stick to that career for the rest of your life if you knew better, but life was beginning to teach you that it had a cruel way of reminding you where you truly belonged.

There was no such thing as “quiet quitting” on your behalf, whether the Don who employed you wanted a reason for why you were leaving or not—all civilians were kept track of by all mobsters, strictly for business reasons.

The Corleone family had already caught wind of you the moment you left the employment of the Stracci family. You were now someone who could not be avoided due to your education skill and the fact you had worked for two crime families. 

You were no longer just some teacher or average governess—you became valuable, and it was Tom Hagen who first realized your potential.

Michael Corleone’s privately hired governess was an aging lady after years of service to Michael and his own brothers since the days Vito Corleone hired her, and her retirement day had finally come.

Michael was of course looking for a young, highly qualified governess to teach his family’s children for years to come, which also meant living permanently and full time at the Lake Tahoe compound—not in a separate bungalow or apartment on the same street like you had been used to.

The Corleone family was allied with the Stracci and Cuneo families, which only interested them further in your portfolio. 

It was Tom who brought a document he had put together with everything he knew about you from your profile to your family, your GPA in university, copies of your transcripts, and detailed employment history all for Michael’s approval first.

“She worked for the Cuneo family from 1947 to 1950 and the Stracci family from 1950 to 1957, but was solely a civilian.” Tom had told Michael upon first handing him the document regarding you. 

“No civilian is ever truly clueless though, are they?” Michael looked up at his stepbrother, taking the documents from him. 

“That could benefit you.” Tom offered.

“Yes, it could.” When Michael opened up the file, he overviewed everything provided inside including a large, glossy black and white photograph of you that was recently taken a few months back to see your physical profile too.

“What do you think?” Tom could tell Michael was not just curious, but also interested. He didn’t view your portfolio with vagueness or confusion.

“$1500 monthly.” Michael looked back up at his brother, closing the folder and handing the documents back to Tom. “I want you on the next plane to New York. Pay Miss Alighieri a visit but as a businessman and lawyer,” Michael was very clear and sharp with his words, “not as a mafioso’s consigliere. With everything that’s been going on in Hell’s Kitchen, I don’t need to confirm just how she feels about working for the mafia again.”

Michael after all was halfway through fully legitimizing the family business through legal means, pulling away from the illegal, underworld work his father Vito Corleone had built up in the 1920s and ‘30s. 

Michael thought he was just looking at the portfolio of an educated woman he would hire for many years to teach and tutor his children, never someone he would make his mistress; a woman he’d spend all of his lonely nights with straining the springs of his mattress with behind Kay’s back.

Since Michael Corleone became Don, he’s always considered himself a businessman, not a criminal or a mobster, but what others call and consider him doesn’t affect or offend Michael in the slightest; until he’s fully legitimized the Corleone family, he still has his roots as a mafioso.

The longest you had been unemployed then was just over two weeks and it wasn’t spent with stress or tension about what you would do next or how you would find work.

Instead, you finally were able to relax and spend as much time as you need with your family—clearing your mind in the process and coming to realize since your brothers’ deaths, you were all your parents had left now and their only comfort.

You had been focusing on putting all the tragedies you faced behind you, so when Tom Hagen arrived in Hell’s Kitchen the next day and rang the doorbell to your home, you weren’t anxious or suspicious a mobster may be coming to see you or offer employment yet again.

Your father had answered the door, surprised to see an unfamiliar face in Hell’s Kitchen.

Tom Hagen stood before him dressed in a two-piece, grey suit and black fedora, holding a suitcase in one hand with a friendly smile on his face and kind eyes. “Hello, Bruno Alighieri, is it?”

Instantly, the tips of your father’s ears and the nape of his neck prickled with the heat of anxiety he felt that this stranger had found his home and knew his name—worrying that this man was sent by the Barzini family.

Tom knew this universal look of panic in your father’s eyes but was quick to remedy the situation. “My name is Tom Hagen, sir.” He reached into his front breast pocket, pulling out his official business card. “I’m a private lawyer who deals with family and business practice. I’ve heard a lot about your daughter’s teaching and education skills.”

Your father eased up a bit, noticing now it was a lawyer who was clearly not Sicilian or Italian by name or face, but a respectable man to be spoken with.

“I’m a businessman coming on behalf of my client looking to hire a private governess full time, permanently in Nevada. I was wondering if Miss Marina Alighieri was present so I may speak to her and present possible employment?” Tom asked politely.

“Oh, yes of course.” Your father blinked, still stunned by the prospect of something beneficial and uncorrupt approaching your family for the first time in years. “Please, come inside. She’s here with us.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tom takes off his fedora, stepping inside your house. “Hai una casa molto bella.” (You have a very beautiful home.) Tom speaks in perfect Sicilian, shocking your father and causing your stunned mother to stumble out of the kitchen, wondering who the unfamiliar voice belongs.

“Ciao signora.” (Hello, madame.) Tom smiles at your mother, greeting her in Sicilian too.

You furrow your brows in the living room, slowly rising up to your feet to listen to the ongoing conversation with a stranger as Tom and your parents remain in the hallway just by the front door. 

A majority of your mother and father’s shock comes from the fact that the man who stands in their home doesn’t look Sicilian at all. 

“Parli perfettamente il siciliano.” (You speak perfect Sicilian). Your mother stared at Tom with wide, curious eyes. 

“Giusto, signora.” (That’s right, ma’am.) Tom chuckled, nodding. “Sono stato adottato da genitori siciliani quando ero un ragazzino. Mi hanno insegnato tutto quello che so.” (I was adopted by Sicilian parents when I was a little boy. They taught me all I know.)

“Ah,” your mother’s eyes instantly warmed, but you remained still back in the living room and refused to move and greet this mystery person. “Che bello. Perdonami per la mia reazione.” (How lovely. Pardon me for my reaction.) Your mother laughed sheepishly.

“In realtà sono di origine tedesca e irlandese.” (I'm actually of German and Irish descent.) Tom of course avoids the fact he too was adopted in Hell’s Kitchen by Vito Corleone to be exact—for obvious reasons as your mother and father lead him off to the living room.

“Questo è il signor Tom Hagen. È un avvocato privato che rappresenta un uomo d'affari che sta cercando di assumere un tutor privato.” (This is Mr. Tom Hagen. He's a private lawyer who represents a businessman that is looking to hire a private tutor.) Your father gestured to Tom the moment they entered the living room to see you.

“Hello, you must be Marina,” Tom spoke to you in English, extending his hand for a shake. “Very nice to meet you. My name is Tom Hagen.”

“Hello, Mr. Hagen.” You reached back to shake Tom’s hand firmly. “Pleased to meet you as well.”

Tom gave you a warm smile just before letting go of your hand, “I’ve heard much about your education and expertise—word gets around fast in New York when it comes to the talented.”

“Please.” Your shyness took over you as you both pulled away and took seats on the couches across from one another, separated by a coffee table. “Thank you for your kind words, but I don’t see myself above other tutors or teachers.”

Your father cleared his throat and placed his hand around your mother’s waist. “Saremo in cucina se avete bisogno di qualcosa. Ti diamo un po' di privacy.” (We will be in the kitchen if you two need anything. We'll give you some privacy.)

“Lo apprezzo, grazie.” (I appreciate that, thank you.) Tom said before your parents both exited the living room.

“Well,” Tom set his suitcase carefully down, diverting his attention back to you. “I believe you should consider yourself to be a little more than extraordinary than others. The client I represent certainly seems to think so.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.” You keep your hands over your lap, a little nervous for the conversation to come. 

Although your family was now in the kitchen to let you and Tom talk in private, they could still hear everything being said and they were already convinced this must be good fortune due to your reputation and skill; finally, a respectable businessman had entered their home to offer employment, not a mobster—but they couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Please don’t think of this as an interview or anything of the like.” Tom chuckled, noticing your unnerved disposition as he opened up his suitcase in front of you. “Your reputation in teaching precedes you, and there’s no need for the formalities. First,” Tom cleared his throat, “I’d like for us to get to know one another better. I represent one client in private practice, Mr. Michael Corleone.”

“Corleone?” Your eyes widen—the surname being utterly familiar in mafia circles.

Just then, your mother quietly enters the living room, placing a small tray in front of Tom with a little bowl of sugar cubes and a steaming glass of tea. “Scusate l'interruzione. Divertitevi.” (Pardon the interruption. Enjoy.)

“Grazie mille, signora.” (Thank you very much, ma'am.) Tom thanks your mother, pleasantly surprised by the tea as she scurries back off to the kitchen. Tom’s eyes met yours again after. “I’ll be 100% transparent with you about everything you need to know and can ask, Marina. I know you may not have had such a luxury in the past.”

‘So he knows that much…’ You frowned and couldn’t help but feel just a little embarrassed.

“I know you may have heard the name Vito Corleone.” Tom started, seeing how you’d react to that first.

“Yes, I have.” You confirmed.

“Vito Corleone founded the Corleone crime family, it’s true. He also grew up here in Hell’s Kitchen. I understand he was well-liked by many, but of course, it’s also common, public knowledge that he retired to Staten Island years ago. His reputation hasn’t changed over the years but since his retirement, one of his sons has taken over the family business and legitimized it.”

“Legitimized?” You asked as your eyes widened in curiosity.

“That’s right,” Tom told you confidently. “You see—my client—Michael Corleone is not a mafioso. He’s a legitimate businessman who spent the past seven years legitimizing his father’s business because Mr. Corleone doesn’t want anything to do with la cosa nostra either.”

“I… I see.” You nodded back at Tom. “I can appreciate that.”

“To be completely frank,” Tom continued, “Mr. Corleone has completely broken away from decades of illegal and underground activity. He’s a legitimate businessman and he too can prove this to you if you wish. You don’t necessarily have to take my word for it.” Tom adds two sugar cubes to his tea, beginning to stir it.

“It’s alright, I believe you.” You told Tom with a small smile forming on your lips.

Tom exchanged a smile back with you before he took a sip of his tea and then reached into his suitcase to pull out an official work contract and a pen. “I believe everyone could benefit from transparency no matter what they do. And here is our agreement.” 

Tom moved his suitcase aside and placed the contract in front of you before he leaned in closer to read off the clauses. “Mr. Corleone resides in Lake Tahoe, Nevada. His primary residence is the compound there, so should you accept his offer of employment, it will also serve as your permanent, full-time home. You will have weekends and holidays off which will be paid for as well, and you will be paid weekly. Mr. Corleone can arrange the payment to your liking; if you prefer a bank transfer or in cash fully—perhaps half, it’s up to you. We will of course pay for all of your expenses moving to Lake Tahoe, including the flights when you wish to come to visit your family in New York.”

You were already frozen in spot just hearing the numerous benefits and thorough explanations but even you couldn’t prepare yourself for the offer of payment.

“Mr. Corleone would like to pay you $1500 monthly, spit up weekly.” Tom offered. “Guaranteed—nothing lower.” Tom noticed the expression on your face immediately but continued to read down the next clause. “I’m also aware you have lived in private quarters before but you will live in an estate within the compound with us, which includes our private physician and tailor who are not there regularly. Miss Esther who is the family nanny will be there full time with you instead. Miss Esther has no duties in relation to yours.” 

Tom slid his pen down to the next clause. “And just as I mentioned with all of your expenses being paid for, this will also include when you’re required to accompany Mr. Corleone and his family to extended trips should teaching be required. When the time comes, you’ll be given further details about travel and so forth. Our next clause here…” 

Tom took another sip of his tea before going down the list. “This clause here is in regards to house rules. It’ll make more sense when you arrive at the compound and are able to see it yourself through a tour, but you’ll be allowed to visit the central family estate during day hours until five PM. Other estates on the compound belong to Mr. Corleone’s family, including mine. Those are off limits unless you’re explicitly invited; I hope you understand.”

“Of course.” You nodded back knowing you practically only knew where your room and the bathroom were at the Cuneo and Stracci households. 

“You’re more than welcome to spend time in the boathouses by the docks until 7PM any day you wish, but you must get the dockmaster’s permission should you wish to sail or fish on the lake. As for your teaching…” Tom tapped the tip of his pen against the clause underneath. “For elementary teaching that would be my son Andrew who is thirteen, and the son of Mr. Corleone’s sister, Victor, who is six, and Mr. Corleone’s children Anthony who is six, and Mary who is four. Mr. Corleone relies on you to use the current Nevada curriculum and prepare your lesson plans for the day. That’s all there is to it.” Tom set his pen down at the very bottom of the contract awaiting a signature. “You can take all the time you need to decide—”

“I’ll do it.” You decided immediately. “I mean—I’m sorry, there just isn’t really anything for me to decide and I’m… I’m grateful.” You let out a soft laugh, feeling at ease. “This is perfect for me. I would love to accept Mr. Corleone’s offer.”

“Wonderful.” Tom gave you a beaming smile. “Mr. Corleone would love to have you work for the family for years to come, but for legal reasons we do have to make the contracts three years at a time.”

“I understand.” You picked up Tom’s pen and signed your signature at the bottom of the work contract.

“Perfect.” Tom watched you sign. “Then I suppose it won’t be a problem if I’m to take you to the airport tomorrow at nine AM—if that’ll be enough time to pack your belongings, of course.”

“It’ll be more than enough time for me to get ready.” You smiled up at Tom. 

Tom gave you an understanding nod before he packed up the work contract carefully inside of his suitcase with his pen. 

Upon taking one last sip of his tea before the two of you rose to your feet, your family returned back to the living room when they heard Tom packing up his things.

“Com'era tutto?” (How was everything?) Your father was the first to ask.

“Tutto andò bene.” (Everything went well.) You answered.

“Grazie ad entrambi per la vostra ospitalità. Sono felice di dire che Marina ha accettato un impiego per conto del mio cliente.” (Thank you both for your hospitality. I'm happy to say Marina has accepted employment on behalf of my client.) Tom smoothened out the front of his suit jacket and put his fedora back on. “Siamo onesti l'uno con l'altro. Nessuno lavora gratis. La signorina Marina lavorerà con noi in Nevada per 1500 dollari al mese.” (Let's be honest with each other. Nobody works for free. Miss Marina will be working with us in Nevada for $1500 a month.)

“Dio mio.” (Oh my God.) Your mother clasped a hand over her mouth in utter shock at the amount.

“È magnifico. Grazie mille a te e al tuo cliente per questa opportunità.” (È magnifico. Grazie mille a te e al tuo cliente per questa opportunità.) Your father couldn’t hide his enthusiasm for you even if he wanted to.

“Prego. Sarò qui domani alle nove del mattino per prendere la signorina Marina e portarla all'aeroporto. Non vedo l'ora di rivedervi tutti domani, e grazie.” (You're welcome. I will be here tomorrow at nine in the morning to pick up Miss Marina and take her to the airport. I look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow, and thank you.)

With everything agreed upon, you felt more than ready to prepare for what felt like the most promising highlight of your career yet.

Not only was your pay so generously high but you would no longer ever have to worry about being in the midst of the mafia that could affect you or your family again; those days would be long over.

You and your family had been awaiting good news for what seemed like forever after your brothers were murdered. After all, it had never been easy.

~

“Mikey, hey,” Tom spoke over the telephone at a nearby booth, just a few blocks down from your home. “I met with your newest governess today. Couldn’t wait to get to my hotel room to let you know.”

“So she’s agreed then?” Michael raised his brows, having answered the telephone in his office.

“That’s right.” Tom reaffirmed, “Marina is a very sweet young woman, it’s obvious she loves what she does and even the children will be able to tell. She’s a respectful young woman with a good family. I had all the clauses of the contract read out to her like you asked and she agreed, then signed.”

“Good,” Michael commented back. “Did she have any questions or clauses she wanted to negotiate?”

“Nope.” Tom readjusted his fedora over his head. “She was quite understanding and agreed with everything. I’ll be picking Marina up tomorrow at nine AM sharp to catch our plane. Luckily we don’t have to cancel one ticket now, eh?”

“I knew she’d accept.” Michael pointed out, flatly—more than confident in himself. “I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. I’ll have Esther arrange her living quarters tomorrow morning. When you two arrive, give her a rundown of our security first. I doubt she’s used to anything like it and I don’t want her to feel intimidated or get lost on the compound.”

“Right.” Tom chuckled.

“Then I want you to show Marina around every state and building before you get to her quarters. Esther will give her more information on meal times and so forth. Marina’s going to be living with our family now, so she’ll practically be a part of it one way or another. I want her comfortable at all times.”

“Of course, Mikey.” Tom agreed, “you got it. Will she be starting her lessons the next day?”

“We’ll see.” Michael’s eyes landed on the portrait photograph of you on his office desk. “I want to meet her as soon as possible first.”

“Okay, no problem.” Tom glanced back at his chauffeur waiting in his car. “We’ll both see you tomorrow then.”

“Goodbye Tom.”

~

[ Evening Hours ]

‘Going again and so soon.’ The excitement of reaching what you think now to be the height of your career has been felt and replaced with melancholy instead.

Standing by the edge of your bed, you glance down to see two medium-sized luggage bags placed next to one another upon the bed—filled with everything you own and ready to take with you to Lake Tahoe.

With the very little that you own now packed up in front of you for the third and seemingly last, permanent time, you begin to realize just by looking around your room how little time you’ve spent here since you graduated high school.

You’ve made you’ve bedroom in your university dorms and also made the best of what you had in the living quarters the Cuneo and Stracci families provided you, but you barely ever had a chance to feel at home and get used to the comfort and warmth your very own bedroom provides you.

You let out a deep breath, raking a hand through your hair and attempting to brush aside any conflicting emotions inside of you.

‘It’s like I’m always destined to be somewhere else, never home.’ Now everything comes crashing down on you all at once to remind you of everything you’ve done and been for the past decade—all that you’ve been through to feed your family and define success for yourself.

Thirty-four years old, unmarried, completely focused on where your career takes you, eager to learn more about anything and everything surrounding you in this world—all you’ve ever wanted to do is live without the pain of poverty and to know you’ve made a difference in other people’s lives.

Your family has never pressured you towards anything, including marriage despite your age. All of you have seemingly spent the entirety of your lives sometimes without even knowing it just to get by and live a good, comfortable life without worrying if there’ll be a roof over your head the next month or your stomach is hurting from hunger trying to sleep it off.

‘That’s all I want. I’m not running out of time to do anything else for myself…’ Still young and not quite aware of just what you’ve been through in these past few years alone, you’re aware enough that your career has been a major distraction to the obvious surrounding you in your life thanks to the mobsters who’ve seemingly planned your destiny and future.

‘But now…’ You step aside from your bed, moving towards your night table where you pick up a small, framed photograph of your brothers by your sides, grinning.

It was taken just a month before their deaths and never fails to instantly bring you to tears time and time again.

Your hands shake around the frame of the photograph as you bring it up to your chest; warm tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

‘No matter where I go and what I’ll do, nothing’s going to erase what happened to my family.’ You shakily kiss over the photograph, squeezing your eyes shut and remembering just how distraught you were to hear the news over the telephone.

You felt weak, hopeless, and helpless because you couldn’t even attend the funeral of your brothers due to all the tension and danger in the streets; all you could do was fake a smile to your employers as you got off the telephone with the most devastating, worst news of your life before you could cry for the next hour in your room alone.

“I miss you two so much.” You whisper out, only confirming just how deeply you fear the mafia after all that it’s done to your family.

Even now as you realize you’re employed by a man who has deep-rooted connections with the mafia regardless of being personally active within it himself, your heart practically begs for Michael Corleone to be a good employer and an even better man.

You don’t want to live in the fear and stress of wondering if your family’s in danger or could be hurt in some kind of way by the mafia ever again.

‘I need some good in my life after everything…’ And now, you’d be asking Michael Corleone to provide you some good in your life just by thanking him for employing you.

“Marina?” You hear your mother’s soft voice ring out behind you. “Sei quasi pronto?” (Are you almost ready?)

“Mamma,” you sniffle, unable to even begin to hide your sadness as you turn to face her.

“Oh, tesoro.” (Oh honey.) Frowning, your mother approaches you with open arms to welcome you into a warm embrace.

Your eyes swell up with tears again as you set the framed photograph of your brothers down on your bed to hug your mother back tightly. “Mi mancano, mamma. Mi mancano così tanto.” (I miss them, mama. I miss them so much.)

“Lo so tesoro. Lo so.” (I know honey, I know.) Your mother holds back her own tears, trying to comfort you. “Mi mancano anche i tuoi fratelli. Non passa giorno in cui non penso a loro, ma...” (I miss your brothers too. There isn't a single day that passes by where I don't think of them, but...) Clearing her throat quietly, your mother pulls back from the hug and gives you a reassuring smile. “Guardati adesso. La mia bellissima figlia. Renderesti così orgogliosi i tuoi fratelli, lo sai? Sono ancora con te, Marina.” (Look at you now. My beautiful daughter. You would make your brothers so proud, you know that? They're still with you, Marina.)

Your mother places a hand over your heart, nodding at you. “I tuoi fratelli sarebbero felici di vedere quanto è avanzata la tua carriera. Vorrebbero vederti felice. Nevada!” (Your brothers would be happy to see how far your career has advanced. They would want to see you happy. Nevada!)

You can’t help but giggle through your tears as you hug your mother again, feeling yourself at ease almost immediately. “Viaggerò sempre.” (I'll always be traveling.)

“Te lo meriti.” (You deserve it.) Your mother plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “Vivi la tua vita e goditi il Nevada. non dimenticare di chiamarci e di scriverci.” (Live your life and enjoy Nevada. just don’t forget to call us and write to us.)

“Sai che lo farò sempre.” (You know I always will.) You sniffle, nodding at your mother. “Proprio come prima.” (Just like before.)

“Meravigliosa.” (Wonderful.) Your mother playfully pinches your cheeks. “E forse se è destinato a essere e il momento è giusto, potresti incontrare qualcuno di speciale.” (And maybe if it's meant to be and the time is right, you might meet someone special.)

“Forse. Se fosse in Nevada, sarebbe eccitante.” (Maybe. If he's in Nevada, that would be exciting.) You can’t help but crack a smile at your mother’s comment.

“Non si sa mai.” (You never know.) Your mother chuckles to herself before glancing back at your luggage again. “Non ti distrarrò più adesso. So che sei molto impegnato a fare le valigie.” (I won't distract you anymore now. I know you're very busy packing.)

Wiping the stray tears off the corner of your eyes, you turn to look at your belongings carefully tucked into your luggage. “Ho quasi finito.” (I'm almost done.)

“Bene.” (Good.) Your mother smiles at you. “Tuo padre ed io ci sveglieremo presto domani per vederti andare con entrambe le nostre benedizioni.” (Your father and I will wake up earlier tomorrow to see you go with both of our blessings.)

“Grazie, mamma. Buonanotte.” (Thank you, mama. Have a good night.) You make sure the photograph of your brothers is snuggled underneath some of your clothes in your luggage.

“Notte Tesoro. Ti amo.” (Goodnight, honey. Love you.) Your mother says back warmly just as she’s exiting your bedroom.

“Anch'io ti amo.” (Love you too.) Smiling through your tears, you take a deep breath and attempt to regain calm again.

‘Tomorrow I’ll be sharing my life with the Corleone family now. This new change in my life…it’s exactly what I need. This time things will be different. I promise myself this.’

~

You awake at eight AM the following morning as planned, starting off with your usual mourning routine of setting out what you’ll wear for the day before heading to the washroom to clean up, but every move you make and action you take makes it feel all the more like a dream now that you know you’ll be doing it for the last time at home yet again.

You slick your hair up into a neat, tight bun after brushing your teeth and washing off your face. As you get ready, you can already hear your parents’ faint voices and footsteps down the hallway doing the same.

You dress in a silk, white dress shirt and pull a taupe, plaid patterned blazer jacket over top with a matching pencil skirt and semi-transparent black stockings.

You take one piece of luggage in each of your hands after finishing getting ready and before you know it, you’re on your way out of your bedroom and towards the front door.

From the moment you approach the hallway connecting your bedroom to the foyer of your house, you notice the front door is open already with Tom Hagen just down the steps awaiting you.

“Good morning, Marina.” Tom greets you with a wide smile. “I apologize if you didn’t have enough time for breakfast this morning but—” Tom glances at his 18k gold wristwatch, “we’re on a bit of a tight schedule to catch the next plane and we can get you a bite to eat there.”

You peek over your shoulder to your mother and father proudly standing next to one another behind you before you return your stunned expression back to Tom. “They serve food on airplanes?”

Tom chuckles, now aware you’ve never been on an airplane let alone know anything about them. “That and more. Here, let me have those.” Tom takes a few steps into the house, carefully taking your luggage with you. “And if that’s everything…”

As soon as you let go of the luggage from your hands, you rush back over to your mother and father for one last hug and kiss before distance and time take over once again.

“Essere buono.” (Be good.) Your father whispers to you, giving your forehead a kiss.

“Crediamo in te, tesoro. Stai attento.” (We believe in you, honey. Take care.) Your mother kisses both of your cheeks once you two pull back from a hug. “Forse questa volta verremo a trovarti.” (Maybe this time we'll come to visit you.)

“Lo spero. Vi amo due, quindi per favore abbiate cura di voi stessi.” (I hope so. I love you two, so please take care of yourselves.) Holding back the tears that have never failed to remind you that you’re leaving your family again, you wave back at your parents before walking out of the front door and follow Tom to the parked Cadillac by your home.

“How do you feel?” Tom’s question interrupts the little ache you begin to feel in your heart as he opens up the backseat for you to get in.

“To be honest? Just fine, but a little on edge.” You answer as Tom gives you a reassuring smile, closing your car door before going around the car to sit next to you.

“Ah, I can understand that.” Tom pulls the door back shut and the moment both of your backs are relaxed against the leather seats of the car, Tom’s chauffer begins to drive off. “It’s normal after all—this is a big change for you but it’ll all make sense before you know it. We’ll be heading to JFK airport to catch our flight and as you know, the expenses are paid for—business class seats courtesy of Mr. Corleone.”

“I have much to thank him for.” You smile shyly, knowing that powerful, wealthy men like Michael Corleone make it the bare minimum to spend lavishly and spoil whomever they want, how often they want.

“This is his bare minimum.” Tom chuckles, adjusting the button on the front of his suit jacket. “Mr. Corleone’s very eager to meet you—it’s one of the first things he wishes for you to do when we arrive in Lake Tahoe.”

“I could say the same to such a generous employer,” you admit.

“Which is what brings me to my next point.” Tom turns his head to face you, “in the world of business it can’t truly make a difference but Michael Corleone is my brother.”

“Your brother?” You repeat, eyes growing wide. “Really?”

“Yes,” Tom answers, smiling sheepishly. “My stepbrother, but we’re all family nonetheless, one way or another. You don’t have any siblings yourself?”

“Ah—” You’re just about to answer before you frown, not quite sure how to answer Tom with the deaths of your brothers. “I had two older brothers, yes. They passed away earlier this year.”

“Ah, I’m very sorry to hear that.” Tom’s eyes soften. “May they rest in peace.”

“Thank you.” You smile at Tom weakly, hoping the conversation will change to prevent you from getting more emotional than you want to right now. “I appreciate your sympathy.”

That same, radiant and friendly smile returns over Tom’s lips. “If you need anything on our way to Lake Tahoe, just let me know, alright?”

“Of course.” You blush, feeling a little embarrassed from all the attention on you that you know will take some getting used to.

The car ride to JFK Airport from your home in Hell’s Kitchen is about an hour away, one entertaining to you from seeing the streets of New York out the window and making small talk with Tom now and then.

Once you and Tom arrive at the airport, Tom’s chauffer carries both your and Tom’s luggage for the two of you although you’re no fool—if it’s one thing you’ve learned spending time around Mafiosi, you can tell this “chauffer” is Tom’s bodyguard as well.

Walking into JFK Airport is a whole other surprise to you as you’ve never been to an airport, to begin with; generally in your life if you had no business being somewhere or couldn’t afford it, you’d know little to nothing about it, let alone come to see what you couldn’t have or experience for no reason.

You’ve never been on an airplane in your life and only heard stories of things like “business class” and the fancy comfort it provides to those who can afford it.

When it came to working for the Cuneo and Stracci families, they were never too far from Hell’s Kitchen, to begin with. A bus ticket to the Bronx and Staten Island was always affordable, not to mention the short distance at hand too.

It’s yet another new and exciting experience for you to not only board an airplane for the first time with Tom but to sit in business class with the luxury, leg space, reclining leather seat, and private curtains separating the seats from the other end of the airplane.

It amuses Tom to see your eyes twinkling with delight and curiosity at everything before you as you both get comfortable in your seats. “It’ll be just a little over six hours to get to Lake Tahoe, then about another forty-five-minute drive to the actual compound.”

“Compound?” You carefully put your seatbelt on.

“Mhmm,” Tom nods, placing his elbow down on the armrest of his seat. “Michael owns the largest piece of property in Lake Tahoe—several properties in one surrounding location, I should say. Six estates, the docks around Lake Tahoe, his own yachts and a boathouse, private security and all. You could say we’re a tight-knit family.”

Despite working for mobsters before for years at a time, you begin to realize you’ve been treated as nothing but another employee to pay and nothing more; just how much you were appreciated and cared for was shown not by your pay, but by whoever bothered to talk with you, the size and cleanliness of your living quarters, and what quality of meals you had.

You knew then just as you know now that if anyone could have afforded to take care of their employees better, it was wealthy mobsters.

The clear difference at hand lies with the fact that the Cuneo and Stracci families only saw you as an employee and nothing else, but despite meeting this Michael Corleone figure, he’s already begun to spoil you and wants to see you as a part of his family.

There’s no shortage of distractions or things to do or think about once the airplane takes off. Besides enjoying the limitless abundance of high-quality refreshments and doing some lesson planning, you also take a comfortable nap.

The six hours that pass in the air don’t feel tiresome or even as if six hours have passed at all. Once you and Tom land in Lake Tahoe, Nevada, the forty-five-minute car ride to Michael Corleone’s compound is bound to pass with twice the excitement of seeing just where you’re going to be living from now on.

From the moment you and Tom stepped outside of the airport and got a breath of fresh air in Nevada, you’ve been wide awake enjoying the beautiful scenery of Nevada surrounding you.

The possibility of being able to travel more within Nevada such as visiting Reno or Las Vegas as Tom mentioned in your work contract is thrilling too; you know now that your whole life and career are changed for the better—nothing will be like it was before.

Tom is the first to step out of the car once it pulls up to the grand gates of the Corleone family’s Lake Tahoe compound, and just from looking out the window alone, you notice the grandeur and luxury of several guarded estates surrounding Lake Tahoe before you.

“Oh my God,” you murmur inaudibly to yourself.

“Welcome to Lake Tahoe,” Tom chuckles as he opens your car door and steps aside. “It’s your home just as much as it’s mine.”

“It’s…” Utterly stunned by the gorgeous architecture before you spanning out much more than your eye can see; you get out of the car and stare at everything you can make out before you eagerly.

“Now there’s the word.” Tom puts both of his hands into the pockets of his trousers as the chauffeur begins to drive the Cadillac off to a private, protected parking lot just to the side. “Compound.”

“Massive” is too small of a word to describe just the kind of environment you’re in right now. From where you stand, you can see two guard towers by the very front of the estate with security and a peek through the gates to see more hired guards roaming around with guard dogs.

Lake Tahoe practically surrounds the entire compound and even with a small glimpse from where you and Tom stand, you can already make out the beautiful, blue water in the distance adorning the compound in gorgeous scenery with the sun glistening over the lake.

“It’s easy to get lost in at first but you’ll know this place like the back of your hand soon enough,” Tom comments as he leads you through the entrance gates.

Private guards glance at you, memorizing your face and details of your appearance for security details as you and Tom enter the Lake Tahoe compound.

‘Even the employee's private quarters must be heaven here,’ you think to yourself as Tom grabs your attention once more.

“Believe it or not, we’re at the very center of the compound.” Chuckling, Tom extends his arms out before him and gestures around to each side of the compound. “Six estates, as in six homes—” Tom points to the left-hand side of the compound where the most luxurious homes are built, “that there is Mr. and Mrs. Corleone’s private estate, then there’s the central family estate where all are welcome to spend time together. The last estate at the end there belongs to Mr. Corleone’s sister and mother. And here…”

Tom turns around on his heel, pointing over to the opposite end of the compound, showing you just as luxurious, spacious homes as the ones across from it. “My private estate is the first just over there, shared by our sister-in-law Sandra and her children who are the widow of our late, eldest brother, and the last estate right there at the end belongs to another one of our brothers Fredo and his wife.”

Leading you onward and through to the compound, Tom shows you the several other buildings surrounding the compound. “Our first estate here is for guests and can comfortably hold a family of twenty—Mr. Corleone has business partners and colleagues who fly from all over the world, so it serves as private guest quarters.”

Still stunned and in a state of shock, you practically stumble alongside Tom as he gives you the full tour of the multi-million dollar estate you can barely register you’ll be living in.

Tom points up at a ledge just above the two of you, showing what appears to be another mansion perched up top with a perfect bird’s eye view of the entire compound and lake. “That here is our private study, like a home in itself. I think as a teacher you may find it of more use than all of us combined here.”

“Oh, I would love to.” You murmur back, noticing how every estate on the compound here has at least a deck, two balconies, and a full patio all in perfect little spots of their own to get a glimpse of the beautiful Lake Tahoe one way or another.

“And right here is where our security and guards are.” Tom shows you to a large bungalow-type estate near the docks, surrounded by five yachts all lined up next to one another. “For everyone’s protection, of course. Don’t worry, you won’t be bothered or spoken to unless absolutely necessary. They’re our employees here too, but that’s where they work and reside 24/7. It’s off limits to everyone except Mr. Corleone and a few of his men.”

Nodding and understanding, you continue to follow Tom towards the private estates on the compound and see yet another array of several luxury yachts lined up by the docks just nearby.

“These are our family boats,” Tom answers as if he’s read the question of who they belong to in your mind. “And that is our boathouse or yacht club—whatever you’d like to call it.”

You look up to where Tom points to and see another building by the docks that although designated to compliment the several yachts and be nearest to the docks in case of an emergency or evacuation of some sort, still looks like a mansion on its own to you.

“You’re welcome to spend as much time as you wish to relax by the docks and water, just like we spoke before.” Tom turns to smile at you. “The building next to the boathouse is essentially the exact opposite—it just holds sailing supplies and storage, just as the building directly opposite to it on the other side of the docks there. Now,” Tom clears his throat, pretending to be playfully exhausted from the home tour. “Let me take you to just where you’ll be staying, follow me.”

Your eyes widen for what you assume can probably be the hundredth time, wondering to yourself: ‘there’s more?!’

Walking over a cobblestone pathway that leads around the private estates, you follow Tom up the path to spot private swimming pools fenced off behind every single estate until you find yourself up top a completely different ledge, and in front of another estate similar in architectural design as the others, but smaller with more privacy.

“Home sweet home,” Tom grins, walking towards the last estate that’ll be your home for some time to come. “You’ll be staying here with the family nanny Esther—you both get separate floors all to yourselves however the main floor is, of course, shared with laundry, the kitchen, and so forth.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful,” you almost trip your way inside from how distracted you’ve immediately become seeing the first thing just across from you—a stone fireplace crackling with small flames, flickering warmth into the room.

A grand chandelier affixed with gold plating, pearls, and diamonds hangs above you, and the wooden fixtures that decorate the home match with the décor, leather couches, and furniture—making it look like a cozy cottage.

Beneath you are genuine fur rugs over the mahogany floors and the fact this estate would be considered “small” next to the others still baffles you.

“Bathrooms are down the hallway and the kitchen here is just to the side,” Tom walks you through what may be considered a generous-sized kitchen for employee quarters but is twice the size of your living room and kitchen back in Hell’s Kitchen combined. “We have our own private chefs who cook for the entire family when needed, including employees. Esther will let you know about meal times and if you have any allergies or dishes you don’t like in particular, please do feel free to be upfront and open about it to the chef.”

“Alright.” You blink, unable to figure out if you should focus your attention on the gleaming, quartz countertops of the kitchen or the fact there are more utensils and new appliances that you haven’t even heard of right by you.

“Besides your own private study upstairs that’s exclusive to you, there’s one more room I’d like to show you here before we wrap up this house tour. Not bored yet, I hope?” Tom jokes.

“I can barely take it all in.” You giggle back, following Tom down the very end of the hallway into a room where the windows are practically replacements for walls.

An immense amount of natural light glows through the room, providing the most beautiful view yet of the lake just across.

In the room itself, there’s a neat arrangement of toys tucked into the corners of the beige couches—matching the warm color theme of the overall cottage-like estate.

Watching your step inside and admire the decoration around you before taking a peek at the grand view out the window, Tom keeps his hands in the pockets of his trousers and continues speaking to you. “Our last governess enjoyed the views of the lake just as much as we did. She preferred to teach here most days—hence the toys.”

“I…” You turn back to face Tom, looking a little shy and embarrassed. “I honestly don’t know what to say. Mr. Corleone’s home is so beautiful—it’s an absolute honor for me to stay and work here.”

Before Tom can say anything else back, you both hear an unfamiliar, female voice behind him. “Please make yourself at home.” A middle-aged woman with a ruffled and lifted short hairdo dressed in a knit, black and white dress greets you with a welcoming smile.

“There she is.” Tom’s eyes light up when he sees the woman whom you assume is the nanny.

As Tom steps aside, the woman moves closer to you and extends out her hand for you to shake. “My name’s Esther, I’m the family nanny here. You must be Marina. Nice to meet you, honey.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Esther.” You smile politely, shaking Esther’s hand back.

“Welcome to Lake Tahoe. It’s great to see a new face around here, even if you’re bound to get lost around here for the first little while.” You can tell Esther’s enthusiasm to meet you is genuine and sweet. “Oh, and speaking of home—” Esther’s eyes momentarily meet with Tom’s before they go back to yours. “Mr. Corleone is insistent on meeting you in person.”

“Is the impatient type?” It’s more of a joking question from you than anything else.

“Not at all.” Tom laughs softly. “My brother is the most patient man in the world, but even he won’t wait on this one. “I’ll have your bags settled upstairs for you upon your return. You best follow Esther to see Michael right away. Is he in the central family estate? It’ll be Marina’s first time getting a good look in there.”

“He is.” Esther nods, gesturing for you to follow her. “Just follow me, sweetheart.”

Giving Tom a little wave goodbye, you follow Esther out of the living quarters you share with her. Esther can hardly wipe the smile off of her own face, noticing how you keep looking around every corner and inch of the compound in awe.

Esther can already tell you’re going to love it here at Lake Tahoe and feel at home just as quickly as she did, and of course, it’ll be another wonderful opportunity for you two to get to know one another as both coworkers and roommates.

“Esther,” you begin, pushing past your initial shyness as you both step down the porch of the estate. “If you don’t mind me asking—what’s Mr. Corleone like? Sorry if it’s a stupid question considering I’m going to meet him right now, but you know him better than I will for the time being.”

“No such thing as a stupid question, darling.” Esther chuckles, leading the way down the cobblestone path. “We all have to look out for one another. Mr. Corleone is a very generous employer—the best I’ve personally ever had. I wish to retire here with my living, to be completely honest with you. Of course, it’s no mystery to you now either that the pay is ten times better than what either of us could be offered working in public or private not to mention…” Esther gives you a bubbling smile, “to be able to stay somewhere as beautiful as Lake Tahoe? Oh, it’s simply wonderful. I’ve nothing but good things and all the more to say about Mr. Corleone. It was because of him that my family was able to relocate to Nevada without a penny spent because of Mr. Corleone’s kindness.”

“Oh, wow.” You murmur to yourself, having expected the high praise of your new employer but not to such a pleasant extent. “That’s amazing. He sounds like quite the generous man, just as I’ve heard.”

“Mr. Corleone doesn’t treat his employees as slaves or guests either, darling. He’s very adamant about our wellbeing—taking our ideas into consideration.” Esther approaches the front door of the central family estate, placing her hand over the doorknob before glancing back at you over her shoulder. “To be honest with you, I would wish a wonderful career like this to everyone. Mr. Corleone is just as grateful for our service as we are for his employment.”

Esther pats your should reassuringly, leading you inside the luxurious and spacious home before gesturing up ahead to a closed door just before the hallway. “Mr. Corleone will be right there, waiting inside for you, alright?”

Feeling more reassured than ever, you exchange a smile with Esther. “Thank you. I’ll see him now.”

“I’ll be waiting out here.” Esther gives you a playful wink, taking a seat on one of the couches in the living room. “No need to knock, Mr. Corleone’s expecting you.”

There’s a sudden spike of anxiety going through you as you stand before Michael Corleone’s office door and out of the million questions buzzing in your head, you wonder to yourself most if Michael knows you’re standing right by the door this very moment and if that Michael Corleone will personally live up to his reputation that you’ve been told to your behalf.

Having met Don Cuneo and Don Stracci in a similar way, you’re only unnerved in the sense you’ve always been a little nervous and shy when it comes to meeting powerful, wealthy men in positions within the mafia or with some ties to it—Michael Corleone being no exception, otherwise, you’ve done the necessary introductions twice over in your life already.

Still, from the moment that you twist the doorknob of Michael Corleone’s office and take a step inside—moving again only to close the door behind you before seeing or doing anything else, nothing could have ever prepared you for the sight you’re about to see.

Your eyes look up to spot Michael Corleone sitting upon a leather armchair just across from you next to the other couches in his office—just a few feet away from his office desk and towards the fireplace.

The man you look at is young—in his early to mid-thirties, dressed in a grey, Dupioni silk suit with his dark, almost black hair lightly gelled and slicked back from the slight part in his hair on his left.

A signature stern and otherwise emotionless look remain over Michael’s face, but his eyes and brows raised curiously at the sight of you with his full and undivided attention on you and you only.

‘Don Michael Corleone.’ Your initial reaction in that split second of seeing just who your employer Michael Corleone, is that of your heart throbbing in your chest from a powerful surge of attraction that struck you like lightning.

You want to say Michael’s name to greet him but as you stand right then and there, your eyes adore every inch of this ridiculously attractive man before you from the shape of his plush, fill lips to Michael’s jawline, his Roman nose, his hooded hazel eyes and the way his firm, large hands grip the armrest down to the very scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the office.

A swarm of butterflies tugs in the pit of your stomach as you make direct eye contact with Michael—all of this only occurring in mere seconds but seeming like a lifetime to you.

Aroused and attracted to Michael Corleone like none other, it’s the prickling heat of your rosy cheeks flushing scarlet with blush that snaps you back into reality when Michael greets you first.

Michael eyes you up and down, “you must be my new governess, Marina Aligheri.”

‘My?’ Even just a mere mention of a silly word causes your skin to grow hot from all that blushing and arousal.

The attraction in Michael’s office is far from being one-sided, however. Although Michael doesn’t show a hint of personal emotion towards you, he’s very well aware to himself that you’re an attractive young woman—the same age as Kay and what Michael would also describe as beautiful.

In truth, Michael can’t take his eyes off of you as much as you can’t to him, but Michael knows he doesn’t have to, and now is his private time to get to know everything about you that he wants, however he wants.

Michael’s attention over you now isn’t just exclusive because he’s meeting a new employee, but also personal. Michael knows the only photograph he had of you doesn’t do you justify with your presence before him now, attracting Michael more than ever.

“Yes, sir.” Blushing furiously, you nod at Michael.

“Sit.” Michael gestures to the armchair specifically in front of him.

Smoothening out your skirt and pretending as if that semi-demand didn’t turn you on in the most inappropriate time and place, you do as Michael says but you still can’t stop yourself from staring at him.

Michael’s gaze goes from up to your legs and thighs before locking eye contact with you. “Welcome to Lake Tahoe. I take it you’ve never been to Nevada before. Was your trip here comfortable?”

“Yes, absolutely, sir.” You answer back. “Thank you very much for everything.”

“You don’t have to call me that, just as much as you don’t have to thank me for anything either,” Michael tells you, reaching for a cigarette out of its pack upon the coffee table between the two of you. “Just Michael is fine.”

“Right, Michael.” You repeat his name, loving the way it rolls off your tongue. “This would be the first time I’ve left New York.”

“Mhmm.” Michael puts a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, pulling out a lighter from his inner suit pocket. “I knew just as much before your arrival.” Michael keeps his smoldering gaze over yours as he lights his cigarette and takes a small drag. “We do things here very differently—at least I can say with confidence that I do. Who I can’t speak for are your previous employers—Don Cuneo and Don Stracci. You’ve only worked for Mafiosi notorious for all the wrong reasons.”

“It’s nothing like, sir, err—” upon correcting yourself to stop saying ‘sir’, you can swear to yourself you just saw Michael’s eye glisten with amusement. “I wasn’t involved with their ‘family business’ at all, and not just of my own accord. They had me just as separated as they did to their other employees, both times.”

“I understand.” Michael blows out smoke underneath him, relaxing in his seat. “Experience is experience nonetheless. You understand what happened in your former places of employment stays there, yes?”

“Yes.” You say back, practically having such a thing told to you the moment you seriously considered signing both work contracts for Don Cuneo and Don Stracci.

“So we understand each other.” Michael rests his cigarette between his fingers, bucking his hips up on the armchair to get comfortable in his seat which only causes the knot of arousal to tighten inside of you further. “I know you’re a smart woman, Marina. I’m not going to sit here and waste your time after a long trip repeating house rules to you that must be embedded now into your daily work practices from before. Only expect to be treated much better here.” Michael extends his free hand over to you. “We Corleone’s treat our employers like family, and I’m pleased to have you accept my offer.”

“The pleasure is all mine, thank you.” You shake Michael’s hand back, desperately trying to ignore his slender fingers and the touch of his soft skin against yours.

“Would it be alright for you to start your first lesson tomorrow?” Michael asks as he pulls away.

“Of course.” You nod back, “I would love to.”

“Excellent.” Michael puts his cigarette back in the corner of his mouth. “You may have heard our last governess recently retired and went back home to her family. I have a feeling my family will come to like you as much as I do. You’re a respectable woman and your education—let alone experience—speaks for itself. So, tell me—” Michael gives you an expectant look, “are there any living arrangements I can provide to your family?”

“Not at the moment, no.” You answer truthfully, mentally kicking yourself from how obvious it must be to Michael that you’re severely flustered. “But I will get in touch with them when the time is right and let you know.”

“Good.” Michael’s quick to change the subject, again and again, to know as much as he can about you briefly before it can get more personal. “Are you married, Marina?”

Your cheeks flare up with blush all over again. “No, I’m not.”

“But you were engaged.” Michael presses on, surprising you that he knows such a personal detail.

“That was many years ago.” You shrug off, feeling almost completely nonchalant about it now. “I’m indifferent to it.”

Without the intention of being pretentious or nosy, Michael’s questions come from a place of curiosity to study you. “I respect that. The past has little meaning to me as well. In any case…” Michael puts out his cigarette prematurely, clearing his throat. “If you aren’t too tired from your trip, I would like for you to meet my wife and children. They’ve been awaiting your arrival just as much as I have.”

“Oh,” your eyes light up at the thought, “I would love to.”

All Michael does is clear his throat as a signal and it's only then that you realize someone else has been in the room with you and Michael the entire time—only further embarrassing you since all you’ve done is sit down and gawk at Michael without taking your eyes off of him to look around the office at all.

“Rocco, let Kay and the children know they can come in,” Michael tells the bodyguard standing by what appears to be another door on the other end of the office.

Surprising you with yet another sudden entrance for the day, you rise to your feet out of respect when Rocco pulls open the door, but Michael doesn’t—staying put.

Right across from you, an American woman approaches you with a warm, giddy smile on her face. Next to her remain two young children shyly hiding behind her legs—a little boy and a girl just a few years younger than her brother.

“Hello!” Michael Corleone’s wife beams at you, quick to grab your hand and give it a shake as if the two of you have been best friends for years. “Ah, you must be Marina! Hi! I’m Kay! Oh, it’s so good to meet you at last.”

Wearing an expensive silk blouse with a matching black ribbon tied over the collar, Kay Corleone’s shoulder-length, brunette hair is curled in loose waves towards the tips of her hair, matching the friendly look in her chestnut brown eyes.

The contrast of how giggly and friendly Kay is compared to her husband amuses you more than anything, but you see neither personalities passed on just yet to the two little children that continue to hug Kay’s legs.

“Oh, excuse us.” Kay laughs sheepishly as Michael’s eyes continue to dart from his wife and children back to you. “Anthony and Mary get a little shy when they first meet someone, isn’t that right, hmm? Come on you two, say hello to Marina. She’s going to be your new teacher!”

“Hello,” Anthony greets you quietly—seeming just as reserved as his father and strikingly similar to him in appearance.

“Hi.” Mary peeps, much shyer, but you can she gets her smile from her mother—looking like both of her parents almost equally.

“Looks like we’re all settled then.” Michael takes Kay’s hand, raising it up to his mouth and giving it a kiss as he still remains seated.

For a moment there, you feel a strange tinge of what feels almost like jealousy spark up in you before fading a split second later—noticing how Kay instantly blushes from the affection.

Nonetheless, there’s no sense of nervousness or coldness in the room you felt when officially becoming employed for Don Cuneo and Don Stracci but rather a familial love growing inside of you already for your new employers.

‘I feel at home already.’ You’ve barely gotten enough “attention” for lack of a better word from anyone you’ve spoken to today, but it’s been more kindness than you’ve received for the past ten years at the Cuneo’s and Stracci’s—let alone the Dons’ wives.

“Welcome to the Corleone family, Marina.” Kay returns her attention to you, all smiles. “We’re so happy to have you here with us!”

The last thing you remember doing right then and there is looking back over at Michael, who lets you know just by the look in his eyes that he has nothing but the highest expectations for you.

All three of you could never think that today would just mark the very beginning of what would soon form a scandalous love triangle—a forbidden affair, deep longing, and lust that would eventually make days like this feel like distant pleasant dreams instead of the actual nightmare playing out in reality.

A nightmare that you, Marina Alighieri would do anything to participate in so as long as it meant you’d be ensnared in Michael Corleone’s arms wanting you in the same way you’re beginning to want him.

[adamgeorgiou]

Arthur, My Cousin and Me

I don’t know how to detangle Arthur from myself enough to write dispassionately or accurately. Instead, what follows is something like half him, half me. It’s more journal entry than elegy. To a general audience, that might make this less interesting than it otherwise could be, but it’s what I’ve got. Remember this if and when you get to the end. 

Anyway…

I feel like I knew Arthur. Then I heard what others had to say and saw what others had to feel. Following his death, I still feel like I know him. In certain ways better than most or all. But there’s a part of me that’s often strained to believe that I was in more of his inner circle than I actually was, and his death exposed the truth of my position.

It’s a practical observation, not a dramatic one. I’m not saying he had a dominating and hidden alter ego or that he pitied me. It’s simpler: his death revealed my confidence in our bond as an illusion innocuously leftover from being kids together, from back when we actually spent serious time together. I want him back now like I’ve continuously wanted back what we lost long ago, but now it’s double-permanent and legible. Before it was remediable and blissfully hidden — embarrassing in hindsight, like most nostalgia. 

But he also had that same nostalgia and held onto it, too, which makes me feel better. That mutual thread to our shared past was strong for both of us. It gave us a lot to lean on, but we leaned on it a little too heavily. Without that crutch, our adult lives were mostly opaque to one another, but also we were getting close again, involving each other again. Building anew. The left hook following the right. It’s a shame we weren’t closer than we were, when he died. It’s a shame our getting closer was cut short. 

I guess it makes sense, generally: as adults, we’re all doing niche things, and niches are small and excluding, so everything else trends towards becomes small talk. (And that’s fine and right, because focus is necessary for growth. Just try and stay loyal, which Arthur did and my cousins do.)

Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was uniquely outside of Arthur’s confidence, but more that we had both (or all) grown a bit into our own isolation. In any case, I mourn the loss and its new finality.

So that’s him and I as adults, apart. Who was he, though? What can I tell you?

Well, I’ll briefly start with me, for context. Who I am is still him, the result of his influence, for sure. Of growing with, then adjacent to him, then apart, then converging again (more on the converging, later). If you distilled me down and got rid of all the litter and trivia, the rare and potent stuff remaining would be similar to what I knew of Arthur. We had the same essence, as I saw it. So I can show you that reflection, and you can tell me if it’s accurate (See: first paragraph’s disclaimer). (Also, note my calling out our similarity is carefully placed right before I go on to flatter him best I can — tactics, baby — but don’t read my ego into this. What follows is all my cousin.)

Arthur and confidence. Old saying: the pro fails more often than the amateur tries.

The subtleties of his personality were sophisticated and complicated. He could spar at an exceptional level from an early age. But he started out lazy and overthrowing a lot of his punches, gassing out quickly. 

As a kid, he was autistically independent, preoccupied and hyper focused, but without any of the social hangups. He could talk to anyone and impressed everyone. He was adored, and rightfully so, but he also marched to the beat of his own nunchucks, exclusively. You couldn’t bullshit him, and you couldn’t placate him unless he was genuinely fascinated with what you offered. This is how kids should be, insatiably curious and wild. It was my favorite era of his, and where we spent the most time together. I was such an asshole to him, and he still always hung out with me. And we followed each other into a lot of similar interests.

Then he got his first hit of testosterone, and followed a phase where he literally held a fist up in every photo taken of him. Ha. Puberty’s a bitch. That didn’t last long. Reality checked and he stabilized. The important thing is that he knew he wasn’t going to watch, he was going to play. I loved him here, jealously and from a further distance. I couldn’t hang.

Then maturity: The firm handshake, the direct eye contact, the bright teeth, the smiling cheeks. Approachable, but not daffy. If anything his charisma was a prank and shrewd tactic; a car salesman during the first act, a playful subversion before the intellect and wit made their debut; or, worse for you, they didn’t. You’d start talking to Arthur and think you were walking in on a frat-boy breakfast table, then he’d go on to tell you why your problem was really because of what Robert Moses did back in ‘56, or he’d ask if you thought the The States were in a similar stage of decadence as Rome before its fall.

To him, your reason was more important than your choice, which is an axiom of all good conversation, one that most people are afraid to admit because doing so requires the ability to tread water. It’s easier to talk about the weather or watch sports. But Arthur wasn’t afraid of going deeper, and he had the tact to know when it was the right thing to do.

He was a man of appetite. A true traveling gourmand. He could scoff at you from within a seersucker, but he never compared oysters. If a menu offered Seattle’s or Rhode Island’s, he’d reply, “keep ‘em coming” and demand littlenecks or (and) crawfish to follow. He was less interested in varieties of wine, more in varieties of tomato and whether you had a good coarse salt.

He was spoiled rotten — as we all were, and mostly by the same sources — but he lacked pretension, except for that deliberately wielded for ironic effect. Underneath all his developed and developing taste was a lot of comical stoicism — laughing at gross injustice and absurdity, but also doing something about it, literally. His principles were conjured up from experience with the trappings of pleasure, with readings of history, with a variety of surprisingly worldly stories. I always wondered where and how he got it all. The guy had seen things, but not that many things. How was he always so versed? I don’t know, but if you’ve ever watched him eat a box of clementines straight up, wide-eyed in a wrinkled rugby shirt, then you would also know he was more pensive than pleasure seeking.

Entertainment was a defense, one he was growing out of as he realized it interfered with his goals and their requirements. A defense against what? I don’t know for sure, but I suspect the typical. On one hand, a lack of patience and a petulant refusal to be bored. On the other, the existential and solipsistic. A defense against the subconscious shame and pain of cynicism. Was love real? Was wealth worth anything? Was the world bogus? Was anyone authentic? Ethical? Himself? Others?

Look, I’m not saying he was overwhelmed with this gooey crap. He was a thinker, not a navel gazer. I don’t know if he even said any of this stuff out loud, but anyone with a brain is going to ask some questions about the life they’re living and the society they’re in, and most of us don’t like the first obvious answers we come up with. Then we do something about not liking those answers. We put fingers in our ears some of the time, we do what’s easy some of the time, and we do what’s difficult some of the time. And also, anyone with any talent is going to find themselves bored among the average, and falling short of their own standards. These were Arthur’s struggles, I think. At least, they’re kind of my struggles, and Arthur seemed to harmonize with me when we’d commiserate. Or maybe we were both pompous assholes, wannabe aristocrats from the suburbs. Or maybe that was just me. Ha.

To some, it might seem appropriate to haunt him here in this postscript, as if to justify his death as the terminal approach of a depression into cessation. Let me be clear: this was totally not the case, from my vantage. Instead, the above attitudes are more like the required cost-of-entry to a great show. If the unexamined life isn’t worth living, it does not mean the examined one is easy to live. The alternative is Judge Judy and a monogrammed armchair. Not for Arthur. Caulfield eventually quits his bitching, but he has to eat a lot of shit first. Siddhartha finally leaves the brothel, but he had to walk in that door in order to walk out of it later. Hard times are the prerequisite to epiphany. Painful and confusing; but hopeful, not despairing. 

And you could tell Arthur was among this company because the personas he employed became increasingly sophisticated, useful, attractive, and comfortable. From the brawling, pack-leading, indulgent, jokester/show-off into the relaxed, independent, luxurious, conversationalist who wasn’t as afraid to let his guard down, who was increasingly responsible. He was cultivated. He had a tamed self-consciousness (as we all aspire). It was impressive to watch him pull his own strings, to compare that with your own attempts and be humbled.

And thus, as I see it, the irony, hard to swallow, is that Arthur was finding answers to life’s hard questions in fistfuls. Love was possible. Work was worth it. Viktor Frankl was right. And he was learning patience and conviction, already better at their practice than most (e.g. me). As Dan put it, he was just taking off. He jumped and then a hand reached up from the almost escaped gravity and cut him by the heel.

A complete, but simple tragedy.

Complete, because the good guy lost. 

Simple, because Arthur’s life was not some melodramatic airport novel. His death was a lightning strike, a deus ex machina in reverse. A two sentence accident, not an assassination. Not much more to be read from it. Mortality is hard, right? (See: Genesis).

And for all my elaboration, I don’t even think Arthur was all that noxiously introspective or exceptionally self destructive either. The guy knew how to love and be loved. How to let his hair down, appropriately. How to shift gears and drive forward. How to resist temptation. How to find and be good company. How to stare at a fish tank. How to sit and read. How to eat fruit in the sun. He was typically bright, with a lot of flair and personality. I know he was grateful.

Or I’m wrong. Maybe I’m inventing a story to make sense of something more concealed or of pure chaos. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

In any case, it’s a tragedy. And regardless of what is true, I’m still glad I got to hear his story and be part of some of it. He was and remains a good influence to me, a fellow bright eyed boy attempting to sustain himself in the body of a straight-backed man. He’ll live on for a long, long time. And I keep talking to him.

That’s some of what I knew of him. And given this is my catharsis, forgive me further, but more about me:

Sadness, gratitude, and disappointment. 

I’m sad. Still? Yes. Always? Probably not. The inevitability of death hits a certain emotional bedrock after enough love is lost. I’m probably not there yet, still more distance to fall, but things are tapering off, in the aggregate. Maybe I’m just cold. 

Sadness is the least interesting. I am separated from someone I love, and that sucks. We all have people we’ve loved, and we are all damned to lose them. But yes, I get those black bile clutches to the chest as I’m reminded that Arthur (et al.) is gone. And I wanna hold your hand, if you’re feeling it too.

It’s a curse that requires gratitude. Time keeps on slipping, and the portion of time that one spends with good people is shorter still. I’m thankful for Arthur’s good company. From childhood to peerdom. This is what I’ll try and focus on. It’s the mantra I’ll repeat. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Then there’s the sulking disappointment. My head slowly shaking, my eyes unfocused contemplating the loss of the unpredictable conversations, the refreshingly interesting trivia, the uniqueness, the independence, the honed never impersonated taste, the great breadth of knowledge, the artful ball busting, the avoidance of cliches, the shared recommendations, the belly laughs. Obnoxious mutual indulgence — food and talk — during Thanksgiving at Stacy’s table, the shared past at Everit Ave, the just started planning. The feeling of a just missed answer to the question of how to get it back, continuously nagging.

More on that: I’m dealing with a huge mess of unanswerable questions and impotence. There’s so much broken by his leaving, least of all in me, and I can’t fix any of it. No way to organize it. I can’t even help others fix it. Acknowledging the impossibility of the situation seems better than ignoring it, so I will (…acknowledge that death breaks the world and makes inconsistent a lot taken as granted). Arthur’s death is an oily surreal void in the middle of the road. A portal to nowhere. And sure, life will go on. We will preserve. Time heals all wounds. That’s all true. But any schmuck can offer a platitude. I want to be responsible for what he’s left behind, in precise detail. I want to pick up the slack, fill in the blank. But what was his remains his, locked up behind whatever door his soul is now shut. It’s maddening.

I went so far as to tell Olivia that I was her brother, too, and that I would be there for her. Idiot. I love her, she knows I love her, I know she loves me. Yada, yada. I need no pity for my vomiting on the rug. My point is: I can’t be Arthur. I can’t even be close to Arthur. Adam — while still pretty good — isn’t a substitute for Arthur. I apologized for being so naive and sloppy, but the moment taught me what I was trying to say above: that I am ignorant of so much of Arthur’s life, and in ways that can’t be remedied by interviewing his friends or reading his book or wearing his shoes, sort of speak. A lot of it isn’t just unknown, it’s unknowable.

This requires more thought. Surely something can be done. Entropy can’t be rewound, but duct tape can keep a plane in the air. So here’s something I’m going to try: I’m going to be more vulnerable. I’m going to expose myself the way a brother or a son might, and see what happens. It won’t transform me into a replacement, and I’ll probably make a clown of myself. But it’s worth a shot. To build different connections, instead of replicas. I can already see that the cousins have been hammered stronger by this. Now it’s time to be deliberate, and keep that train going, if possible. And yea, I’ll do the practical stuff. You can’t call Barb, enough. And I’ll call Liv, too, but with finesse, without overdoing it. And the rest of our family, as well, because we all lost something. For some a spleen; for others, more vital organs.

Moving on.

It’s further maddening to have Arthur’s death aligned and intertwined with so much of my pleasure. I’m a week into marriage. I’m ecstatic and overwhelmed by the potential of my future. I’m also newly terrified of losing a child not yet even conceived. That’s a fun one. Probably a lot more neurosis to come. But, yea… it’s a violent set of waves to endure and ride. It’s exhilarating and crushing, and guiltily I’ll admit, more of the former. I’m pronoid.

The guilt compounds as I realize that I’m only comparing the conflict between my pleasure and pain, when the actual accounting includes my pleasure, my pain, and all the pain of all the others he left behind, those we both loved. What about Alexandra? Barb? Liv? Dan? A dominating, trailing factor; ego-hidden and selfishly deprioritized. What would Jesus do? Not have a wedding during shiva, although I appreciate all the encouragement and insistence from the also mourning invitees.

Back to Arthur and I having grown apart and then, more recently, back together:

There exists a line separating most relationships. On one side of the line you have people who have a reasonably complete model of you in their head. (See: Theory of Mind.) On the other side of the line are people who have a functional model; they know what they need to know to get the job done, but they don’t know, perhaps have never seen, the whole thing. For ex., a spouse vs a colleague (most of the time). 

The line is called intimacy, and relationships on both sides of the line can be valuable, but the intimate ones have more potential in both directions, fat tails; the intimate ones can yield fortunes and bankruptcies. Acquaintances are tepid.  

I described it above, how Arthur’s and my relationship moved from the intimate to the distant. I’ll skip further detailing that transition, and just get to the thing that hurts now: we were getting markedly closer, again. I could see the trajectory of our friendship and would bet on our returning to intimacy and confidence.

If the isolation of vocation and growth drives most bourgeois adults apart and into impersonal silos, then eventual mastery and plateau allows room for a focus on humanity, again. And humanity is universal and objective. People can stand on it, together, and get to know each other (again). That’s where I felt Arthur and I were.

I felt like Arthur and I had taken two separate tracks at a fork 15 years ago, and just recently those two roads started to merge back into the same path. We had stories to tell each other, of our time in the wild. It was the basis for a new bond, perhaps stronger than the old one.

Unsolicited phone calls. Talks of marriage, health, wealth. Suggestions of books and podcasts that were actually followed through with, instead of disappearing into the void like most cocktail party prescriptions. We’d follow back. Not rushing each other past awkward silence. Being patiently invested in one another. Showing up. Talking about vulnerable topics, like fears and aspirations for careers, and relationships, and family. And then, right during the peak of this rekindling, this jubilee, he died. And I doubt that I was the only one whose newfound growth and compatibility were cut short. You’re not alone.

So I hurt for the spent love, yes, like that of most grief. But I hurt more for the lost potential. I had so many fresh dreams that included him. It’s disappointing and sad.

To be clear, I’m disappointed in what’s lost, not disappointment in him. I blame him for nothing, even if maybe I should or others do. But any of his mistakes could have easily been mine, and so I sympathize. I’m not angry. Ambition implies risk. Vice is vice is inevitable. Growth means growth from something. Different contexts, need not apply.

Anyway, what else? The thing I linger on now is a weird faith. I have little faith or rather I have difficulty finding faith. I scrutinize faith until it’s demoralized. And yet, the discontinuity introduced by Arthur’s absence gives me faith, illogically but compellingly. I don’t strive for it, it’s simply there, point blank. I can’t explain it, but I can describe it.

Arthur is gone forever, and Arthur is part of my future. Both irrevocably true, yet incompatible. What to do about it? Apparently, not much. My mind absolutely and happily refuses to budge. The feeling that Arthur is part of my future supersedes the knowledge that he’s not. Knowing he’s gone does nothing to my belief that my future includes him. So it continues to. Sue me, I can’t help it.

See you in the funnies, Arthur. (More trivia: I never called him Artie or Art or Archo. He was always Arthur to me.)

Lastly, some good, more recent memories (skipping some that have already been shared):

The last thing I spoke to Arthur about was extensive advice, over the phone, on how to structure a prenup. “Don’t put anything about kids in there, because the courts won’t accept that you understood what you were agreeing to, prior to actually having the kids.” Smart. “Everyone should get one! The courts encourage it! Helps ungunk the works.” Ha. Kelly and I never got a prenup, but the candid advice on such a touchy subject makes me laugh.

Eating a whole pig at a communal table, biergarten style, at Saxon and Parole, in New York. Arthur talking the whole table’s ear off about everything, and then after discussing eating brains, we asked the chef to bring the pig’s over, and he did. Afterwards, walking to our trains, jolly, drunk.

Visiting Arthur in Scotland. Going out to some Uni warehouse party, and me getting lost with some bird. I didn’t have a working European phone, and so when I got home at dawn, seeing him and his big bravado looking like a worried mother goose made me laugh and proud, like a big brother again. Him cooking the two of us mussels and linguine with three whole heads of garlic. Delicious. Steak in Edinburgh, and him showing me the castles like he was himself a duke, personal friends of Hume and Smith.

I wished we went on more walks together.

Us planning on going to Joe Beef, in Montreal, with Alexandra and Kelly.

Him calling me to tell me Anthony Bourdain had died, and subsequently talking about it. “If he can’t make it, who can?” There’s that cynicism again. But it was a candid moment. And we ended that talk, more or less, believing we could make it, even if Bourdain couldn’t.

Discussing whether we were fated to end up like our parents. 

Him shooting the .38 up in Gilboa.

Legos, spanky, ice box bedroom, V8-turbo toilet, the pool, the trampoline, the screen porch and its green furniture, endless chicken rolls followed by cold pizza, karate in the basement (no shoes on the mats), rolling on the carpet (i.e. roll mosh), forts, the Barbie game on the gateway computer in Izzy’s room, Snood, army men in the mud ripping up sod by the square foot unit, jealousy listening to Timberlake camp stories, the suburban with 100 blankets in the third row and Don McLean on the radio, toxic farts, the Pokemon store, the Pokemon cards I’d steal from him after going to the Pokemon store, a million cups of Lipton at Barb’s table, Rage Against the Machine in Dan’s car, lanyards, fishing in the Hewlett Bay, Harry Potter, him never sleeping over my house and getting rides home at 2am after attempting to (me pissed), hiding in that lone pine tree in the front yard, making window art out glitter glue, salamanders, watching him attempt to ride a bike in the driveway.

A menial history, but ours. Anyway…

Arthur, you were great. It’s not for me to say that you’re now resting in peace, because I think you were pretty zen while you were alive, in your own pastel-colored kimono kind of way. So instead, I hope you’re as satisfied there as you were interested here. I’ll see you soon, and until then, I’ll try and hold the line for you. Love ya’.

[raichoose-moved]

Mun Info - Basics, Writing Info, and Shipping Info

Under the cut for length! 

- b a s i c s -

Name / Alias: Ann Are you over 18?   Yes  / No Is your muse(s) over 18?   Yes /  No  / Verse Dependent / Depends on the Muse You’re Asking About When was your blog established?  Revamped into its present multimuse state on 10.29.2020

– w r i t i n g  –

Are you selective about who you write with? No (Anyone)  /  Semi (Most People) / Yes (Some People) / Highly (Few People) / Private (Mutuals Only).

Are you selective about who you follow?

No (Anyone)  /  Semi (Most People) / Yes (Some People) / Highly (Few People)

I’m not actually that picky, though, and if you have a good rules page and a good about page, and if you seem nice from your OOC posts, I’ll probably follow back. I try to give everyone I have even a small amount of interest in a chance, because I know how hard it is to be a new RPer here.  

If your muse is canon, how much do you adhere to canon? Not At All  / A Little  / Some / Mostly /  Strictly / Not Applicable.

My favorite of my canon muses (Kabuto, Guzma, Octavia, etc.) tend to be canon divergent. 

What post lengths do you write? One-Liners  / Single-Para / Multi-Para /  Novella / All Of The Aforementioned

I prefer single-para and multi-para, but I tend to match length. Novella is fun for plotted threads. One-Liners are better for silly threads or dash commentary. 

Do you use icons and/or gifs? No  /  Gifs / Icons /  Yes / Sometimes.

More accurately - I always use icons, a small few of which happen to be gifs. 

Do you write on other platforms? No / Yes

I’ll RP on Discord, but I’m very slow over there. I prefer to use it for OOC chatting. 

What level of plots do you write? Unplotted /  Open-Ended Plots  /  Semi-Plotted /  Fully Plotted Epics / All Of The Aforementioned

I’d rather plot at least a little bit, but it’s fun to wing things, too. That being said, the more plotted something is, the faster my reply time is. 

How quickly do you usually respond to threads? Very Slow (More Than A Month) / Slow (3-4 Weeks) / Average (1-2 Weeks)  / Fast (Less Than One Week) /  Very Fast (Less Than Three Days)

It really varies, and relevant factors include my ooc workload, which muse I’m writing as, how intensely plotted the thread is, whether it’s from an ask meme or a starter call, etc. I aim for a two week turn around, but I can be faster or slower. Overall, if our thread is really plotted out and I’m not busy ooc, my reply time tends to be faster. (It’s ... probably worth mentioning, however, that I am a chronic thread dropper.)

What types of themes do you like? Adventure  / Romance / Fluff / Angst / Violence /  Tragedy / Domestic / Family

Violence is okay in moderation. Threads where our muses do nothing but fight tend to bore me. For the most part, though, I’m willing to explore any of the above themes. 

What genres do you like? ( feel free to add! ) High Fantasy / Supernatural / Science Fiction / Historical / Horror /  Comedy / Romantic / Drama / Action / Smut / Adventure /  Espionage / All Of The Aforementioned

My personal favorites of the above are horror / supernatural, romantic, drama, and adventure. 

Are there any themes you’re uncomfortable writing on your blog? (not triggers) No  / Yes /  Sometimes

I will never write smut publicly, as it makes me very uncomfortable. I’ll only do so privately, and that’s only if I trust you and our muses are dating or married. 

Do you have any triggers? How do you request it tagged?

Trigger is too strong a word, and I’m not going to unfollow over it (unless you constantly leave it untagged), but please tag politics, sexual content, and ooc drama (i.e. callouts). I also ask that you tag the URLs of the people you write with, as there are some RPers I don’t want to see on my dashboard. 

– s h i p p i n g –

What types of relationships are you open to? Romantic /  Platonic  /  Familial / Antagonistic / All Of The Aforementioned

What types of pre-established relationships are you open to? Romantic /  Platonic  /  Familial / Antagonistic / All Of The Aforementioned

Sometimes romantic or familial can work as a pre-established relationship, too, but generally I’ve found it’s easier to choose platonic or antagonistic for a pre-established relationship and build up from there.

Do you have otps? No /  Chemistry Only / Yes

There are some ships I’m very biased towards, but if it doesn’t work between our specific takes on our muses, then I won’t force it. 

Do you have notps? No / Yes

I don’t see any of them often enough to really ask that they be tagged. However, in particular, if you frequently post romantic G.uzma x L.usamine, I probably won’t follow you. 

What is your muse’s sexual orientation?

Heterosexual /  Heteroflexible  / Bisexual / Pansexual /  Homoflexible  / Homosexual / Demisexual /  Sapiosexual /  Asexual / Still Trying To Figure It Out / Depends On The Muse You’re Asking For

What is your muse’s romantic orientation? Heteroromantic /  Heteroflexible  / Biromantic /  Homoflexible  /  Homoromantic   / Panromantic / Demiromantic /  Sapioromantic  / Aromantic / Still Trying To Figure It Out / Depends On The Muse You’re Asking For

Are you comfortable writing smut? No  / Selectively / Yes

And by selective, I mean, “Only on Discord, only if our muses are dating or married, and only if I really trust you.”

How early in a relationship do you ship romantically? Autoship / During Plotting  /  After A Couple Ic Interactions / Several Ic Interactions / Slow Burn / Plot Dependent /  Never

It really varies. Some muses click right away, while others take a lot longer. 

Are you open to toxic ships? No / Selectively  / Yes  / I Am Not Sure

It really depends on the nature of the relationship. Note that I won’t write adultery threads, and I won’t ship anything incestuous, nor will I ship adults with minors. 

Are you open to problematic ships?

No / Selectively  / Yes  / I Am Not Sure

See the above comment under toxic ships. 

Are you open to polyshipping?

No / Selectively  / Yes  / I Am Not Sure

It really depends on the muse. For example, any attempts to polyship with Kabuto are pretty much a no-go, whereas Lucy is polyamorous. However, I much prefer to have all ships in separate verses. 

Are you an exclusive shipper? Never / Sometimes / Yes / I Would Be Open To Discuss It

I do have a couple of single-ship muses, but most of my muses are multiship. 

Does crack shipping ever happen? Nope / Yes / Depends

Honestly, if we have a crack thread where the muses display any kind of chemistry, I’d be open to exploring something more serious with it. 

[him-e]

Not that GRRM is in any way exempt from sexist writing, but I think D&D’s fundamental issue is that they got the game of thrones vs the war for the dawn the wrong way round. I’m fairly sure book!Dany embracing ‘fire and blood’ is not going to mean good things for the people of KL, but she’s ultimately not bad. I could see her being ripped apart by it and *then* doing everything she can to save the realm in penance. But bc they wanted Cersei as final boss we got this shit instead.

D&D’s fundamental issue is that they got the game of thrones vs the war for the dawn the wrong way round

yeah I know this is the general consensus right now, even among people who recognize the echo of George’s writing here and there—that they got things in the wrong order for shock value or because they desperately wanted to shoehorn the game of thrones back into the narrative as the final climax. But I guess I’ll have to play the devil’s advocate on this, because I do wonder if GRRM isn’t going to pull the ultimate subversion on us. 

No, I don’t think the Others’ threat will be dealt with in a single chapter or won’t matter or will be framed in a way that makes the cosmic threat secondary to the game of thrones. However, imo it’s completely POSSIBLE that A Dream Of Spring will be structured in a similar way as GoT8—first half is the war for the dawn, second and final half is dealing with the ashes and with human evil again (possibly, in the form of Euron Greyjoy who, by then, will have aligned himself with Cersei and acquired a dragon via Dragonbinder / awoken the Drowned God / stolen some eldritch power from the defeated Great Other—remember he’s set to literally kill gods and become one himself?).

But I think we shouldn’t knee-jerk rule out the possibility that this latter half will ALSO deal with Dany’s descent into tragedy and it will happen AFTER she did all the appropriate heroic stunts in the war for the dawn, similar to how it is in the show, just… much more nuanced and better written, as usual. It’s too big of a character trajectory to be solely D&D’s work. It cuts too deep not to be Martin’s, imo. I mean, so far D&D’s changes to the story have been aimed to simplify things, dumb down fan faves’ unpleasant traits (see: Tyrion), play tropes straight, and normalize complex, potentially unsavory narratives into more cliched storytelling. Why would they intentionally go for an anticlimax like this, complicating everything, when they could have just made a final season that wraps the game of thrones up in its first episodes and then steadily progresses towards its natural climax, the war for the dawn, if that’s what happens in the books? Why would they go for Dany going full MacBeth when they could have her sacrifice her life to defeat the White Walkers, as everyone keeps repeating will be her destiny in the books? That’s a great story. It’s shocking enough and heartbreaking enough to the casual audience. IT’S THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE. Why would these lazy storytellers reject the path of least resistance?

As far as I’m concerned, I’ve read every possible version of “Dany will have a dark phase and fight to death F!Aegon and maybe accidentally pulverize King’s Landing but then she’ll redeem herself in the war for the dawn and die a hero”, and the more I think about it, the more it sounds like a fanfiction now. A wonderful fanfiction that someone should DEFINITELY write, ESPECIALLY NOW, but still–it sounds like wanting to have your cake and eat it. There’s literally zero subversion in this narrative. It plays safe. It only has fake edges. GRRM said the ending is bittersweet, but this isn’t bittersweet, it’s… stereotypically triumphant, though obviously beautiful and meaningful. I used to believe it SO HARD MYSELF, like I believed all the wonderful meta and spec I’ve read in the last years. But now I have to wonder. 

The problem since season 5 has been that we’re looking at the show and saying that it’s butchering book arcs and getting it all wrong and upside down when we have no fucking clue what these books will be about. We thought we did, we made up incredibly detailed scenarios about them, but no one here is George RR Martin and nobody is really capable of writing and thinking the way he does, for better or worse, so acting like our well-established theories are canon is… idk, kind of arrogant, imo.

Like take Jaime’s arc for example. The book fandom always thought that dying with Cersei and fighting in the war for the dawn would be mutually exclusive, because the WftD is supposed to be the final climax, so how can Jaime be alive to be in it if he’s ALSO meant to fulfill the whole murder-suicide schtick with Cersei? And yet the show made it possible because the WftD isn’t the final chapter of the story. Same goes for all the characters who survive the WftD. We all assumed the WftD would be the endgame point for these characters’ arcs, but what if it isn’t? What if Martin has MORE, and crucial, character development in store for them AFTER it?

Look, I’m not trying to get d&d off the hook—I’m mad at them like everyone else is right now—nor I’m saying that TWOW/ADOS will play EXACTLY like this, and I’m sure that whatever happens in the books Martin will write it out in a nuanced way. That the show’s problem has always been in the execution is nothing new. But if there’s even a 2% chance that these naked plot points will happen in the books too, I need to consider it, and brace myself for it. 

Because at the end of the day, the heart of Asoiaf is neither the game of thrones NOR the war against the Others, it’s the human heart at conflict with itself. So there’s literally zero guarantee that the WftD “has” to be the final climax. There would, if asoiaf were a more traditional narrative.

BUT IT ISN’T.

As a final note, I recommend taking a look at this Twitter threat I’ve recently read which summarizes my own thoughts very well.

[harpersinclair]

In Darkness || HaEvan

WHO: Harper Sinclair & Evan Albert ( @evanalbert ) WHERE: Some dank ass diner bathroom WHEN: Switch Pride Parade TRIGGERS: None NOTES: Evan and Harper are locked in a diner and Harper tends to her concussion while Evan talks about herself

Harper had been trying to be optimistic about the parade- hoping it would be at least a generally positive experience. That said, it wasn’t much of a surprise when all hell broke loose. Harper was close enough to the explosion to be knocked back by the sheer force of it. Her ears were ringing as she got to her feet, trying to refocus on the world around her. She felt herself being herded away by the police, unable to catch her breath or even process what was happening around her. She couldn’t help but ask questions- even if she couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of her own heart as she was pushed into a crowded room, the door closed tightly behind her.

While Evan hadn't been super optimistic about the entire parade, she had been hoping to be proved wrong. But of course, nothing could go smoothly in New Eden. As people began to run in all directions, Evan was somehow rammed harshly into a wall, her head taking the brunt of the impact; which was definitely not good. She could feel some blood dripping down her face as she was herded along with other people into a building. She leaned heavily against a wall once she was inside and then slid down the wall to sit on the floor, a grunt being pulled from her lips. Why the fuck had she believed going to this thing was a good idea?

Harper blinked blearily against the harsh, neon lights of the diner she- and what felt like one thousand other parade goers- had been locked in. There was yelling and shoving, and it was all she could do not to start yelling right along with them. Especially when she noticed two young males shoving each other. “Hey, knock it off! I swear I don’t need to be on duty to arrest you!” She shouted, flashing her badge angrily. It was enough to settle most of the arguing as people pressed closely to anyone they recognized. Scanning the room, her eyes widened as she spotted a familiar face- one that was too pale and dripping blood- and she pushed through the crowd, hoping she wasn’t yelling too loudly. “Evan?”

She blinked upwards when she heard her name, wincing slightly and pressing her hand to her head. "Fuck." She muttered, breathing slowly as she tried to gain control over the spinning of the room. "Harper? Fucking shit show huh?" Evan slurred, bringing her legs up to her chest, taking up as little amount of room as she could. There were so many people in such a small space and she wanted whatever room she could take up to be just hers...even if it was small.

“Jesus fuck, you look terrible.” She muttered, wobbling slightly as she knelt down, one hand slipping under her chin. “Think you can stand, babe? Most head injuries look worse than they are, but like, that’s a fuck ton of blood.” Harper felt someone bump into her, and she hissed. “Back up, asshole. Leave some fucking room for the rest of us!” She snapped irritably. “We at least need to get you cleaned up.”

"Fuck you! Who you calling terrible looking, fucking...rude." She spit out, attempting to pull her head away, but stopping as the movement made her stomach churn. "I can handle myself." Evan uttered, pushing herself up stubbornly, but swaying as she made it to her feet.

Harper winced, realizing how shitty that sounded, but pressed on. “You know that’s not what I fucking meant!” Getting to her feet with a bit more ease- if still a bit unbalanced- she pulled out her badge. “Out of the way! Now!” The crowd parted faster than she expected, but she didn’t bother questioning it. “Here, lean on me. Please. Just let me take a look at your scrape, then I’ll leave you be, if you want.”

"Whatever." Evan grumbled but allowed the officer to help lead her through the crowd to a place where she would be able to clean the wound on her head. She was stubborn, but she also knew that denying help in that moment wasn't worth it. "Just wanna sleep." Logically she knew that she couldn't, but that didn't stop the urge at all.

Even the restrooms were filled to the brim, but with a flash of her badge, the couple holed up in the handicap bathroom slipped away, leaving them alone for a blessed moment. It wasn’t great, but it was clean enough and there was running water. “Hey, no, come on, hot stuff. Stay awake.” While Harper was far from a doctor, but she’d been taught enough first aid by her dad to know that the last thing Evan should be doing was sleeping.

She plopped down the moment what she was able to, rubbing at her cheek with a grumble. "Don't tell me what to do." She snapped, throwing a glare at the Domme. Even though the glare was more of a grimace due to the pain she was in. She leaned the good side of her head against the wall, blinking up at the blonde.

“Please, you love it.” She quipped, though she couldn’t quite muster her usual playfulness as she wiped at Evan’s face gently with a damp paper towel. “ Now stop moving. I think you might have a concussion. And before you call me out on not being a doctor or shit, I’ve had to pick up after people plenty enough times to know that the last thing you need to do is be sleeping right now.”

"Not a fucking chance." She mumbled, when Harper said that she liked it, grumbling, but letting the blonde wipe at her face. At the very least, it would be nice to have a clean face. She didn't want Harper's help, didn't want to seem weak in front of her. "Probably a concussion." Evan agreed, though it was difficult in the moment to essentially tell Harper that she was right.

Harper chuckled, the hoarse sound juxtaposed against the muffled din strangely. “Damn, you a whole ass brat too, aren’t you?” There was way too much blood, and her stomach twisted uncomfortably. She would have rather taken Evan to a hospital, but she knew that definitely wasn’t an option. “Okay I’m going to take a closer look at your scrape now. Feel free to cuss me out, if it helps.”

"I ain't a fucking brat. Don't be a fucking dick. You haven't been totally awful lately. It would be a fucking tragedy to have to hate you again." Evan's words were punctuated by a near constant slur, but she certainly wasn't letting it stop her from protecting her honor. "Just fucking do it."

“No? What do you call that attitude then, hmm? But don’t worry, I don’t mind. I’m just gonna file that info away for a rainy day.” The longer they spoke, the easier it felt to breathe- even if their conversation was mostly just salty barbs. “Please, you couldn’t even if you tried.” Running some warm water over a fresh paper towel, she tried to work as quickly as possible, knowing it was going to hurt, no matter what.

"Fucking deserved is what I call it." Evan quipped, with a small shrug of her shoulders, not wanting to irritate her brain even more than it already was in that moment. "I don't know, Sinclair. You'd be surprised what I can do when I put my mind to it. Ya could be easy to hate." She winced as Harper began to clean up the wound, breathing softly. She closed her eyes and as she did, the thought of Max filled her head and she startled. "I...fuck...Max. D'ya think she's okay? She would have been right in there. She...fuck she would have...I...we gotta go find her." Evan muttered, pushing Harper's hand away from her her and moving to stand.

“I mean, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Harper said almost conversationally as she worked on cleaning the blood out of Evan’s hair. “Nope, I don’t believe it. I’m far too charming for you to hate. Plus, if you hate me, I can’t give you your bear. So, like, it’s a lose/lose sitch.” The Switch’s sudden movement startled her, but her reflexes moved faster than her brain as she caught the other girl, stopping her from getting up. “Woah, hey, slow down, Tiger. Max is alright. A bit banged up, too, but fine, overall. You can call her on my phone, if you want, but you can’t move, yet.”

"She...she's okay? For real? You're not just saying that?" Evan questioned, eyes wide as she looked for whatever truth or answer she could find in Harper's eyes. Eventually persuaded, she got comfortable once again and breathed slowly. "Max is cool. Did ya know I got her flowers? she said she liked them. I even made sure they wouldn't hurt Satan because that would be the worst thing in the world ever." Evan babbled slightly, wringing her hands together.

“Nah, you can see for yourself, if you want. Call her too, if you can get some reception. But you gotta hold still a little longer.” Harper said gently. While she wasn’t the most adept care taker, she was used to situations like this. And while she down played it more often than not, she was a lot more competent than she let on. “Oh? That’s really cute, tbh. What kind of flowers? Satan’s her cat, right? Yeah, that def would be no bueno.” She said biting at her bottom lip, trying to stop her hands from shaking as she worked.

"We usually just text. I don't think I can text right now." Evan said, pouting slightly. Not that she would ever admit to it."I...there were some white ones and some purple ones. I can't....I don't remember what Fliss said they were. Yeah, Satan is her cat. He's super cool. But he's terrible at board games, don't let anyone tell ya different." Evan uttered, reaching out and pulling a fluff away from Harper's shirt, keeping herself busy.

“Probably not, tbh. If you want me to write her something, after, I can.” Harper promised, a slight smile coming to her face as she recognized a petulant one taking up residence on Evan’s. “That’s okay, you don’t have to know what they’re called. I bet they were hella lit. He’s a good ass boy. I don’t think he likes Butters and Noodles, though. I’ll keep that in mind, about the games, though,” She said, trying not to react to the other woman picking at her clothes. “We’re almost done, babe. Just a  little longer.”

"Ya don't have to do that. Maybe just like...tell her I'll text her tomorrow? When my head doesn't feel wishy washy and I don't feel like I'm gonna vomit if I move too fast." Evan uttered, breathing out slowly as Harper spoke. "Satan is a particular guy. But he rocks. Butters and Noodles are wicked too though." Evan mused, speaking slowly so that she could ensure she was saying the words she wanted too. "Hurry uuuup." She whined, picking another fluff from her shirt.

“Yeah, I can do that, babe.” Harper said with a melancholy smile. “Try not to move too fast, if you can help it. We’ve got a few hours until I can take you to the hospital and have a professional look you over.” If there was one time she was glad to be friends with Lex, this was definitely one of them. “Is that so? Well, maybe if they ever meet in person, they surprise me.” Absently, she tossed away the last paper towel, looking over her handwork, pleased to see that the wound looked better, with the blood cleared up. “As cute as you are, all whiny like that, we are finally done, Ev.”

"Okay, cool." At the very least she wanted Max to know that she was okay. (Max seemed like she didn't want her dead so it seemed productive to let her know she was okay.) "Hospital? Dammit." Evan tried to avoid that place to the best of her ability, the last thing she needed was to in any way run into her father.  Her nose wrinkled, not pleased at all with being called cute in the moment, and she grumbled slightly. But really she was too happy to have Harper have finished what she was doing that she couldn't be too mad. "Now what?" Evan questioned, looking at the blonde, unaware that she had kept playing with Harper's shirt.

“I got you, bae,” As much as it might have jarred her- knowing that Max was clearly an important person to the other woman- she pushed any jealousy away, knowing there were better times to worry about that. Preferably when they weren’t trapped in a dingy bathroom, and when Evan wasn’t touching her so much. “Just for a bit. I got a friend over there who’s pretty chill. I just want her to take a look, then we’ll get you home.” She said soothingly, trying to calm her. While she didn’t particularly care for hospitals either, she trusted Lex, and she knew it was better to be safe than sorry. “Damn, I saw myself saying that in avery different situation.” Harper said with a chuckle, one hand playing with the soft hairs at the back of her neck, enjoying their closeness. “Sit and talk, I guess. As much as I’d like to take a nap with you, you can’t sleep yet, babe.”

Evan groaned, grumpily, when Harper said that she would have to go. But she wasn't going to fight it. She didn't really have the effort built up within her to do so. She rolled her eyes slightly when Harper said that she had hoped to say that in a very different situation. Harper was something else entirely and Evan didn't really know how she felt about it. In any other circumstance, she'd probably give in. But Evan really liked Max and was trying to woo her; even if she didn't know how successful she was being. And she still wasn't sure what the rules were surrounding the entire thing. "You could sleep not though. And then I could be sneaky about falling asleep."

HEADCANON

The next few hours were simultaneously both insanely long, and not nearly long enough. Despite being absolutely exhausted, Harper knew she wouldn’t sleep- and with Evan hurt, as she was, she wouldn’t have even if she could. While she was fairly certain the other woman wasn’t seriously injured, Evan’s well being was just not something she could risk- even if all she wanted to do was let the darker haired woman rest a bit.

As the hours stretched on, Harper was incredibly thankful that they’d commandeered the bathroom for themselves. It turned out that the usually tightlipped woman was far more forthcoming when she was injured. Evan spoke to the blonde more frankly than she’d ever before, and she knew this was unlikely to happen again. And while part of her wondered if Evan would regret sharing so much in the morning, she couldn’t help but listen with fascination- and later sadness- as she told her about her life. 

Evan’s parents were everything Harper despised cold, hateful, *ignorant*, and far too attached to the past. While she grew up doted on and adored, it was clear that the love they gave her was wholly conditional when she was marked as a Switch. The hospital that had once been like a second home was suddenly cold and unwelcoming, and her actual home became a place of hurt and rejection as her parents seemed to change overnight from loving and adoring, to clinical and distant, at best. 

Not only had she gone from everything to nothing, in her parents’ eyes- she was also kept from her brother, forced to stay away from him as he grew older. Any life she had hoped to have before she was marked- her relationships with her family and the rest of the world- had been broken beyond repair, and the future she had once dreamed of became nothing but whisps of a life that could never be. 

Harper felt her eyes burn as she held Evan closer on instinct, but she bit them back, not wanting to interrupt or making her feel bad for sharing. That was the last thing Harper would have wanted, in that moment. But what sent a particularly painful jolt to her heart was how Evan still wanted the best for her brother, rather than growing jealous of how he still remained in their parents favor. It only served to prove how good a person Evan really was, and she could feel her heart warm, her feelings for the other girl growing that much stronger.

It was almost disappointing, when the curfew lifted. While Harper was more than happy to get out of that bathroom, she couldn’t help but feel unhappy that their little bubble was going to burst. She didn’t know if Evan would ever feel comfortable enough to share her thoughts like that again, but she was thankful that she’d been willing to at all. Especially since she knew she might be a bit on the cranky side since they still had to go to the hospital. 

The visit itself was uneventful- even if was far too busy for either of their liking. Evan was clearly uncomfortable, and Harper had never been too fond of hospitals either, but Lex had seen them fairly quickly, and had them out with simple instructions for care and wound maintenance. Much to Harper’s relief, it was a relatively uncomplicated injury, if more severe than she would have liked, and once she was stitched up, they left as quickly as they could not wanting to see anyone Evan might recognize- namely, her father.

The streets of New Eden were a mess as they headed home, and Harper felt a rock at the pit of her stomach as she felt her phone buzz over and over in her pocket. Her captain had already called, and she promised to go in- but not before she got Evan home safely. She was worried about everyone, but her Switch friends in particular, and she wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the other woman until she saw her home, safe and sound.

[nchyinotes]

Criminology Seminar Series - From Corporate Killing to Social Murder

March 1 2018

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/criminology-seminar-series-from-corporate-killing-to-social-murder-tickets-37941422817

Speaker: Professor Steve Tombs (Department of Social Policy & Criminology, Open University)

“Corporations kill in a variety of ways across diverse sites and spheres of activity. Such killing is ubiquitous, routine and widespread – notwithstanding formal attempts by states to prevent and respond to such deaths. Focusing on a sub-set of such deaths in the UK, and state attempts to regulate these, this paper argues that these should be understood as state-corporate violence, best captured by the term ‘social murder’. Grenfell Tower has come to represent many things to many people since the tragic fire on 14th June. Prior to that date, the Tower was a home to hundreds of residents – if not, according to some of them, a particularly pleasant one. The aim of this presentation is two-fold: first, to understand the reach of states and corporations into what is often represented as a private sphere, namely the home; and, second, to better understand the mass killing at Grenfell Tower, and the ripples of harms subsequently engendered, as phenomena produced by state-corporate policy and practices.”

Thoughts: Although I was obviously aware of the Grenfell Tower happenings, I hadn’t done any in depth reading or research into it, and definitely had not analysed it from a criminological lens. Gave great background information for me to learn about what actually happened, which highlighted the horrendous failings of a state to its people, and all the different harms that the victims suffered. We touched a bit on corporate manslaughter in my final year criminology module, so it was interesting on an academic level to analyse this tragedy within the framework of corporate killing or social murder, and awareness of other examples that it brought up. It was a real shame that there weren’t many people there, because it was 100% worth going to. I attended this lecture on my birthday, and it was a great way to spend my birthday imho (Funny side story - I was walking back home in a very somber mood kind of lost in thought about this, when I found one of my friends waiting outside my apartment and I was really confused. Turns out my friends and sister had planned a surprise birthday party at my flat LOL, so that was cute too!).

Notes

Critical criminology, corporate / white collar crime

Activists working for better work conditions

Experiences of survivors/residents - not based on direct contact with; not necessary in this case because massive testimonies in public domain (verbatim testimony)

Value free social science - an illusion? Not value free, politically charged.

Different ways we can look/think at it, they’re not mutually exclusive, in fact it’s all of these things.

Grenfell tower in context

1) One of the poorest places sitting in one of the richest areas

Constituency of kensington is the wealthiest in England

RBKC is the most unequal borough in England, since 2010 the inequality has widened (Coad) - by 2017, difference in life expectancy is 22 years (and this had increased 6 years)

Grenfell Tower + Kings Road LSOA (lower super output area)

2) Fractious relationship between social housing residents across Borough and the KCTMO [set up to at an arms length manage council housing]

Conjecture / opinion: Having edificies like grenfell tower + their inhabitants is a bummer because they’re barriers to gentrification. What they what is to cleanse the borough of the poor residents.

Grenfell Action Group formed in 2010 as a way of articulating / furthering rights of residents at tower, and joined Unite Community (part of the trade union) in 2015 during refurbishment

Dangerous nature of refurbishment of tower - KCTMOs decision to replace zinc cladding with cheaper aluminum panels [more flammable], saving 293k pounds

Grenfell Action Group blog post: KCTMO - Playing with Fire! (predicted 7 months before the tragedy!)

It was the cladding which contained the fire inside the inferno

Grenfell as crime (?) - yes

Can we think of what happened there as a crime?

1. Serial killer - Whirlpool

Portrait of a serial killer [Whirlpool Corporation HQ or Hot Point?? in Benton Harbor, Michigan]

Produces electrical / hot point / dryers ??

Found out something was wrong - faulty machines? Advised you just not to leave them unattended? No product recall, compensation was offered.

→ “Shepherd’s Bush tower block fire caused by faulty tumble dryer”

Still no recall, compensation, replacement

Consumer groups have been saying not to use plastic bags for electrical goods cause they’re flammable

Trigger of Grenfell was a plastic bag fridge freezer in the native hot point

1) All Party Select committee last October - slipped out by rep of Whirlpool that they knew about defects of tumble dryer in 2006. They were selling dryers which could catch fire and kill people for 9 years before they owned up to it.

2) Information requests -- 10 deaths, 100s of serious injuries, in 10 year period associated with white goods, 50%+ were associated with hot goods

Grenfell is just another series of deaths by them

Lots of attention on residents & management, some attention on contractors, but

Whirlpool basically got off scot free

2. Corporate Manslaughter and Homicide Act - isn’t fit for purpose?

10 years after the act, only 1 medium sized company has been prosecuted

Police claim they have about 35M documents to process on way to passing charges to CPS, last year they claimed worked through about 100k

Any charges won’t be until 2019, and generally any charges under the Act have taken 3-4 years

3. Health and Safety and/or FIre Safety legislation

2009 Similar precedent / different consequences - Southwark, 6 people died. Not sufficient evidence to proceed with (manslaughter) charge.

Southwark Council fined 650k under ^^

4. Will the prosecutions achieve justice?

Many survivors just want the crime to be considered a real crime - on par with others.

Trend in 21 successful prosecutions is: deals with individual senior managers to let them off the hook, to plead guilty for corporations.

No justice against individual people.

If successful for health and safety, it’s a fine. And the money is largely through the council (tax) / residents. So the people most hit by any fine will be the poorest residents of the borough.

Don’t repare the harms

Grenfell as social harm - via various dimensions (harms produced)

Social harm captures chains of processes or states of affairs rather than merely acts. Captures all the dimensions (ripples, synergistic, cumulative + long term effects)

Physical harms

deaths

injury (burns, head, fractures)

ill health (exposure to hydrogen cyanide & asbestos - made light of, smoke inhalation)

exacerbation of existing health problems (more dependent on drugs/alcohol; chronic conditions with those impoverished - type II diabetes, chronic heart disease, childhood obesity - no control over diet in temp housing)

Emotional / psychological harms

Survivors

Grief at loss - people, pets, possessions

Recall of horrors

Guilt at survival (self harm, suicide attempts)

Being rehoused in another high rise accommodation

For local community

Constant visibility of the tower - what the means/does to them

Emergency service workers

Other communities

Living in high rise accommodation with the same/similar cladding [to be removed] - in fear of their lives (living in limbo)

Cultural / relational harms

Relocation and loss of networks [what makes life worth living? When they need it the most] - lack of access

Bare existence of temporary accommodation - no piece of mind, waiting, uncertainty - obscure experiences

Death as a result of cost-cutting and contempt (Imogen tyler: “social objection”)

Most powerful cultural harm

Their voices were not listened to by council or management

They know their friends burnt, as it happened, because they didn’t matter

For 200k cost saving, in the richest borough

Election year: The council gave rebates to top earners, sold off 2 estates for over 4M

Lack of national and local state response

Contempt was reinforced

People had to self organise (in response)

Delays, broken promises, half truths and lies

Contempt again reinforced by ^ to survivors

Eg. rehousing, chair of inquiry, home office ‘amnesty’

→ Contempt which caused the fire is the contempt that the survivors continue to be treated with

Financial and economic harm

Financial costs to households

Costs to RBKC (plus legal costs, fines) - and thus to local tax payers

??

Grenfell as social murder - in context of a (systematic) withdrawal of social protection

Grenfell as state-sanctioned violence?

Part of the withdrawal of a system of social protection - constructed since the 1830s

Deregulation and lack of enforcement from (2004) 2010 onwards, especially at local level.

Eg. numbers of inspections decreased dramatically: in health and safety at work, food safety, pollution control, fire safety

Which was put in place to mitigate the worst effects of profit making in early days of industrial capitalism

Or to prevent, as Engels (1969) called it, social murder

Social murder is the consequence of withdrawing social protection

Questions

Greatest example of corporate murder: (Bopar) India, 1984 - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhopal_disaster

Also - flint water crisis

http://time.com/4188323/michael-moore-flint-racial-crime/

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2016/02/12/here-are-the-stunning-social-costs-of-the-flint-water-crisis/?utm_term=.86a634877060

Appropriate response?

Redress isn’t to be found through the law?

Workers health & safety will not be guaranteed in retrospective application of the law

Won’t change the fact that council doesn’t want those residents in the first place

Will be guaranteed by empowering workers collectively, through trade union organisation.

Relationship between state + companies?

Companies operating in more than one local authority - claim they never knew what compliance meant?

Primary authority scheme (by Blair) - it can reach a contractual agreement with one authority for it to be its primary. What happens is that newcastle city council becomes a buffer that protects Greggs from enforcement in all other areas.

Really important bc companies have lobbied for it, and totally changes the structurally shifts the balance of power

Market enforcement ? because lucrative for councils [ like the Amazon thing]

Whirlpool has been protected by its local council all these years

Esoteric piece of law?

Only reason it’s enforced is because of insurance companies?

Is the state / corporate bodies something that can be used progressively?

State undertaking limited functions on behalf of citizenry

While states can provide greater/less protections, and some contexts can be more/less harmful

Still in context of capitalism - individuals are more or less valuable commodities

The only way to stop corporate crime is to abolish the corporation (which is a criminogenic entity created and supported by the capitalist state)

Diane vaughan analysis of the challenger ??

They didn’t want to murder them, they just didn’t care about them

[unscramblingtheliberalarts-blog]

Aydelotte’s Social Media Weather Report: Niche in Small Liberal Arts Colleges

I’ve been compiling posts that contribute to popular discourse about the insularity of small liberal arts colleges. Their “nicheness” has for the most part on Tumblr received praise. For some, the liberal arts college “bubble” ensures a safe space that galvanizes, not stymies, spiritual growth:

oceansofbliss:

I just want to go back to my liberal arts college where everyone is nice and no one is very discriminatory and I live in a happy bubble of accepting joy

(emphasis added)

gryffindored:

the family that i created through my theatre degree in a small, liberal arts school in new england will never cease to amaze me. in times of tragedy, we are always pulling together and making magic happen.

(emphasis added)

theprettypatriot:

But my private school of less than 2000 is where I learned who I was and what I stood for. I figured out that life was absolutely what you made it, and that at the end of the day you are solely responsible for your happiness. I learned that losers quit when they’re tired and winners quit when they’ve won. Most importantly, I learned that it wasn’t your failures, but how you responded to them that defined you.

(emphasis added)

dandelionbreaks:

“The purpose of a university is to engage in dialogue, debate, and exchange ideas in order to try and come to some meaningful conclusion about an issue at hand. Not to shut ourselves off from ideas we find threatening.” — Charles Negy, Professor, Says Students Showed ‘Religious Arrogance And Bigotry’ In A Letter Later Posted On Reddit, emphasis added

Other students spoke of how liberal arts college’s insularity and small class size was a real and significant factor in the college decision-making process:

sunnystrong:

When conducting my college search, I looked for small liberal arts colleges (because I prefer smaller class sizes, and more interactions with professors) with a strong biological science or neuroscience programs (because I want to study those subjects), and Mount Holyoke ended at the top of my list. (emphasis added)

whatcomesnextisstrange:

Calvin’s general population tends to be the sheltered kind that don’t get out enough to really understand the real world, though as they spend time on Calvin’s campus I hope that that is changing. The students that come that don’t have the Dutch CRC background are slowly making differences, whether it be because the discussions they get into tend to be more political or philosophical, or that the general population of the United States is just getting more and more depressed and therefore hopefully more and more introspective.

... I’ve found great people here, not necessarily the people my parents thought I would find of course, their idea of a good friend is basically a robot anyways.

(emphasis added)

marilyns-child:

Then one day, while I was struggling with my decision between the two, I asked my mom for advice... She told me to apply to our local state university for two years and then I could transfer to a liberal arts college. We fought for days over it, but I eventually gave in.

I never made it to the liberal arts college.

...

I lasted a year and a half in college, following everyone else’s dreams for me. I took sixteen credit hours, worked two jobs, and started on a downward spiral that ended with me crying in a professor’s office, telling him I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t continue on. I was drunk, my hips were bleeding from having cut myself, and I hadn’t eaten in two days. By then, I had changed my degree to English ( “You can be a teacher!”) and there wasn’t a second of college I liked. I was miserable in a state school of thousands of students, being taught by professors who didn’t know me, and studying something I didn’t want to.

...

Sometimes, most of the time, following the money isn’t the answer. Following your heart often is.

(emphasis added)

Several posts delved into how the culture of insularity allowed for more open discourse about sexuality and pornography:

chongthenomad:

the awesome thing about the college I go to is that during one of my classes we were playing two truths and one lie and one girl was listing off the facts about herself and the last thing she said was that she was a stripper, and it turns out she actually was one but the thing is no one had any weird or disgusted or creepy looks on their faces, everyone just smiled and nodded and our amazing teacher even asked her where she worked and then she smiled at her and told her how convenient her job was since the strip club was not too far from campus and wow i really love my school

cyandie:

not being in the insular bubble of liberal arts school for several months now has made me even more vitriolicly opposed to porn because i forgot how average ppl really just talk about it and are so unopen to negotiating why [the industry is] heinous! ...

On the other hand, the same “nicheness” that was praised for bringing about a close-knit community also garnered criticism. Some posts touched upon the “liberal,” “left-ist,” “socially mindful/sensitive” stereotypes of people in liberal arts colleges: 

surfcommiesmustdie:

one of my brothers teaches poli-sci at a small liberal arts college in illinois and my dad was telling me he went full cultural marxist. he used to focus on latin american politics but now he’s knee deep in gender stuff and other assorted social justice crap.

i advised disowning him

snout:

person: *holds elevator door open for me*

me: lmaoooo wow, virtue signaling much…? i bet you think youre just SUCH a good person. Oh sorry, did i trigger you? LOL. tough shit, the real world isn’t just a big liberal arts school. uhhh yeah, I’ll take the stairs, THANKS. 😏

Other critiques possessed a less facetious vein, noting the ironic social alienation that such insularity produced:

no-identity-land:

Honestly I’d so love to try and find some new friends or something more through an app or site like Her or Tinder or something, but my campus is ridiculously small and in the middle of nowhere, and my self-esteem can’t handle the thought of rejection (and the inevitability of having to see one of these people all the time on campus) so I’ll just pretend that I’m the one choosing to stay single and save myself the embarrassment lol

(emphasis added, Tagged: lgbt, gay, lesbian)

man-of-prose:

“This is what the real, no-bull- value of your liberal-arts education is supposed to be about: How to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default-setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone, day in and day out.” - David Foster Wallace, emphasis added

Another crucial criticism was the lack of access to the general public about academic theory that such insularity inexplicably reinforce:

hedevitoanditsown:

college/academia and various sub-cultures (punk, metal, regional cultural destinations like Portland, etc.) should not be the only avenues for which we recruit people into radical spaces. ... put your theory into practice and teach people the value of solidarity, mutual aid, etc. these people won’t take communism seriously until you divorce the cold-war rhetoric from the reality. starting up food not bombs in your liberal arts college town full of upper middle class liberals isn’t going to get us very far (not that feeding people who are vulnerable is a bad thing).

... 

i think in order for the left to succeed, we need to overcome two major hurdles:

we need to make our theory less confusing and more accessible (breaking news: academia isn’t appealing to a lot of people and neither is theory that’s barely comprehensible. people have more important things going on in their lives, like putting food on their table and caring for their kids/families, than to try and figure out wtf derrida was saying)

we need to actually put our theory into practice (at least the stuff we can immediately, like we don’t need a full-scale revolution to practice mutual aid and democratic decision-making, etc.) and use it to HELP people who actually need it. think black panthers pre-COINTELPRO. because as we’ve seen the political elites of BOTH parties have left the working classes out in the cold to starve, they’re scared and irrational, so fascism is a logical leap for these people.

(emphasis added)

inqilabi:

Women participate in their own silencing. That’s the tragic part. Our own self regulation. We are raised to silence ourselves, become smaller, less visible. Then when women become feminists, you see the same crap… Except it’s got some name of some theory attached, and it’s taught in liberal arts schools or what have you.

Insularity is clearly a multi-faceted topic in discourse about liberal arts college culture on Tumblr. Small class sizes are praised for fostering an often intimate, sympathetic community and opening academic discussion about publicly stigmatized subjects, such as sexuality and porn. Yet, the “nicheness” generated from a tightly knit population does not prevent experiences of social exclusion or loneliness, which students (in this case from the LGBTQIA+ community) have found themselves struggling with. Nor does it solve the issue of general inaccessibility to sociopolitical theory and academics taught in higher education.

[nileqt87]

Big Finish: Ten x Rose

http://gallifreybase.com/forum/showthread.php?t=245111&page=7

If we were getting more than 3 audios per year, I'd be far more willing to give up the every-other-year Catherine/Billie dynamic for new companions or solo adventures here and there. It pains me already that if Freema comes in that it wouldn't be until 2020 that we'd see Ten/Rose again (2019 is bad enough!). I realize it's next to impossible to get David + Catherine or Billie's high-demand schedules worked out for anything more than what we're getting, but this already feels like the limit of how long to wait between the next batch of either companion. It's different with these audios, given we get so few, than it is for, say, the Classic Doctors or ranges that get far more audios per year. And for some like Tom and Paul, it's way more. Obviously, Tom's age makes him a priority (ditto William Russell in The Companion Chronicles range before he retired) and they're trying to build him up to where Peter, Colin and Sylvester are. If David was doing 8+ audios per year like Tom, weird little forays into other dynamics or a wider variety of companions would be fine. But with it being every other year already for 2 companions at a mere 3 audios each, the fewer companions to split between, the better. Best to make it the ones the audience most wants more of until the actors are willing to spend more time in the audio booth. Sadly, that might take a decade or more. I also note that Billie was on the show before the utterly massive deluge of media started getting produced for DW. It actually picked up dramatically during series 3. More Rose isn't actually giving her wildly more than Martha or Donna, given there are far fewer Ten/Rose books and NSA audio exclusives (didn't exist) than many later Doctor/companion dynamics got. There's also the fact that when Rose is placed with a Doctor for some kind of multi-Doctor comic, comic range or anniversary book collection, she gets given to Nine for lack of other choices for him, which means that Ten hardly ever gets to be with Rose for comics or books beyond the ones that were published during series 2. Despite the enormous fan following of these two (to this day!), it's a surprisingly under-served era in media. If we want to do a different dynamic, I'd suggest Metacrisis!Ten II and Rose (I'd suggest that Big Finish allow more mature character work), given they're an entirely blank slate and the story could ultimately be taken anywhere with no inevitable conclusion. I note that Camille's Short Trips are the first foray into exploring them. And that's another thing, it's obvious that Camille wants to do a lot of Big Finish and she really needs David and/or Billie. You can only have so many adventures of Jack and Jackie while the Doctor and Rose are away! LOL. Speaking of character work, as great as these adventures were, we need more character building. One thing that RTD did even in the most inane episodes was to put some big character moment. Even in the seemingly naff filler Fear Her, we have Rose reacting to Ten saying he's been a father before. These moments and the will they/won't they tragedy of it all are what make the era beloved by the people who actually love the era. Play to the audience that loves them in the first place. It would be a mistake to placate the haters of even the faintest whiff of romance or mutual attraction (most of these fans don't even care to buy Tennant-era anything). Obviously, it never got to the point of mutual declarations of love (despite 3 broken sentences about to say it and a Dalek declaring it), but it would be a mistake for Big Finish to eliminate the more soapy dramatic aspect of the Tennant era that was absolutely present and should carry over into audio form. Big Finish has this huge opportunity to play with this audience to build up to Army of Ghosts (not to mention the Metacrisis open-ended story) with a dynamic that coyly played with the audience to the point where how far the relationship had gotten is left a complete mystery up to a point. There's a lot of wiggle room. RTD pointedly gave the audience WTF moments like Rose mentioning the baby on Bad Wolf Bay that ended up being Jackie's pregnancy, but it was still played up for shock value with both the audience and the Doctor's own reaction. The relationship was at least serious enough that the Doctor had Rose's shirt with him in the console room and arguably was more blatant about his feelings for Rose after she was gone (using it to shove distance between himself and Martha and then making a big deal out of being only mates with Donna) than when she was there. Big Finish has options up to a point on how far they want to play with that. Of these audios, Zaross and Chevalier clearly give the most in terms of character depth and personal moments. More of that, at the very least. The 'shippiest thing here was probably Ten and Rose dressing up as a Harlequin and a devil (there's a flirtatious moment there with "you little devil") for the 1791 masquerade ball and Ten trying his hardest and failing to impress Rose with his swordsman skills (fangirl fantasies fulfilled). So far, the book that catered to the fangirls the most was The Stone Rose (Ten kisses Rose at the end in his exuberance at not being a stone statue), which is why you'll find it so popular in the community. That's an example of tie-in material knowing its audience and trying to do what RTD did rather than just [insert Doctor] and [insert companion] generic adventures. Zaross also had great stuff for Rose and Jackie, especially regarding Marge's classism and comparing her daughter at Cambridge to both 'runaway' Rose and 'cashier' Jess. The message that everyone has worth and you don't need fame or the greatest education/success/wealth felt very RTD. My suggestion to Big Finish is to do less generic, cookie-cutter adventures with Ten/Rose. Do things that are more personalized to their very unusual dynamic in the Whoniverse and follow RTD's character-centric approach. Even RTD's fillers had character moments, but the best episodes were ones that challenged the characters on a personal level. Remember that David excels at being a dramatic Shakespearean actor (Billie and Catherine are also strong at it). If anything was missing in these audios, it was perhaps that we didn't see enough serious, dramatic material. Perhaps if these were 2-hour adventures, we'd get scenes in between the madcap adventures that are quiet conversations with opportunities for something a bit more meaningful. Every RTD episode had some moment that was dead serious. Big Finish needs to remember that in the future. There was more to series 2 Ten and Rose than just happy-happy. Ten blowing a gasket over the Wire stealing Rose's face or his "you wither and you die" immortality speech are examples where even the Doctor at his most happy and love-struck is still the PTSD-suffering Oncoming Storm and Lonely God who is afraid of losing everyone he [loves]. Big Finish needs to remember this element of Ten in the future. The closest we got to it in this batch of audios was Zaross when Ten realizes that the villain has not only killed the few humans permanently, but has also killed others on many planets in their quest for fame. More of this, but remember that Ten also had such serious moments with his companions, too, not just villains.

My favorite scene, F.Y.I., was actually the callback to The Mind Robber and the Land of Fiction. You just know what name-dropping Ten would be like in such a meta world of fictional characters (think Babes in Toyland and Once Upon a Time on psychedelic LSD). I'd be pleased as punch if we got to see Ten and Rose journey through the Land of Fiction. Hey, maybe she can meet fictional!Jamie from Six's City of Spires tetralogy, given that Jamie was name-checked in Tooth & Claw, and I could have my two favorite companions together! Also, Scottish accents on parade.

[vampanic]

NAME:          Carlie, but I hate that name. Please do not call me that  ALIAS(ES) / HANDLES:          Call me Gren! fun fact: did you know that my nickname senior year of high school was Grendel. Like in Beowulf! And over time online that got shortened to Gren. Now you know the origins of a lengend ARE YOU OVER 18?          YES / No IS YOUR MUSE?         YES / no WHEN WAS YOUR BLOG ESTABLISHED?     November 2017 which is wild! Glad I’m finally writing the story it feels like it’s been forever!

   W R I T I N G

ARE YOU SELECTIVE ABOUT WHO YOU WRITE WITH ON THIS BLOG? No (anyone)  /  Semi (most people)  /  YES (SOME PEOPLE)  /  Highly (few people)  / Private (mutuals only)

ARE YOU SELECTIVE ABOUT WHO YOU FOLLOW ON THIS BLOG? No (anyone)  /  Semi (most people) /  Yes (some people) /  Highly (few people)  /  Private (mutuals only)

IF YOUR MUSE IS CANON, HOW MUCH DO YOU ADHERE TO CANON? Not at all  /  A little   / Some /  Mostly  /  Strictly  /  Not Applicable

Lorey is canon all ocs are canon by definition that they exist! Eat me!

WHAT POST LENGTHS DO YOU WRITE? ONE LINERS  /  SINGLE-PARA  /  MULTI-PARA  /  novella

DO YOU USE ICONS AND/OR GIFS? No  /  gifs /  ICONS  /  Yes

DO YOU WRITE ON OTHER PLATFORMS? NO /  yes UNPLOTTED /  OPEN-ENDED PLOTS /  SEMI-PLOTTED (ONE OR TWO STEPS AHEAD) /  Fully Plotted Epics (plotted beginning, middle, and end)

HOW QUICKLY DO YOU USUALLY RESPOND TO THREADS? VERY SLOW (MORE THAN A MONTH)  / SLOW (3-4 WEEKS) / Average (1-2 weeks) / Fast (less than one week) /  Very Fast (less than three days) ��/  IT DEPENDS

WHAT TYPES OF THEMES DO YOU LIKE? (FEEL FREE TO ADD!) Fluff  /  Angst /  Smut /  Violence /  Tragedy /  Domestic  /  Family /  Conversational

WHAT GENRES DO YOU LIKE? (FEEL FREE TO ADD!) HIGH FANTASY  /  SUPERNATURAL /  SCIENCE FICTION  /  HISTORICAL /  HORROR  /  COMEDY /  Romantic /  DRAMA  /  ACTION /  ADVENTURE  /  ESPIONAGE

ARE THERE ANY THEMES YOU’RE UNCOMFORTABLE WRITING ON YOUR BLOG? (NOT TRIGGERS) No  /  YES /  Sometimes

non con obviously and im sure there’s other stuff i cant think of right now. i know i probably wouldn’t want to write anything where a muse is very homophobic toward lorey unless i knew the mun wasn’t but even then rping is kind of escapist for me. i dont make this known because it doesn’t come up alot but i dont like writing about (or thinking about) DID so if you have a muse who has it i probably wont interact at all

DO YOU HAVE ANY TRIGGERS?  HOW DO YOU REQUEST IT TAGGED? i doooo. phantom of the oper.a and the play spring a.wakening please just tag them normally i also just have those phrase black listed. i also don’t like the name e.rik. not really a trigger, but i dont wanna see dane deha.an on my dash so if you use him as a fc i wont follow back.

S H I P P I N G

WHAT TYPES OF RELATIONSHIPS ARE YOU OPEN TO? ROMANTIC  /  PLATONIC  /  FAMILIAL / ENEMIES

WHAT TYPES OF PRE-ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIPS ARE YOU OPEN TO? ROMANTIC /  PLATONIC  /  familial / ENEMIES

DO YOU HAVE OTPS? No  /  Chemistry Only /  YES

DO YOU HAVE NOTPS? No  /  YES

WHAT IS YOUR MUSE’S SEXUAL ORIENTATION? Heterosexual  /  Heteroflexible  /  BISEXUAL /  pansexual /  Homoflexible /  Homosexual  /DEMISEXUAL  /  Sapiosexual  /  Asexual

WHAT IS YOUR MUSE’S ROMANTIC ORIENTATION? Heteromantic /  Heteroflexible  /  Biromantic /  Homoflexible  / Homoromantic /  PANROMANTIC  /  DEMIROMANTIC  /  Sapioromantic  /  Aromantic

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WRITING SMUT? No /  SELECTIVELY  /  YES  

but usually, if it’s with someone i know, but even then...lorey’s a horny guy so he’s almost always down to clown

HOW EARLY IN A RELATIONSHIP DO YOU SHIP ROMANTICALLY? Autoship  /  During plotting  /  After a couple IC interactions / Several IC Interactions /  Slow burn  /  Never / It Depends

ARE YOU OPEN TO TOXIC SHIPS? No  /  SELECTIVELY  /  Yes  

ARE YOU OPEN TO PROBLEMATIC SHIPS? (INCEST, CANON HISTORY, AGE DIFFERENCE (ONLY IF BETWEEN ADULTS), COMPLICATED, ETC.) No  /  SELECTIVELY  /  Yes

since lorey is in his 60s in his canon and in modern day over a hundred age difference is a given, but he is physically 20 so it shoud be no problem

ARE YOU OPEN TO POLYSHIPPING? No /  SELECTIVELY  /  Yes

lorey likes to sleep around and has depency/commitment issues so having him be with multiple partners is probably gonna happen, though i dont imagine him having two gfs or bfs at once (but it should be noted that each interaction takes place in a separate universe unless otherwise stated)

ARE YOU AN EXCLUSIVE SHIPPER? NEVER /  Sometimes /  Yes

not really, but i feel like im not gonna ship lorey with someone i feel like he wouldn’t have chemistry or at the very least feel attracted to

DOES CRACK SHIPPING EVER HAPPEN? No  /  Yes / Is there really such a thing as crack with a OC blog?

TAGGED BY: NO ONE I STOLE IT!!!! IM A THEIF HKFKDAHHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA TAGGING: YOU SUCKER!

[itsnotdavid-blog]

MY VILLAINOUS LAIR

TL;DR - I’m indecisive and I don’t know if I want to live in a large house surrounded by friends and family, or if I’d be better off hiding away in isolation inside some tiny, walled off excuse of a home. No to cars, yes to gardens. Fuck yeah, nature!

-

Nothing’s more fun than being tasked with writing a blog post for a class activity. To start things off, I’d like to apologize beforehand for this needlessly long wall of text. I don’t expect you to read along, and I certainly don’t expect you to remember all the itty bitty details, but I do want you to know is that I’m what the cool kids call extra. We were expected to draw one house and my stupid self ended up coming up with three. If that doesn’t give you an idea of what kind of person I am, then I don’t know what will. 

The question still lingers: what exactly do these houses represent? If there’s one thing I’ve learned today, it’s that all these seemingly insignificant little doodles form a bigger picture. Isn’t it exciting - a big picture made of little pictures? Like one big mosaic where each tile delves deeper into the myriad insecurities that stir within me. My inner optimist says it’ll paint something pretty, like a field of vibrant sunflowers, or a horde of zombies getting ravaged by a pack of fire-breathing velociraptors. Then again, there’s also the possibility of this picture taking the semblance of a donkey’s sphincter, or possibly even Mama June after a hot, sweaty yoga session. 

Either way, the picture isn’t what’s important. 

What’s important is that I’ve got three houses, each more pointless than the last, and it’s my job to figure out what these doodles mean. Even as the professor spoke and told us to put our pencils aside, I simply couldn’t keep mine off the paper. It was like there was this odd, supernatural force compelling me to finish what I started. But why? I don’t even put this much effort into waking up in the morning, so what’s gotten me to go full-ham on something entirely fictional and meaningless? The more time I spent on the drawing, the more I began to realize it was wholly unrealistic.

So I started again.

Scratched that one after five minutes. Too small, too unambitious. This one didn’t seem right to me at all.

So I started again.

Eventually I ran out of time, and was ultimately left with three unfinished houses; all distinct with little-to-no similarities save for the essentials. Needless to say, I was devastated. How could I fail something as simple as drawing a house? This was the unassuming sort of task you’d give to a five year old and I’m sure they’d manage to get it finished one way or another. I’ll bet their houses even have dinosaurs. Life isn’t fair.

The first house I drew was far larger than the other two - the perfect home for a less-than perfect family. There’s even a small patch of land in the back that’s dedicated to growing fruit and vegetables, it is fucking awesome. Despite the sheer size of the building, the rooms totaled to four, and that’s only if you don’t count the garden and the backyard. Think of it this way: if a house is big, you can assume it’s got a lot of rooms, and if it’s got a lot of rooms, it’s got a lot of space for inhabitants and/or guests. Generally, some of the more introverted people prefer returning to a lonelier home after a long day of work, faking smiles and chatting up people they’d never interact with outside the office. The last thing they’d want to deal with at home is even more needless social interaction. 

With that in mind, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to conclude that an introvert wouldn’t want to live with other people unless they absolutely had to. The second house drawn seems to represent this on a deeper level. Let’s pretend for one minute that there’s more to me than meets the eye. It’s not totally unreasonable to assume that a self-proclaimed introvert would want some company every now and then - there’s no shame in wanting to be alone, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to enjoy spending time with friends and family. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Though it might not be clear, given my abysmal skill with architecture, house planning and all things creative, I poured a lot more passion into this house in comparison to the others. Even if I firmly believe that what other people think of me is none of my business, I still feel as if my appearance matters in some way. I’m all for sticking to the status quo but there’s no denying that I’m, as I said before, what the cool kids call extra. For better or for worse. 

It’s strange. I’d never admit it in person, I do actively try to distinguish myself from the crowd for whatever reason… but at the same time, I resent the attention that comes with it. It’s a hard duality to put into words, so you’ll have to pardon my inability to explain it. I don’t quite get it myself, you see. Even if everyone in the world’s special and unique in their own whimsical little ways, people are too busy concerned with themselves to notice this about others. It’s an easy to trap to fall into, perceiving someone as dull simply because they’re not good conversationalists; because their quirks are of the subtler sort and only tend to shine once you truly get to know the person. 

The tragedy is, people won’t ever invest enough time to see that side of them.

This is only highlighted by the sheer difference between this house and the two drawn after it. It could be argued that the first home - the larger home - represents the side of me that wants to be surrounded people, and stand out by towering over all the others. This is in stark contrast to the other two, which arguably fits the size of an apartment room than an actual house given its scale and lack of a second floor - a claustrophobic little hovel that’s more fit for a gremlin than a man. I’d imagine it’d be like living in a trash compactor. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good living. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re living in a trash compactor.

Still, I get the feeling I’m only scratching the surface and that there’s so much you can take from the size of the two houses alone. Maybe it represents my desire to live in isolation in my villainous lair, walled off from the rest of the world. Looking back on it now, there’s no way I’d survive in a house like that. I’d go insane, mainly because there’s nothing to do but also because I’m a bit of a claustrophobe. What was I thinking?

Just by looking at this house alone, you can already tell I’ve started to lose a bit of steam. There’s a reason why I don’t do interior decorating - it’s because I’m absolutely dreadful at it. Look at this. What kind of madman puts the bathroom next to the kitchen and not the bedroom? It’s hilariously inefficient, if you ask me. Takes a certain kind of idiot to come up with a house like this and even bigger one to want to live in it.

Bah! It just gets worse and worse!

If there’s something all three of these houses have in common, it’s a kitchen. Funny. You’d think the bedroom would be something I’d prioritize, but apparently food comes first. In all fairness, the only reason I didn’t include a bedroom in the first doodle was because I lacked the time. It’s strange though. I haven’t exactly cooked a proper meal since I moved here just a little over a year ago. Perhaps this the brain’s strange and subtle way of telling you to start cooking once again, though it’s also possible that my brain’s simply calling me fat. Either way, it capitalizes on my love of food. 

On the other hand there is something that all my houses lack and the only person I can blame for that is myself. There’s no fucking garage. Whether it was a simple overlook or a subconscious desire, it’s given me a lot to think about. I’ve never been fond of cars, and I’ve never exactly wanted to drive either so it’s only natural that there’ll be nothing in my house related to such things. Still, every family ought to have a vehicle. They’ve got to get around town somehow. Walking simply isn’t an option in this day and age, as fun as it sounds. Speaking of oversights, I’ve also failed to make any note of what house would look from the outside. All I’ve got is a top-down view: a simple outline that maps out where the furniture’s supposed to go. 

Not that I’d end up following it anyway. 

[glenmenlow]

Brandless Demise Reveals How Brands Succeed

From its beginning, Brandless was a contrarian naysayer. The company held fast to the notion that in the sea of consumables, brands do not matter but fungible products do. All things being equal, all things are essentially the same things, only different. Generic. Generally the same. Brandless.

Brandless failed as a business. The tragedy is not that it was built upon a false premise. Insight: In a world where we can choose from hundreds of kinds of automobiles, jeans, yoga pants, gummies and fruit smoothies, we are all part of a great similarity.

Millennials, in particular, having grown up in an era during which quality and quantity have been constants, and many are exhausted by the plethora of merchandise thrown at them. Generics are a means of simplifying the storm of things.

Meanwhile, sales growth for generics and/or private label products can be double or triple that of even established 100-year Brands.

Based on these insights (and presumably a few more) plus the never-ending urge to disrupt, in July 2018 SoftBanks’s Vision Fund announced a $240 million round of funding for Brandless. The venture lasted 19 months until Vision Fund pulled the plug.

The cause for Brandless’s fall? Two things (at least). First, they could not call themselves “Brandless” and then also call themselves a Brand. This hubris alone was an emotional and psychological gamble when trying to scale. Is there brand loyalty if you are not a brand? Can angels dance on the head of a pin?

How do you build mass from a fundamental notion of mass-lessness?

Brands are not products. Brands are the people that cluster around products. Brands are no longer simply the brandmark, they are the advocates, fans, Likes, zealots that share the same tastes, values, worldview and aspirations. They walk alike, they talk alike, sometimes they even buy alike.

The new mission is to create a crowd of people around you that becomes so passionate about your success, they create it themselves. In a marketplace filled with a sea of choices, they float your boat.

Second. In the cosmos of merchandising, if you want to be generic at scale you have to squeak past the great gods of Amazon and Walmart. Each of those Brands has their own set of generica whether under the guise of private label or white-shrouded generic. (84% of Walmart customers purchase Walmart brands, rather than big name brands.)

Good luck.

(Note that those who market generics and their soft cousins — private label and house brands — e.g. Target’s Archer Farms, Amazon Elements, Walmart’s “Great Value”, do so by suspending them from their own well-established Brand. Whether they are a branded house or house of brands, they are twigs from the same tree.)

The moral takeaway from Brandless’s fail is that enterprise around people, places or products needs to brand more, not less. (Indeed, Brandless could have branded itself more, and thereby possibly succeeded.)

Current events are proving that companies need to understand that performance marketing and brand marketing are not mutually exclusive. Brands are inherently inclusive. Everyone needs to expand their networks by seeking out and attracting more “people like us.”

What kind of Brand community you are trying to build? Workshop this: If your brand was a city, who would live there, what would it look like, what sounds would you hear, what does it smell like, who won’t not want to live there with you? What things do you celebrate? What things do you abhor?

If you don’t know, you need to find out.

Your brand is not wishy-washy fakery. Your brand is your customers. Brandless tried to create an imperial city as white as a ghost, until it became one.

Contributed to Branding Strategy Insider by: Patrick Hanlon, Author of Primal Branding

The Blake Project Can Help: Disruptive Brand Strategy Workshop

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[torontohypnotherapist]

MAY 1 — GEORGE GURDJIEFF QUOTES

IMPARTIAL ACTION IS THE BASIS OF INNER FREEDOM

"Free will is not to be had for the asking, nor can it be bought in a shop. Impartial action is the basis of inner freedom, the first step towards free will." ~ George Gurdjieff

~ CS Nott “The Teachings of Gurdjieff - A Pupil's Journey” ...

WE CAN NEVER MORE START OVER

Questioner: Mr. Gurdjieff, I would like to ask you a question.

Gurdjieff: Excuse me, please—can you wait? I want to say something to this man. [Indicates another student] Today I can verify something. I know him, I have seen him more than once and at the same time I was not sure that it was really him. It seemed to me that it was not him. That never happens to me. I photograph people. But in my head this photo of him was only half-clear and for several days I said to myself "Why is this?" Today I understand.

[Student replies]: Why, Mr. Gurdjieff?

Gurdjieff: I see your brother over there; I knew not that he was here. I believed that your brother was you and you were you. I had not fixed your brother. But today I see you independently, one on the left, the other on the right, you have nothing in common exterior, but in essence you are very similar. One can wager that it is the same father. Why is everyone laughing? What I say is very normal. Ha! Enough. Today is Thursday and at the same time, Thursday which begins in a new way. It is the Thursday of a sequence of Thursdays that will be of a new quality. The Thursdays before are dead. We can never more start over. It is a different quality of Thursday, with more details. Among others, for this Thursday, several people have said to me: "I cannot fulfill the condition, which has been laid down, to interest and to bring seven people to the work." I had laid down as a condition that only those would come on Thursdays who hoped to be able to bring and to interest seven new people, without explaining to them anything strange about the ideas, interesting them only with the ideas, my ideas, with that which he has studied here, done here, the tools which we have given him and nothing else. Seven persons in six months. That was the first condition. And certain ones have made of me this inquiry: and I reply that he is an idiot who questions me thus. It is not a question of bringing seven people in six months; for if truly one interests a single person in coming, this person can help you in bringing fourteen. It is not difficult. It is not a question of seven. One is enough to begin. Only it must be a person who shall have been really started, well begun, who could interest himself in our ideas. And automatically he shall be able to assist you, you shall be then, you, like a French president—that is to say, you will have nothing to do. He will do everything.

~ George Gurdjieff "Paris/Wartime Meetings" ...

I HAVE SHOWN YOU HOW THE LAW WORKS OUTSIDE; NOW YOU CAN FIND OUT HOW IT WORKS IN YOU

"The three forces or principles, issuing from the Absolute, have created the whole multitude of suns, one of which is our sun. Everything has emanations. The interaction of emanations produces new combinations. This refers to man, to the earth and to the microbe. Each of the suns also emanates, and emanations of the suns, by means of combinations of positive and negative matter, give rise to new formations. The result of one of these combinations is our earth, and the newest combination is our moon.

"After the act of creation, existence and emanations go on. Emanations penetrate everywhere according to their possibilities. Thus emanations also reach man.

"The result of the interaction of emanations is new frictions. The difference between the creative activity of the Absolute and subsequent acts of creation consists in the fact that, as I have said, the Absolute creates from Himself. Only the Absolute has Will; He alone sends forth the three forces from Himself. Subsequent acts of creation proceed mechanically, by means of interaction based on the same Law of Three. No single entity can create by itself—only collective creation is possible.

"The direction of the creative activity of the Absolute proceeding toward man is the direction of momentum. According to the Law of Seven, development can go on only as far as a certain point.

"We have taken the line issuing from the Absolute and passing through us. This line, able to proceed only as far as a certain point, ends in our moon. The moon is the last point of creation on this line.

The result is something like a ladder, and the moon is the base of this ladder. The main points of this line of creation are: Absolute, Sun, Earth, and the last point, Moon. Between these four points there are three octaves: Absolute—Sun; Sun— Earth; Earth—Moon. Each of these points is a do. Between them, at three points, there are, as it were, three machines whose function is to make fa pass into mi.

"All through the cosmic octave the shock at fa must come from outside, and the shock at si comes from inside the do. By means of these, involution proceeds from lop to bottom and evolution from bottom to top. The life of man plays the same role as planets in relation to earth, earth in relation to moon and all suns in relation to our sun.

"The matter which comes from the Absolute is hydrogen, resulting from a combination of carbon, oxygen and nitrogen. One hydrogen combining with another turns it into another kind of hydrogen with its own qualities and density.

"Everything is governed by law—which is very simple. I have shown you how the law works outside; now you can find out how it works in you. In accordance with the law, you can follow either the law of evolution or the law of involution. You must put the outside law inside.

"In our system we are similar to God—threefold. If we consciously receive three matters and send them out, we can construct outside what we like. This is creation. When they are received through us it is the creation of the creator. In this case, all three forces manifest through us and blend outside. Every creation can be either subjective or objective."

~ George Gurdjieff "Views From the Real World" ...

IMAGINE A COUNTRY WHERE EVERYONE CAN BE KING FOR FIVE MINUTES

With self-observation we can experience with appalling clarity how all kinds of wonderful qualities and powers we ascribed to ourselves: consciousness, a permanent and unchangeable I, will, and the power to do, are entirely illusory. How, on the contrary, we consist of many separate, mostly inane, small T‘s, mutually exclusive and incompatible or not knowing one another at all, and which by turns take possession of us; how what we call ‘will ‘ is merely the tyranny of accidental desires; how this causes everything to ‘happen’ with us and how we cannot in the true sense be responsible for our manifestations.

“A man', says Gurdjieff, “is responsible, a machine is not responsible.” The treacherous thing is that all these persons living in us call themselves T. “They consider themselves masters”, says Gurdjieff, “and none wants to recognize another .... Imagine a country where everyone can be king for five minutes and do during these five minutes just what he likes with the whole kingdom. That is our life.” And on another occasion: “A small accidental I may promise something, not to itself but to someone else at a certain moment, simply out of vanity or for amusement. Then it disappears, but the man, that is the whole combination of other I’s who are quite innocent of this, may have to pay for it all his life. It is the tragedy of human being that any small I has the right to sign checks and promissory notes and the man, that is the Whole, has to meet them. People’s whole lives often consist in paying off the promissory notes of small accidental I’s.

~ Martin Ekker "Gurdjieff: The Man and His Work"