#old san juan homes

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I love these ancient colorful homes in San Juan, Puerto Rico. This one was built in 1800, has 7bds, 5ba, and is $2.45M. (Just reduced $140K) As a short term rental, it makes $350K yr., but it could also a primary residence.

This is like being in a villa on a permanent vacation.

In the living room, they featured some of the original stone.

Beautiful dining area.

Looks like 2 glass partitions to the kitchen. I love the lighting.

This is very nice.

One of the beautiful new baths.

This is a bedroom with an en-suite.

It's large and has 2 bds. to accommodate the short term rentals.

And, these are 2 more single bedrooms.

Here's a pool in the middle of the original ancient walls. Look at the skylight. This is amazing.

This looks like a lap pool lit up at night.

And, here it is in the daytime in the outdoor private courtyard.

It's like a private resort.

This is a rooftop deck that overlooks the courtyard- notice the skylights. Love the swings.

What a lovely place to sit with the balcony above.

Lit up at night.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/356-Calle-Luna-Old-San-Juan-PR-00901/2053570425_zpid/

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[auroras-and-daydreams]

I can't believe that at this time next week, I will be home-home on my birthday trip

[6okuto]

i was thinking about oikawa and i just KNOW that he LOVES to be babied. that's just him, yk? like that's totally him and i would love to read about 30 year old professional volleyball player oikawa tooru being babied by his wife

(timeskip, fem!reader) he's just like me fr. i actually wrote something different but there wasn't enough babying so here u go 🥹🙆🏻‍♀️

tooru is one of if not the hardest worker you know, never losing sight of his ambitions and passion. determination lines his veins, and late nights of practice and analysis have seeped into the cartilage between his bones, gluing together what makes tooru oikawa, #17, setter for club athletico san juan.

but it's not oikawa, it's tooru, the boy you met in high school who stumbled down the steps after using a cheesy pick-up line on you and whines when you try to leave his arms for the washroom, who's your husband.

"long day?"

tooru groans and buries himself deeper into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped snug around your middle. he didn't really need to answer—the lit street lights and dim sky outside were answer enough.

holding back a laugh, you comb your fingers through his hair, the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla dancing its way to you. "proud of you, baby."

your husband's voice is quiet, "thank you."

"you want me to run a bath for you?"

"...maybe later?"

"m'kay. you wanna stay here for a while?"

"yeah." his fingers trace hearts across your back, and when he pouts, you feel it against your skin. "i'm so tired."

pouting too in response, you press a kiss to his head and rub his back. "i know, baby, at least you're home now."

"but then i have to leave you tomorrow."

"and then you come back to me again tomorrow."

"but then i leave again—oh my god, what kind of sick world do we live in?" he whines, letting out a noise that could be described as a choked sob.

and this time, you let yourself laugh. "aw, my poor tooru,"—you cradle his head against you —"the horrors of a job have caught you."

"what if we worked somewhere together?" he lifts his head to look at you.

you raise a brow. "i love you, you're the light of my life, but you are not getting me on that court."

he gapes. "betrayal from my own wife?"

"okay, then come to my job."

"...well—"

"betrayal from my own husband?" you gasp and tooru pouts again—though at this point you're not sure if the original pout ever left to begin with.

it's still just as endearing, and your expression softens. "you'll be fine, 'ru. i'll baby you as much as you want every time you come home."

his pout pulls even more at his lips, and you mirror it. bringing your hands up, you hold his face and squish his cheeks with your words— "i, tooru oikawa, love my wife and my job, and i'm a strong, independent guy who can do anything."

"d'you rilly hafta hol' m'face?"

"it's for the effect and affirmations," you tease, before your amusement softens to something else. "how long are you out tomorrow?"

tooru's jaw drops as much as it can with you holding him in place. "why would you—9 hours!"

and before the dread of leaving you can fully take hold, you kiss his forehead. the apple of his left cheek, the right, then his eyes, his nose, both sides of his jaw, his lips—all with a resounding mwah!

tooru's arms cling tighter, and he leans into each kiss, always chasing your affection though he doesn't have to. you smile at the flush dappled across his face. "see? a kiss for each hour."

he opens his mouth to answer, but then the pout comes back. "each half hour at least. each 15 minutes—"

"tooru." you snort. "what is that, like, 36 kisses?"

"okay, a kiss for each minute."

"babe—"

"you know how hard i train, i know you watched my interview."

and you really don't think you'll make it to 100, much less 500 kisses, but you'll try anyway, even if after the first one, tooru says, "one."

you snicker as you place the next four, and he counts them before pointing out, "you know, kissing your husband is way easier than doing rdl's."

"yes, yes, i know, honey." you softly laugh and press another to the spot between his brows. "i'm not complaining."

he counts again—six, seven, eight, nine—and you remember the determination and patience of oikawa was never separate from tooru, especially not when it came to you.

[ghelgheli]

The epoch of hysteria between 1656 and 1658 found its catalyst in the spontaneous, detailed testimony of someone who I solely re-member here with her chosen name, la Estanpa. Once a linda niña (pretty girl), the now seventy-year-old mestiza found herself apprehended by court magistrates for suspected sodomy in 1656. After initially denying the accusations, an elderly and fatigued Estanpa relented, admitting to having dressed ‘like a woman’ since she was seven and committed the nefarious sin for ‘more than forty years’. Encapsulated within her testimony and larger trial are glimmers of an underground trans feminine world in seventeenth-century Mexico City, of which Estanpa served as a pillar. Coinciding with Catholic feast days, Estanpa and her friends organised parties at changing secret locations, ranging from the secluded countryside to individuals’ homes in the neighbourhoods of San Juan de la Penitencia or San Pablo. Facilitated by trans feminine hostesses, these lively parties consisted of illicit dancing, singing, drinking chocolate and of course inevitable quarrelling over guapos (what they affectionately called the men who loved them), with whom they would eventually retire into rooms for sex. For elders like Estanpa, these parties were also an opportunity to recall ‘the deeds and the conquests of their far-away youth, their lost beauty, and old-time pleasures’.In each other’s company, this cohort referred to one another as niñas (girls), each taking on feminine names following the same convention as ‘la Estanpa’, a title said to have originated from a ‘very graceful lady’. What is certain is that the trans feminine figure held a distinct and explicitly threatening place in the Spanish colonial imaginary. Within underground Mexican subculture, these individuals shared myriad cultural signifiers – in naming practices, celebration of holidays and their habitation in the same neighbourhoods and sometimes homes – that suggest they also established deep-rooted community networks. Perhaps most importantly, despite coordinated and unrelenting legal suppression, trans feminine people would continue to exist and resist across colonial New Spain.

Jamey Jesperson, Trans Misogyny in the Colonial Archive: Re-membering Trans Feminine Life and Death in New Spain, 1604–1821 [doi]

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 13

Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: misogyny. Violence. Villain shit. punishment!  i hate spoiling with warnings, but if violence against women triggers you do NOT read this!!!   chapter map

A ningún hombre consiento Que dicte mi sentencia Sólo Dios puede juzgarme… [I consent to no man dictating my sentence, for only God may judge me] -Rosalía, A ningún hombre

The more time goes on, the more certain you are that there is no way Juan will keep his word. Anything could be happening to Paul. You have plenty of time to think about it, your wrists bound behind your back, and your ankles too, laying on the floor of the fiend’s bedroom. 

It is full dark, by the time Juan joins you, smug as the cat who drank all the cream. Though the hacienda is wired for electricity, he favors lighting the tapers in a silver candelabra on a table, maybe so you cannot so clearly see the side of his face sporting quite the eggplant purple bruise. His lip is split, and you notice he moves stiffly. You take some satisfaction in knowing Paul gave him a good thrashing–for all the good it did the two of you.

“Y/n, y/n, y/n. You brought this upon yourself, you know. Why must you always do things the hard way?” 

You reply with a bad word, which despite your gag he seems to interpret correctly. It just makes him laugh, a terrible sound filled with dark promise. He crosses the room to you slowly, his heels clicking on the wood floors, his dress spurs jangling. It gives you a good look from the vantage point of the rug at his extravagantly tooled boots, their pointed silver tips gleaming threateningly at your eye level.

Your eyes travel higher, up the long expanse of his lean legs, to a leather riding crop resting lightly against his thigh. The sight of it fills you with a cold dread; against your will, a fine trembling begins in your bones. 

He tilts his head, looking upon you like a painting in a museum he appreciates. “So beautiful. My spirited little y/n.” He lifts the hem of your skirt slightly with the tip of the crop. You try to squirm away, but all you can do in this state really is wriggle like a furious little worm. It makes him smile cruelly down at you, the candlelight glinting in his pit-black eyes like the fires of hell. 

“You know…my father used to say no horse is unbreakable. You just must find the right balance, between the carrot and the stick. I tried to offer you the carrot, y/n. You cannot say I didn’t try.” 

Considering how his father died…you’re not sure he gave the best advice on horses–or women.

You answer with yet another expletive, and your captor rolls his eyes at you. Maybe it’s less fun for him when you can’t talk back intelligibly, for he reaches down to loosen the cloth in your mouth. “Everyone is still at the fiesta. There’s no one here to hear you scream,” he informs you. His hands are deceptively gentle, as he touches your bruised cheek. 

“Borrachio hit me.”

“Well, I’m sure you were asking for it.”   

That is the essential distillation of all this. Women do as they’re told–or they get what’s coming to them. Tears sting the corners of your eyes. To think, you were so close to making it to freedom. You should have taken Paul and ran back to San Francisco after your father died–but you never really dreamed Juan would take things this far. 

“You cannot do this, Juan.” 

“I can’t?” his obsidian eyes shine with sharp amusement for you. 

“Even if Paul isn’t my husband–that does not make you my master!” 

He chuckles darkly at this. “So finally, you admit it.” 

“I admit nothing.” 

“Hmm. Still lying to me, I see. I won’t have that, y/n.” 

With the tip of the crop he flips your skirts up to your waist, leaving you bare but for the thin cotton of your panties. “No!” you protest, but of course he ignores you, tracing the leather ever so lightly over the backs of your thighs with a wistful sigh. Your skin quivers at his touch, and you’ve never felt so helpless as in that moment. 

With the rough nap of the carpet pressing into your cheek you start to cry quietly. You cry for yourself, and you cry for Paul, who survived so much just to be locked up in a cell in a tiny town in Napa county, probably being beaten by Juan’s paid men, because he had the unfortunate luck of meeting you on a bus.

Juan ignores you, staring down at your prone form with a voracious triumph in his gaze. 

“I must admit, it would be a shame to scar up that magnificent culo.” 

In a sudden, violent feat of strength he rips open the back of your dress, leaving your shoulders bare. 

You know what he’s going to do, and you can’t stop yourself from crying harder. 

“Who do you belong to, y/n?” His voice is smooth as silk, the very definition of deceptive temptation. It's not a trap you'll ever fall into again.

You know what the punishment will be, but some damnable thing inside you will not allow you to relent just yet. “Vete al diablo.” Go to hell. 

The first strike across your shoulders is crisp and perfect and stings like fire. 

More tears spill from your eyes, but you grit your teeth, snarling into the floor like a wild woodland animal. 

He soothes you after with a gentle caress of the leather down your spine that makes you quiver. 

“Who?” 

“Not you.” 

Again, he strikes, and it hurts even more the second time. You taste the burn of bile in the back of your throat. You hope this rug was expensive–you’re going to bleed and throw up on it. 

“Who?” 

“Paul Sutton.” 

You speak your truth, because you realize you don’t really expect to make it out of this alive–and his name lives on your lips like your favorite prayer. He fills your heart, your bones, your every cell. You love that man, and even if you never got to tell him…this is the only way left to you, to honor him. 

You lose track of how many times Juan hits you after that, the flayed skin of your back become one fiery expanse of excruciating pain. You do break then, weeping into the rug beneath you, screaming until your throat is raw.   

“Puta estupida. I would have given you everything!” Juan snarls, and you can’t help but think to yourself that you have broken him. His sanity, at least, and you cry out as he hauls you up by your hair, slinging you unceremoniously over the heavy wood table. “I love you, and this is how you repay me?” 

You do not know where you get the wherewithal, to laugh bitterly as he fists your ruffled skirts, hiking them above your waist once more. “This is not love,” you say through the sand in your throat to the hard wood beneath your cheek. “And I will hate you until the day I die.” 

“Hate me, love me.” He wrenches your panties down your hips, leaving you bare to the world, exposed to his harsh hands and whatever else he intends to give you. “Either way, you will be mine.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Exactly. I will lock you up and breed you here until your belly is swollen heavy with my child. See how far you run away then.”

“I would rather die!” you snarl, struggling fruitlessly to get away. 

He just laughs, smacking your ass with his big hand before pinning you into the edge of the table with his powerful thighs. You feel him working himself behind you, the tinkling of silver as he unbuckles his belt, the jerking motions of eagerly undoing buttons.  

It’s as though your focus narrows to a pinpoint, as you look at the papers upon his desk in front of you, a golden pen, and the ornate base of the candelabra. The thought you’ve had so many times throughout your life echoes through your brain: All it takes is one good fire…

With the last of your strength you lash out with your body, your head knocking the candles towards the window–and the fine brocade draperies that hang from the ceiling to the floor. You watch with fascination as the little flames touch the old fabric–and erupt as they climb in a column of fire. 

With his cock in his hand Juan watches this transpire, frozen with horror. “What have you done?”

He rushes to try to beat out the flames, but somehow just makes it worse.

The flames have spread from the drapes to the ancient wood wainscoting, the oil paintings, the wooden furniture, and the beams in the ceiling. The heat is utterly unbearable, and soon you are surrounded by a circle of fire, all that wealth and heritage Juan is so proud of going up in flames. 

“You stupid, stupid whore!” He grabs your hair, smacking your head against the desk, leaving you to senselessly slide to the floor from the table. “You’d rather die? Then have your wish.” 

He dashes for the door, leaving you to burn in this circle of Hell of your own making. 

—-----------

*full credit to @treedaddymcpuffpuff for the angry caterpillar reference! *fire divider by animatedglittergraphics **culo - ass ***puta estupida - stupid whore

[softeninglooks]

iwaoi week 2024 | day 5: there was only one bed, argentina/california

tooru’s travel backpack slumbered against the foot of the spare bed placed in hajime’s room, emptied of the numerous items they had faithfully carried all the way from san juan to irvine, california. it had been a long journey, and an even longer time since they had last hugged this tightly. when tooru’s tall frame had walked through the automatic gates of the airport, the hours that had separated him from hajime had dissolved into a short-lived memory. the time they had spent separate from one another had shrank to nothingness, the distance had been crossed in a few strides - there they were again, back at the airport, but no longer saying goodbye.

tooru had pulled hajime close and grinned into his shoulder, while hajime had patted him hard on the back.

“long time no see, iwa-chan,” tooru had taken a step back to look his friend up and down. “look how much you’ve grown,” he’d mused to humor hajime. “but you haven’t grown as tall as me yet.”

“and you’re still as annoying as ever,” hajime had feigned anger, his eyes smiling back at tooru.

hajime had driven them back to campus with the car he rented in the u.s., with tooru pointing out every single little change that he noticed about him. he could drive, he had tanned, his english accent had a subtle american melody to it. he was still as scary-looking, though, which had hajime laugh and threaten tooru that he would abandon him along the road.

they were back together as if nothing had changed (nothing had, really), and the same old warmth between them had rekindled, naturally, like the gentle flames of a fire growing greedier from the wind’s touch.

they were twenty, both a world away from everything that they had known before - but the way back to one another was one that could never be lost, for tooru and hajime. it was a certainty without question, a truth.

hajime had shown tooru his bedroom, in which a spare bed had been placed for the newcomer. hajime had spent his free afternoon cooking so that tooru - who must have been tired from the trip no matter how much he protested, hajime knew him too well - could have a quiet evening before they travelled around the state.

the inviting smell of cooked rice had welcomed tooru into the lightly-furnished bedroom, where a godzilla poster overhanging hajime’s bed had had tooru crack a smile. hajime’s numerous physical therapy books were lined upon a bookcase, his notebooks placed on a tidy desk, and a volley ball rested in the corner of the room. like tooru, hajime had grown in more ways than one, but tooru would’ve guessed that the room was his even if he hadn’t known it.

after going on a tour of the campus, they ate heartily in hajime’s bedroom, tooru praising the salmon onigiri and miso soup that his friend had prepared. they teased and laughed, bickered and declared war on each other.

“when we fight, i’ll defeat you,” hajime warned, pointing his chopsticks at tooru. “i’m not giving up on that.”

“you’re on, iwa-chan. my team has been doing really well this season though, so beware. i’ll be the one to beat you,” tooru’s eyes narrowed playfully, but the sharp determination in his voice reminded hajime of all the times that tooru had impressed him, all the faith he had put into him.

“and i’m doing all i can to get stronger here.” hajime showed tooru that he hadn’t forgotten their promise either.

“we’ll fight on the world stage then, iwa-chan.” tooru smiled at hajime, fierce as ever.

underneath their lifelong rivalry, beat the pulse of care and trust, blind belief in one another. hajime and tooru had grown together, raised each other up through thick and thin. this was the only way they knew how to push forward, be it on a japanese high school court, or in different corners of the world. some feelings had been left unsaid, but with tooru and hajime reunited again, they erupted through passing touches, playful smiles, a home-made meal.

and a shared bed.

because the spare bed the campus had provided for hajime’s visitor didn’t last for long.

hajime and tooru found themselves with a broken bed, tooru almost crashing through the underlying slats as they couldn’t handle his athlete’s weight.

tooru had shrieked out of surprise and gripped the rims of the bed, holding on for dear life while the helpless piece of furniture had crumbled underneath him.

after the initial shock, however, laughter bubbled up in their throats. of course something had to go terribly wrong.

“iwa-chan!”

“what?”

“what did you do?!” tooru complained, part laughing, part whining.

“i didn’t do anything. YOU broke the bed!” hajime pointed an accusing finger at tooru, but the smile that he was struggling against gave him away. “what am i going to tell the college?”

“just tell them to get better beds! their beds threaten the safety AND lives of visitors!” tooru tried to sound intimidating, but there was laughter in his eyes. “what are we going to do now?”

“there’s nothing to do. sleep on the floor.”

“iwa-chan! i’m your guest.”

“fine, i’ll lend you some bedsheets to spread on the floor,” hajime deadpanned.

“no!”

“then…” hajime looked around to assess the state of his bedroom. the idea had crossed both their minds - a timid desire that they both felt coiling deep within their chests. as much time as they tried to save time, they really did want it. hajime’s hand flew to the back of his neck, then down between his shoulder blades, nails digging nervously into the fabric of his black t-shirt. “whatever. let’s share my bed. there should be enough room if you don’t move around in your sleep, shittykawa.”

“i didn’t even get a chance to, and you’re already insulting me, iwa-chan!”

“shut up and get your ass into bed,” hajime grumbled, pretending to busy himself with the broken bed to hide the flush that had risen to his cheeks.

a quick glance behind his shoulder told hajime that tooru had obliged. he sat on his friend’s bed, wearing the grey doraemon t-shirt that he slept in and his hair still wet from the shower he had taken. it reminded him of their childhood sleepovers, when they would peek out of the window to stargaze and tooru would tell stories about aliens and undiscovered galaxies.

hajime joined him, taking a seat on the other side of the bed with an awkward edge to his movements.

there had been sleepy bus rides on the way home from competitions before, staying up late at each other’s house and high-fiving or patting each other’s shoulder after winning points. but this was new, as much as both tooru and hajime pretended that it wasn’t.

“so,” tooru began, slipping onto the bed after hajime had turned off the lights and occupied his side. “here i finally am. in irvine.”

“there you are. late as usual, i visited you in argentina last year,” hajime’s reproachful tone joked from the other side of the bed.

“no fair, i have a busy schedule, iwa-chan.”

they were all too aware of each other’s presence. the sound of breaths coming out as amused exhales, their bodies shifting to adjust to the mattress and leave each other enough room. little by little, the wall of timidity between them was taken apart brick by brick, until they could fit back into their own bodies, and the brushing of arms and legs became lucky accidents.

“but i’m glad i made it here. who would’ve known we’d both be so crazy as to move overseas.”

“issei and takahiro weren’t that surprised.”

“no, they weren’t.”

tooru laughed and hajime rolled onto his back, feeling tooru’s arm next to his, sending ripples of warmth down his own skin.

“it’s all going to work out, somehow,” hajime added, his voice laced with a soft tiredness - exhaustion at the end of a busy day.

“it better. i can retire only after i beat you.”

“already thinking about retiring, old man?” hajime nudged tooru’s side, but was trapped before he could pull away. tooru caught hajime’s forearm, holding it down tightly against his abdomen.

“i got you, iwa-chan!” he triumphed through a chuckle, resisting against hajime’s attempts to wriggle his arm loose.

“careful, i’ll kick you off the bed, shittykawa.”

“how mean,” tooru let go. he turned toward hajime, his face relaxed and earnest, smile fading into peacefulness. “but it’s good to be here.”

“yeah,” hajime nodded slightly, and the fire spread to his cheeks this time. he was thankful that tooru could not see it in the dark - his barriers breaking down, as tooru’s hand brushed against his shoulder.

“thanks for the dinner, i loved the onigiri. you’ve grown into a proper adult, hajime.”

“it’s nothing.”

hajime reached back, hesitantly.

as they fell asleep, stomachs filled with a dinner made with love and freed from the constraint of time zones, their arms were pressed against one another, without either of them willing to pull away from the touch.

[artisthomes]

Home of Pablo Casals in Old San Juan, San Juan, Puerto Rico

[immemorymag]

My name is Diego Alonso Vignon, but my artistic name is Diego A. Vignon. I was born on the 1st of August 1993, in Mexico City. When I was barely one year old, my parents, my siblings, and I fled from the police, living in hiding in rural areas on the shores of Lake Chapala until I was thirteen years old, marking my life forever. At the age of sixteen I began to run away from home on several occasions avoiding school responsibilities and traveling through the extensive Mexican territory, forcing my family to put me in a mental institution for several months. The first camera with which I interact in my life I stole it (something I regret today), in a photographic store in San Francisco, California at the age of eighteen. When I turned 19 I was accepted at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) in Mexico City to study Philosophy and Literature. I have produced various visual series such as “Codeína, Fe y Genealogía” (Mexico, 2021), which was awarded the production prize at the XIX Photography Biennial and nominated for the Marco Pesaresi Award, as well as my unfinished and unpublished series titled “Twelve Visions of heaven Under the Same Solar Cycle” (Doce visiones del cielo bajo un mismo ciclo solar). I also exhibited my work in the Museum of Centro de la Imagen (Image center), Juan Soriano Gallery and very recently in Gallery Gänge and F-stop fest in Leipzig, Germany. In 2022 I was also invited to be part of the list PICS (Contemporary Image Platform). I currently live in between Mexico City, Berlin and Madrid.

[chaosqueery]

okay, so I still don’t like the cheating aspect at all. Really wish they would have just had Eddie break up with Marisol when he kicked her out. But how they are going about Eddie processing his stuff with Shannon, well, I’m intrigued. And I didn’t think I would feel that way bringing her up again. And all because Tim’s bringing up Vertigo now.

That movie is straight up bonkers.

The entire plot of Vertigo under the cut so don’t read if you don’t want to be spoiled. Also, content warnings for themes involving suicide and murder.

To those who don’t know about Vertigo: It’s one of Hitchcock’s more famous films about a man, Scottie, a retired detective who is convinced into doing one last job for an old college friend, Gavin. He has to follow Gavin’s wife who claims she’s been possessed (by her great-grandmother who was the mistress of a wealthy man and has his child, only for him to take the child away from her, after which she killed herself) and trying to harm herself. After following her around for a while, Scottie winds up saving the Gavin’s wife, Madeline, from trying to drown herself in San Francisco Bay. She goes to thank him the next day and the more time he winds up spending with her, the more obsessed with her he gets, thinking he’s in love.

After she has nightmares that suggest she might actually be possessed my her great-grandmother, Scottie takes Madeline to Mission San Juan Bautista, the ghosts childhood home. Despite just declaring their love for each other, Madeline runs up to the top of the bell tower and falls to her death. Scottie tried to run up the stairs to stop her but blacked out due to his vertigo and extreme fear of heights (the reason he retired in the first place).

After being ruled a suicide, the coroner lays the guilt on Scottie for not doing more to stop her from jumping. He’s so depressed he’s near catatonic and starts imagining seeing Madeline all the places she typically went when he was originally following her. Until one day he actually does see someone who looks almost exactly like her, just different clothes, hair, and her name was Judy.

it’s then that it’s revealed to the audience that Judy was an actress hired to stage the suicide of Gavin’s wife. Scottie was never following the real Madeline, but Judy making it look like she was “possessed”, and when she ran up the bell tower, Gavin pushed his dead wife out the window instead. Gavin knew that Scottie would black out and not make it to the top of the stairs to see the switch.

Having already been in love with him, Judy doesn’t reveal her involvement with the murder. She keeps seeing him and he just becomes more obsessed with turning her into Madeline. He makes her wear her clothes, get her to dye her hair the same color, and she does it all because she wants him to love her, even if it isn’t really her. The Madeline he knew never even existed, she was just a romantic idealization of what he thought he wanted.

Eventually, Scottie pieces together who Judy was and takes her to the mission to get her to confess and confront his madness. He was trying to recreate the scene to shock himself out of it. He takes her up the stairs, conquering his fear heights, and acting like he’s gonna kill her. Once they make it to the top, she admits to everything and begs for forgiveness. They embrace, but then a nun comes in suddenly and startles Judy, causing her to fall to her death. But hey, Scottie’s cured of his fear of heights.

so yeah, that’s the general plot of Vertigo. Ummmmm…

I know they aren’t bringing some murder plot into this. And I don’t think this Kim lady is an actress made up to look like Shannon. Aside from being drawn to someone he imagines as a lost love, I don’t really expect them to follow much of the plot at all. Mostly it will be a reflection of the themes in the story and the goal of shocking Eddie out of his habit of trying to make every person he dates into Shannon and his need to mentally relive what happened to her.

There is also a part for Buck in all this. In Vertigo, Scottie has a long-time friend and ex-fiancé named, Midge. He spends a lot of time with her and she’s always trying to help him get to the root of his acrophobia and vertigo. It’s comfortable and they act like they’re married. She represents who he should be looking at, a love based in reality rather than a fantasy created for him. Something he is too lost in his obsession to see.

Spark notes did a lot better of discussing the themes than I would have, so I am just copying and pasting some shit, then adding my own notes to how they relate to Eddie’s storyline. This is the page I’m taking these notes from (x)

We all know that Eddie has worn a mask the entire time he’s been on the show, only allowing a few peaks underneath here and there. He tries to act like he has it all together while simultaneously harboring all kinds of inner turmoil. We’ve seen the more he pushes it down, the bigger his explosion winds up being. Despite the emotional work he’s done, he still hasn’t broken the habit of trying to replace Shannon or come close to moving on from her death.

Buck, like Midge is to Scottie, is Eddie’s constant. While Midge is aware that she still has feelings for Scottie, Buck remains oblivious. His mask is that of a platonic friend and companion, much more comfortable being there for his friend than really looking at who they are to each other. Instead he’ll be more intent on getting Eddie to see the truth about the Shannon/Kim fantasy, all the while loving him unconditionally because he’s the only one who can really see under Eddie’s mask.

Shanon had her own mask when she was alive, trying to be the wife and mother everyone wanted her to be. Even her memory was painted over with this idealized version of her, and it put so much pressure on her she lost focus of the person she wanted to be. She eventually realized she had to let go of this “perfect wife” so she could work on what was more important to her. To be a good mom to Chris. But Eddie never got the chance to let go of the “perfect wife” because she died before he could.

Kim’s mask is pretty obvious.

I’ll say it again that I think there is something else going on in Eddie’s head to make him suddenly start seeing Kim as Shannon. In Vertigo, they used the same actress for Judy and “Madeline” because she was the same person. Shannon is dead. I do not believe they are throwing a fake death trope at us. But why didn’t they just cast someone who looked a lot like her? It would have been more believable. But i think he is actually seeing her like that, but she might look totally different. Maybe there is something in his brain making him confused, thinking he’s back to when him and Shannon were last together, but it only happens when he actually sees Kim (like maybe he actually thought he was going out with Marisol too, until Kim showed up). Of course this is probably just me desperately trying to figure out how carelessly Eddie’s cheating on Marisol. Seriously, no guilt? Eddie?

No matter why these visions of Shannon are happening, it’s pretty clear that it’s about shocking Eddie’s system out of this endless cycle he’s found himself in. Reliving her death over and over again, keeping him in the fantasy of who she was instead of confronting what was wrong between them, and not allowing himself to look at what’s actually good for him. Or who.

Buck is the love that’s actually real. When all of this is over and Eddie has gotten the chance to really say goodbye to Shannon, he’ll finally be able to see this relationship he’s been building for years. The person he loves inside and out, to the core, without needing to project any idealistic persona on him.

Marisol’s purpose? To startle Kim out of a bell tower (in the finale “All Fall Down”)? Seriously, though, I think she mainly just there to highlight how lost Eddie is in this. To do something like cheat would take A LOT and it keeps the seriousness of the situation in perspective.

[alessamp4]

    • ° .   *   ࿐   now  entering  the  apartment  building  is  𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚  𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨 , a twenty5  year  old  who  is  currently a  tattoo  artist. netizens  have  said  they  seem withdrawn but  others  have  said  they’re earnest !  gossip  aside,  we’re  sure  they’re  bound  to  be  a  fan  favorite  ! ♡ young  miko,  lesbian,  cis  woman,  she/her. 

* 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

full name: alessandra elena manchillo. nickname(s): ale, al, alessa. age: twenty5. gender: cis woman. sexuality: homosexual, homoromantic. socially identifies as an "out lesbian." occupation: tattoo artist specializing in black linework and black + grey portraits place of birth: san juan, puerto rico. ethnicity: puerto rican. height: 5'11 spoken languages: spanish (fluent,) english (fluent,) korean (conversational, most fluent when discussing her work) zodiac: cancer. character inspos: fiorenza from i kissed a girl, carina deluca from grey's anatomy.

* 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞.

ale  is  born  in  the  puerto  rican  capital  of  san  juan  and  spends  her  childhood  there  before  moving  to  new  york  with  an  aunt  for  middle  and  high  school.  her  parents,  not  able  to  readily  join  her  as  they  raise  her  younger  siblings  back  home,  encourage  her  independence  and  send  what  they  can  to  support  ale  and  her  aunt  as  they  run  a  local  corner  bodega  in  the  south  bronx  area. 

ale  does  poorly  in  school,  enjoying  the  friends  she  makes  but  a  victim  of  falling  in  with  the  wrong  crowd  far  too  often.  though  a  good  kid  at  heart,  she  finds  herself  doodling  in  a  notebook  far  too  often  during  in-school  suspensions  that  come  all  too  easily  to  her.  cutting  class,  smoking  in  the  stairway,  and  one  particularly  notable  instance  in  the  9th  grade  where  she  gets  into  her  first  and  only  fight  when  a  classmate  calls  her  something  she  wouldn't  dare  repeat.  secure  in  her  sexuality,  having  come  out  at  the  tender  age  of  14,  ale  lets  a  lot  slide—  but  not  attacks  on  her  most  sacred  identity.

she  finishes  her  senior  year  by  the  skin  of  her  teeth  and  by  then  is  already  giving  stick  and  pokes  in  the  girls'  bathrooms.  she's  dyed  her  hair  silver  for  the  first  time  and  experiments  with  whatever  she  can  add  to  her  school  uniform  to  make  her  feel  more  herself.  her  aunt  takes  her  for  her  first  tattoo  at  17,  her  mom's  name  on  her  arm,  and  ale  realizes  this  is  what  she's  needed  her  whole  life  to  feel  complete.

she  takes  on  an  apprenticeship  at  the  parlor  uptown,  practicing  on  anything  and  anyone  who  lets  her.  she's  covered  from  head  to  toe  by  the  time  she  goes  pro  at  20,  and  is  the  youngest  tattooer  at  the  parlor.  she  travels  for  her  work  after  recognition  of  her  incredible  black  and  grey  portraits  go  viral  on  tik  tok,  and  discovers  that  traveling  the  outside  world  gives  her  a  high  like  no  other.  south  korea,  a  new  frontier  for  tattooing  techniques,  beckons  to  her,  and  ale  is  all  too  eager  to  start  her  next  adventure.

* 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬, 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡.

ale  is  a  earnest  girl  at  heart,  quiet  but  still  eager  to  be  involved,  tending  to  keep  to  herself  at  first  until  she's  made  a  friend  or  two  she  can  hide  behind  (despite  her  above-average  stature.)  she  tends  to  come  across  as  cold  or  too-cool  but  often  explains  it  just  as  social  anxiety  and  awkwardness  snksns.  she  is  laid  back  and  brings  a  calming  energy  to  the  circles  she  frequents,  peacefully  cheerful  and  eager  to  bring  a  smile  to  others'  faces  with  her  shamelessly  stupid  sense  of  humor.  she  enjoys  partying  and  is  passionate  about  art  and  music,  often  loosening  up  after  a  few  drinks  or  a  smoke  and  able  to  carry  on  quite  the  debate  on  the  topics  of  choosing.  a  romantic  and  a  flirt,  she  calls  herself  a  textbook  golden  retriever  girlfriend,  however,  she'll  often  omit  the  parts  where  she's  perhaps  a  bit  too  friendly  and  has  been  critiqued  for  her  wandering  eye.  despite  her  quiet  nature,  ale's  greatest  vice  are  beautiful  women,  and  she  makes  it  no  guess  that  she  enjoys  the  feeling  of  the  chase.  monogamy  has  been  a  touchy  topic  for  her,  both  from  fear  of  commitment  and  fear  of  emotional  intimacy,  but  a  contradictory  desire  for  both  these  things  as  ale  has  immense  love  to  give. 

* 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

tattoo clients!

a confidant/good influence

her "comfort blanket" friend that she seeks out in social settings

i will think of more i promise!

[simply-ivanka]

"The only man who could have caught that ball just hit it." - Remembering Willie Howard Mays

“Mays is the only man in baseball I’d pay to see play.” — Ty Cobb

“Willie Mays is the greatest ballplayer I’ve ever seen. I never saw Joe DiMaggio play, but if Joe DiMaggio was better than Willie Mays, he belongs in Heaven.” — Roberto Clemente

“Outside of Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays is the greatest all-around baseball player of my time. Certainly, he’s been the most daring. Mays would steal home, a tough play and one in which you’ve got a great chance to look bad. Willie didn’t even think of that, he’d just go. Nine times out of ten, he’d make it.” — Mickey Mantle

“You used to think if the score was 5-0, [Mays] would hit a five-run homer.” — Reggie Jackson

“[Mays] scooped the ball up at the base of the 406-foot sign, whirled and fired. It came in on one bounce, directly in front of the plate, and into the glove of catcher Tom Haller, who put it on the astonished Willie Stargell. It was described by old-timers as the greatest throw ever made in ancient Forbes Field.” — Bob Stevens, San Francisco Chronicle, August 25, 1965

“I couldn’t believe Mays could throw that far. I figured there had to be a relay. Then I found out there wasn’t. He’s too good for this world.” — Willie Stargell

“They invented the All-Star Game for Willie Mays.” — Ted Williams

“Willie Mays, to me, was the best ballplayer I ever saw in my life. …Nobody in the history of baseball is going to see anyone like Willie Mays. Everybody loved Willie in the clubhouse. Willie used to do a lot of things for different players, especially the rookies. Willie used to take players to clothing stores to buy them clothes. Sometimes he would get free clothes, shoes, and stuff, and give them to the players. He was like the mother of the team.” - Juan Marichal

"Willie Mays was to me the greatest player I ever watched. People ask me that, and I don't hesitate....he could have been an All-Star shortstop, that's how good an athlete he was...he could run backwards as fast as he could forward." - Don Zimmer

"If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases, and performed a miracle in the field every day, I'd still look you right in the eye and tell you that Willie was better” - Leo Durocher

"The best Major League ballplayer I ever saw was Willie Mays. Ruth beat you with the bat. Ted Williams beat you with the bat. Joe DiMaggio beat you with the bat, his glove and his arm. But Willie Mays could beat you with the bat, with power, his glove, his arm and with the running. He could beat you any way that's possible." - Buck O'Neil

“Hopefully, they can say, ‘There goes the best baseball player in the world.’ I honestly believe I did everything in baseball that a baseball player can do, and I did it with love.” — Willie Mays

[blackwaterads]

✂           "believe  nothing  that  you  hear,  and  only  half  of  what  you  see."

blackwater, colorado  is  a  small,  old  mining  town,  with  a  history  that  still  haunts  the  land,  looming  like  an  ever-present  thick  fog  over  the  otherwise  sunny  town.  against  the  backdrop  of  the  idyllic  san  juan  mountains,  the  people  of  this  rural  town  struggle  to  balance  their  everyday  lives  with  the  unique  struggles  of  a  cursed  town.  things  go  bump  in  the  night,  leaves  rustle  where  no  one  stands,  a  voice  whispers  your  name  when  you  are  completely  alone—  the  veil  between  realms  has  worn  thin,  creating  a  beacon  for  mystifying  activity  &  supernatural  creatures.  and  on  top  of  all  of  it  are  the  bewildering  tales  of  a  dark  entity,  deep  in  the  woods,  who  barters  hollow  riches  for  the  price  of  your  soul  ...

✂ home page           mobile navigation           plot & summary

[klemannlee]

"The only man who could have caught that ball just hit it." - Remembering Willie Howard Mays

“Mays is the only man in baseball I’d pay to see play.” — Ty Cobb

“Willie Mays is the greatest ballplayer I’ve ever seen. I never saw Joe DiMaggio play, but if Joe DiMaggio was better than Willie Mays, he belongs in Heaven.” — Roberto Clemente

“Outside of Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays is the greatest all-around baseball player of my time. Certainly, he’s been the most daring. Mays would steal home, a tough play and one in which you’ve got a great chance to look bad. Willie didn’t even think of that, he’d just go. Nine times out of ten, he’d make it.” — Mickey Mantle

“You used to think if the score was 5-0, [Mays] would hit a five-run homer.” — Reggie Jackson

“[Mays] scooped the ball up at the base of the 406-foot sign, whirled and fired. It came in on one bounce, directly in front of the plate, and into the glove of catcher Tom Haller, who put it on the astonished Willie Stargell. It was described by old-timers as the greatest throw ever made in ancient Forbes Field.” — Bob Stevens, San Francisco Chronicle, August 25, 1965

“I couldn’t believe Mays could throw that far. I figured there had to be a relay. Then I found out there wasn’t. He’s too good for this world.” — Willie Stargell

“They invented the All-Star Game for Willie Mays.” — Ted Williams

“Willie Mays, to me, was the best ballplayer I ever saw in my life. …Nobody in the history of baseball is going to see anyone like Willie Mays. Everybody loved Willie in the clubhouse. Willie used to do a lot of things for different players, especially the rookies. Willie used to take players to clothing stores to buy them clothes. Sometimes he would get free clothes, shoes, and stuff, and give them to the players. He was like the mother of the team.” - Juan Marichal

"Willie Mays was to me the greatest player I ever watched. People ask me that, and I don't hesitate....he could have been an All-Star shortstop, that's how good an athlete he was...he could run backwards as fast as he could forward." - Don Zimmer

"If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases, and performed a miracle in the field every day, I'd still look you right in the eye and tell you that Willie was better” - Leo Durocher

"The only man who could have caught that ball just hit it." - Remembering Willie Howard Mays

“Mays is the only man in baseball I’d pay to see play.” — Ty Cobb

“Willie Mays is the greatest ballplayer I’ve ever seen. I never saw Joe DiMaggio play, but if Joe DiMaggio was better than Willie Mays, he belongs in Heaven.” — Roberto Clemente

“Outside of Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays is the greatest all-around baseball player of my time. Certainly, he’s been the most daring. Mays would steal home, a tough play and one in which you’ve got a great chance to look bad. Willie didn’t even think of that, he’d just go. Nine times out of ten, he’d make it.” — Mickey Mantle

“You used to think if the score was 5-0, [Mays] would hit a five-run homer.” — Reggie Jackson

“[Mays] scooped the ball up at the base of the 406-foot sign, whirled and fired. It came in on one bounce, directly in front of the plate, and into the glove of catcher Tom Haller, who put it on the astonished Willie Stargell. It was described by old-timers as the greatest throw ever made in ancient Forbes Field.” — Bob Stevens, San Francisco Chronicle, August 25, 1965

“I couldn’t believe Mays could throw that far. I figured there had to be a relay. Then I found out there wasn’t. He’s too good for this world.” — Willie Stargell

“They invented the All-Star Game for Willie Mays.” — Ted Williams

“Willie Mays, to me, was the best ballplayer I ever saw in my life. …Nobody in the history of baseball is going to see anyone like Willie Mays. Everybody loved Willie in the clubhouse. Willie used to do a lot of things for different players, especially the rookies. Willie used to take players to clothing stores to buy them clothes. Sometimes he would get free clothes, shoes, and stuff, and give them to the players. He was like the mother of the team.” - Juan Marichal

"Willie Mays was to me the greatest player I ever watched. People ask me that, and I don't hesitate....he could have been an All-Star shortstop, that's how good an athlete he was...he could run backwards as fast as he could forward." - Don Zimmer

"If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases, and performed a miracle in the field every day, I'd still look you right in the eye and tell you that Willie was better” - Leo Durocher

"The best Major League ballplayer I ever saw was Willie Mays. Ruth beat you with the bat. Ted Williams beat you with the bat. Joe DiMaggio beat you with the bat, his glove and his arm. But Willie Mays could beat you with the bat, with power, his glove, his arm and with the running. He could beat you any way that's possible." - Buck O'Neil

"The best Major League ballplayer I ever saw was Willie Mays. Ruth beat you with the bat. Ted Williams beat you with the bat. Joe DiMaggio beat you with the bat, his glove and his arm. But Willie Mays could beat you with the bat, with power, his glove, his arm and with the running. He could beat you any way that's possible." - Buck O'Neil

“Hopefully, they can say, ‘There goes the best baseball player in the world.’ I honestly believe I did everything in baseball that a baseball player can do, and I did it with love.” — Willie Mays

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Lost Cause prologue, Part V

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

In my upcoming solarpunk novel The Lost Cause (Nov 14), we get an epic struggle between the people doing the repair and care work needed to save our planet and species, and the reactionary wreckers who want to kill the Green New Deal and watch the world burn:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

Amazon refuses to carry my audiobooks, which means that I make my own indie editions and pre-sell them on Kickstarter, along with ebooks and hardcovers. I narrated this one! It came out great! You can back it here:

http://lost-cause.org

This week, I've been serializing the prologue to give you a taste of what you can expect from the book, which Bill McKibben calls "politically perceptive, scientifically sound, and extraordinarily hopeful."

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/06/green-new-deal-fic/#the-first-generation-in-a-century-not-to-fear-the-future

And part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/07/met-cute-ugly/#part-ii

And part three:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#lost-cause-prologue

And part four:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/10/weaponized-interdependence/#super-soaker-full-of-hydrochloric-acid

And now, part five:

Look, I had weeks to go until graduation. I had a life to live. I had stuff to do.

Gramps and his friends would stew and shout. Idiots on the internet would make dank memes out of Mike Kennedy and deepfake him into a million videos, turn him into a main character whose image would be around long after he left the world.

I just had to keep my head down, collect my diploma, and get the hell out of Burbank. I’d already been provisionally accepted for a Blue Helmets AmeriCorps spot down in San Juan Capistrano, helping to rebuild the city’s lower half a mile inland, up in the hills. I was going to do a year of that and then go to college: I had applications in to UCLA, Portland State (they had a really good refugee tech undergrad program), and the University of Waterloo, where my mom did her undergrad in environmental science. They’d let me declare my major in my second year, so I could take a wide variety of courses before settling on something, and if anything, Canada’s free college was even more generous than the UC system or Portland’s, with a subsidy for dorms and meals.

To tell the truth, I’d be glad to go. My senior year hadn’t been anything like I’d anticipated. Gramps’s health had gotten a lot worse the previous summer and his shitty sexist and racist remarks chased away any home help worker Burbank sent over within a week or two, so I’d been trying to keep my grades up while picking up after Gramps, getting him to take his meds, washing his sheets and cleaning his toilet—­not to mention making sure he made his doctor’s appointments and even bringing him into the office a couple of times a month for the kind of exams you couldn’t do by telemedicine.

I wasn’t sure what Gramps would do without me to take care of him, but at that point, I was running out of fucks to give. Let his asshole Maga Club buddies look after him, or maybe Gramps could figure out how not to offend everyone that came over to wipe his ass and do his laundry. He was—­as he was fond of pointing out to me—­a grown-­ass adult, and this was his house, and he was in charge. So let him be in charge.

I put myself to bed stewing about all of this, thinking of San Juan Capistrano. Some of my older friends had graduated the previous years and had gone down there and I’d followed their relocation of the old mission on their feeds. It looked like hot, sweaty, rewarding work, the kind of thing where you could really measure your progress.

For the second night in a row, I was woken up at 2 a.m. This time, it wasn’t my screen, it was Gramps, who’d stumped into my room with his cane, flipped my lights to full on, and started shaking me and calling out, “Get up, kid, get up!”

“I’m up,” I said, getting up on my elbows and squinting at him.

He was shaking, and he reeked—­of both booze and BO, and I felt a flash of guilt for not getting him in the bath that day.

“God dammit,” he said, and staggered a bit. I leapt out of bed, pulling the sheets off with me, and steadied him at the elbow.

“Calm down, okay? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. No one is all right. Fuck all right and fuck you.” I’d had Gramps tested for early dementia the previous year, by showing his doctor videos of moments like these. The doc had run a battery of tests before pronouncing, “Your grandfather isn’t senile, he’s just ornery.” Which was undeniable, and also pissed me the hell off. “Ornery” was a polite word for “asshole.” What the doc was telling me was that Gramps didn’t have to be cruel. He was cruel by choice.

I untangled myself from the sheets and piled them on the bed.

“What is it?”

“It’s Mike Kennedy, that asshole. Someone shot him.”

“What?”

He shoved his giant screen into my hands. I tapped the video window. It was from the POV of a car cam, that weird fish-­eye view of a self-­driving car, split-­screen with the passenger in the front seat, and it was Mike Kennedy, looking even worse than Gramps, bloodshot and trembling, with that under-­chin camera angle that makes everyone look like they’re half dead.

I tried to watch both halves. There was Kennedy, whispering something to him. There was the cul-­de-­sac he was parked in, false-­lit with IR from the cameras. The timestamp was 1:17. Less than an hour before.

Then the external image flickered for a second and resolved itself into a man, who phased in and out. He was wearing a ghillie suit like the one Kennedy had worn on the roof, covered in telltale CV dazzle stripes, designed to exploit defects in the computer vision system. You had to wear a different specific pattern for every algorithm, but if you got the right matchup, the computer would simply not see you. The man was flickering into existence when his posture crumpled up the ghillie suit and made the pattern stop working, then out again when he straightened up.

He straightened and disappeared and Mike Kennedy’s eyes widened as he noticed the man for the first time—­computer dazzle worked on computers, not humans—­and he started to say something and then a round hole appeared in his forehead, his head snapping back against the headrest, then careening forward. The flickering phantom appeared again as the man in the ghillie suit turned and disappeared.

I dropped the tablet to my bed.

“Jesus Christ, Gramps, I didn’t need to see that snuff movie—­”

He tried to smack me then. I was ready for it. I was faster. I stepped out of his reach. I was shaking too.

“You don’t get to hit me anymore old man. Never again, you hear me?”

He was purpling now, and a decade’s worth of fleeing and defusing his rages rose in me, made me want to apologize. After all, I rationalized, he’d just seen a friend murdered.

But I’d seen that friend murdered too, videobombed with a snuff flick at 2 a.m. without warning or consent. It was a traumatizing, selfish, asshole move. I’d be watching that movie on the backs of my eyelids for years to come. And the friend who’d died? He’d been ready to kill me. Gramps had no right. He was a grown-­ass adult. He had no right.

“Listen to me, you little shit, you think you can live under my roof, take my charity, and talk to me like that? Now? With all the shit that I’m going through? No sir. No. Get out, you little bastard, get out now. Get out before I kick your goddamned teeth in.” He was vibrating with rage now, literally, actually shaking so hard his wispy hair swished back and forth across his forehead.

I didn’t say another word. I picked up some jeans and a jacket, put a pair of socks in a jacket pocket, and jammed my feet into a pair of sneakers without bothering to unlace them. I shouldered past him—­still vibrating, stinking even worse—­and banged out the back door and stomped through the nighttime streets.

My feet automatically took me up to Verdugo, and then across the empty road. I turned toward school—­as I did every morning—­and autopiloted in that direction. By the time I reached the Verdugo Aquatic Facility I had calmed down enough to realize that there was no reason to go to school at two thirty in the morning, so I stopped and headed for the playground in the park behind the pool. I sat down on a bench and kicked my shoes off and shook out the playground sand, pulled out my socks and put them on, then put my shoes back on properly. I was still furious, but now I could think straight and my hands weren’t shaking. Gramps and I hadn’t had a blowup like that in years, mostly—­ okay, entirely—­because I’d backed down every time we’d been headed in that direction. I wasn’t in any mood to back down. Not ever, to be fully honest.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/11/equal-opportunity-class-war/#part-v

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Magnificent house in San Juan, Puerto Rico was built in 1800 has 7 bds. 7.5 ba. and is priced at $3.8M.

The entrance hall. Look at the little shutters in the door.

Isn’t this gorgeous?

This kitchen is so pretty.

Patio outside the wonderful potting room.

OMG, look at this bath.

This shower.

Beautiful terrace.

The bedrooms are stunning.

And, look at this bath.

What a great courtyard, and look at the swing.

The pool outdoors, but sheltered from the sun.

This is so nice- that striped column really pops.

Beautiful bd. with a small balcony.

Each bath is different.

Love this. 

This home is just surrounded by beautiful terraces.

The railings are so pretty.

Every single one of the bds. is awesome.

This is being used as a sewing area.

And, here’s quite a music room

This is like a roof top deck. What a fabulous home.

https://www.sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-2519-nqfyl2/406-luna-st-old-san-juan-00901