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maxwell-grant · 8 months ago

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I guess it's also time for the annual ask: Thoughts on The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?

@mirrorfalls asked: Perhaps it's time to touch the elephant in the room: thoughts on League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?

anonymous asked: Any thoughts on Moore's LOEG? anonymous asked: any advice on how to do a fictional character mashup story ala chimera brigade, league, etc? anonymous asked: you wrote a bit on the wold newton universe and the chimera brigade, any thoughts on league of extraordinary gentleman?

(TW: sexual assault, also a whole lot of racism)

(clip from Anti-Spook Squad by Doctor Lalve)

Let it never be said I don't love or do anything for you people because Jesus Christ what an ordeal.

It was pretty inevitable that I'd eventually have to talk about LOEG given the, niche, I made for myself here, and given I'd read and touched on all these other works that either inspired it or were inspired by it, like the Wold Newton Universe, The Chimera Brigade, Tales of the Shadowmen and etc. I'd read through plenty of different LOEG takes and fics, it's an idea that has a lot of appeal on it's own and is easy to flirt with, if not so easy to pull off.

One thing to put upfront: Kevin O'Neil was a brilliant, one-of-a-kind creator and his work here is great, it's the one thing almost unimpeachably great about the whole thing except when he's asked to draw racist caricatures, which he does quite a bit, we'll get into those. I love the collaboration between Moore and O'Neil and I frequently enjoy the little tidbits where they show up as themselves within the supplemental material. O'Neil does a lot of heavy lifting in these even at their worst, in fact especially at their worst. This comic is a legitimately impressive achievement, and I don't regret reading it, if nothing else I think it was a hell of a wake-up call in regards to all of it's warts I may have been overlooking or replicating in my work or that of others.

I'm gonna break it down by going through the individual installments:

Volume 1: One of the nicest things there is to League is that it only keeps getting better, in the sense that it starts off on the worst foot and it gets better by virtue of not really being able to get worse (yes, even with the Golleywog and Harry Potter sections and whatever). From the moment you open the book it takes about six pages for Mina to be assaulted by Brute Arab Rapist Hordes that Quatermain and Nemo have to gun down, and that pretty much sets the stage on what to expect. Volume 1 is where the series has yet to jump off the deep end in tackling all of fiction, being a more grounded adventure story based on it's premise of being a comic book crossover/hero team comprised of Victorian era literary characters. It's LOEG at it's shallowest and most straightforward, and also at it's least impressive. I'm not remotely charmed by much of what's done here, I've seen a million variants of these before and many of those weren't that great either, but their lows weren't as catastrophic.

(text comes from an essay Alan Moore wrote regarding his usage of Fu Manchu in the book, which was scanned and sent to me by @mirrorfalls, thank you for that.)

The LOEG's first enemy is Fu Manchu and the book sure likes depicting leering hordes of yellow peril cartoons for our heroes, Mr Hyde in particular, to brutally mow down. Alan Moore thought the genius trick to making Fu Manchu not-racist was to make him as inscrutable and sinister as possible so as to not even appear human, which is a great understanding of how racial caricatures work guys, the "not potentially offensive" shirt has people asking a lot of questions answered by it.

I've heard a lot of claims over the years that LOEG was intended to be a parody, or satire, and that it's using Fu Manchu to make a point as a criticism of the British Empire and imperialism, and I'm gonna make this clear before we move on: LOEG is not a parody or satire, not as a whole. It parodies and satirizes a lot of things, but it is neither parody nor satire. It is very much in love with much of it's subject matter even when it wants to burn it down. LOEG is also a frankly terrible critique of imperialism, it is one of the most imperialist things I've ever read. Part of it is because you can't just recycle problematic garbage and claim it's commentary, especially when you're going out of your way to sensationalize said garbage to be provocative or in many cases add shit that wasn't even there in the first place. Moore asked if anyone else was gonna try and criticize colonialist bigotry in fiction by tripling down on reproducing it as hard as possible, and then didn't wait for an answer before doing it.

Volume 2: Objectively an improvement over the first if only because Fu Manchu isn't there. It's also where the book kinda improves in terms of making a critique. LOEG never really has much to say about it's characters, instead developing them in service of the story or social commentary, and Volume 2 is better at it than the first. Still has a lot of the same problems as 1, it's still a shallow team-up thing that wants to have it's cake and eat it too, it's still the worse version of a concept that's been done many many times before and after. Edward Hyde gets the bulk of the focus here and he was very clearly Moore and O'Neil's favorite character to work on, he gets the most memorable sequences for better or worse. I don't wanna talk about him much and I don't wanna talk about how the book wraps up the Invisible Man's subplot (and how it's not even gonna be the last time sexual violation of a villain is played for oh-so-horrific catharsis), I'd frankly like to stop thinking about it.

The Traveler's Almanac was definitely the most exhausting part to read in full and only not a total waste of time because of Jess Nevins' annotations, which turn this into fairly valuable research material. But so do Wold Newton articles and they're really not the most riveting thing to read, and at least those have a point or constrain themselves to a single topic or character, or are briefer and come with resources on hand or have a point or even can pitch some neat/cool ideas and concepts as a whole. Jess Nevins even did the better version of this in his own WNU chronologies.

Where as this is just complete ass and there's only so many times you can read a variant of "and then we went to this place with horrible cannibal savages and then we went to the other place with beautiful cannibal savages and then we found this utopia and then we found this dystopia and then we referenced this and that and this and that", and it brings me to another point I'd also seen brought up a lot in regards to LOEG: that it's too damn anglocentric to live up to it's premise, too contradictory within itself, and it was always too big of an undertaking to be done the way Moore and O'Neill did it.

I appreciate Moore trying to make this world feel like a world, in as gigantic all-encompassing a scale as he could possibly account for, with a full world tour and internal chronology. I sure would have liked a big fiction crossover almanac with entire chapters for Africa and China and South America, but we don't get that, because EVERYTHING in them is taken from colonial texts elevated to fact. Literally, entire paragraphs taken from political and colonial texts. All the time spent dicking around with all of those Euro political texts and ancient lore that just had to be paid it's due, and then Orlando goes to China and finds Sun Wukong stuffed as a public freakshow and dismisses his mythos as a bunch of loony (but intriguing and exotic!) hogwash, and Godzilla is later brought up in one line of dialogue to mention how Hugo Hercules killed him offscreen. (I think those might be the only two texts Moore brings up that aren't from European/American sources? There might be others but good luck finding them in the annotations).

Is it unfair to expect Moore to have read all of fiction? Of course it is, but that's what he wants this to be about, he wants this to be about All of Fiction and he wants to write about Africa and China and South America with nothing but colonial texts about those places as reference. He wants to write about how the things he likes are cool and happened and are real while the things he doesn't like don't count or are garbage or didn't happen the way we were told happened. He wants to make a story criticizing racism and misogyny in fiction while writing a text far more racist and misogynistic than most of the things he's bringing up. It's irreconcilable.

Black Dossier: It's constantly jumping between different formats and having to adjust it's prose and visual style accordingly, and it does that fairly well (the beatnik section is completely fucking unreadable though, the prose sections are already a handful to get through as is but that one was too much even for me), although Tempest I think is gonna do it much better. It's got some good parts, it's also got some bad ones. Definitely more readable than the prior two + Almanac.

This is the one with the Gollywog in it and I'm not gonna talk about that thing, I think what's wrong with it is self-explanatory as is. Look, I truly love a lot of Moore's work I've read, and I think a lot of the pushback against Alan Moore painting him as just a cranky old man who hates comics is overblown and shitty and symptomatic of bigger issues with how fans discuss comics and superheroes, but his defense of the Gollywog and his response to the criticisms of LOEG was embarassing and beneath him.

Century: This is the one with Harry Potter and The Lightning Penis in it. To those of you who heard at some point that Alan Moore had done a much-maligned pisstake on Harry Potter and got curious, don't get your hopes up. It's nothing, it's not even that mean, it's just a crude crayon doodle in service of a larger and very dumb critique of modern fiction that could have been anyone. Shame that he bullseyed ahead of the schedule the cultural about-face against Harry Potter without having anything actually criticizing Harry Potter to show for it.

Century does work for me a bit better because it dispenses with the pretense of the series and has it build up to the big awful tragedy it ends on, with all of it's remaining characters miserable immortals and all the fictions having curdled up and gone sour. It works for me only because I have no love whatsoever for this world and so it destroying our characters in the service of the larger narrative about stories and fictional immortality and whatnot is a decision I agree with and I think makes it stronger, even if the social commentary / the story's criticism of modern stories compared to the old ones is frankly absurd. Century I think was perceived as Moore/O'Neill having lost the plot, but to me it feels like the plot (more importantly, the point of it) finally showing up after so much pointless dicking around.

The Nemo trilogy: Easily the one I most enjoyed reading, the Nemo Trilogy is almost like a breather set in between books, just fairly straightforward pulp adventure stories done in far less rancid a fashion than Volume 1. It feels less like a LOEG book and more like one of those LOEG fanfics made by people who like the concept and characters but are dissappointed by the books, so they fill or add or rewrite in the blanks with their own ideas, which is basically every LOEG fanfic ever made. I quite like Janni Dakkar as a character and I'm already a huge mark for Captain Nemo, one of my favorite characters ever, and I was of course very glad to get away from the extremely tiresome Mina/Allan/Orlando trio for a change. Frankly I'd even recommend these as a standalone, they're so disconnected from everything else in LOEG.

If you guys want to read a comic take on Captain Nemo though, read Mobilis by Juni Ba. Infinitely better than anything Moore did with the concept of Nemo, takes far less pages to actually explore the character meaningfully and has far more interesting, more humane and personal things to say and do in general, one of the best things I ever read and a tremendous palette cleanser after LOEG.

Tempest: Tempest is what I'd call the best of the LOEG books, in terms of craft and in terms of achieving what it sets out to do. Namely, it's one of the most elaborate and most artistically impressive slowly unfurling middle fingers I'd ever read, Alan and Kevin in full burning down the house mode throwing everything they've got at the wall, playing around with as many different styles and gags and ideas as they can cram into the great apocalyptic ending of their collaboration. It's a very spiteful work that has a lot of joy and humor to it, fully divested from giving a shit about it's characters and instead recasting them as the bit players they always were in the grand fuckening of humanity at the hands of our fictions.

It gets to burn down everything and also preserve everything in a big dreamy Noah's Ark forever, it plays to every strength the series had, and frankly I barely minded the detours because this thing is all detours. The superhero parody that takes up so much of it isn't really anything funny or insightful or really anything, but there's good bits in it, and I like Alan Moore talking trash about superheroes (of course, it pales in comparison to What Can We Know About Thunderman, but that one is a league of it's own). It's Alan and Kevin's farewell to comics with all the mixed feelings towards it and the industry and the subject matter they both have decades of so much experience with it. It is The End of Everything and I think it ended on the best note it could have ended with.

In summary, I think LOEG has a lot of individually cool or neat or even great ideas that I think get lost, because there is so, so much of it, and so much of it is impressively painted sludge. Sometimes it is ingenious, sometimes it is fun, it is never not visually impressive, but it's more frequently dull and grotesquely self-indulgent and far too shallow. It suffers from an almost inescapable side effect of doing this dealing with the fiction he was dealing with without accounting for taste or bothering to reign in his worst impulses, too much to cover and not enough actually being said about it. In truth, much of it doesn't feel much different than reading the wiki summaries for it I had already read forever ago. It is a unique beast taking swings that I'd never seen before that most wouldn't, probably for very good reasons most of the time. It is also guilty of literally everything it's criticizing other works of being and doing, and sometimes it actually provides it's best commentary because of that! It's a complicated thing to tackle and wrap your head around. God knows what Jess Nevins must have gone through to make the annotations for this, as they put it on the Almanac annotations.

I don't consider it wasted time because, I did really enjoy the final two installments, there are good bits scattered across the other books and I learned some good things from it as a whole, but would I recommend it in it's entirety? Unless you're really a huge fan or completionist for it's creators (although reading LOEG really disillusioned me on Moore in a lot of ways, not that this is a bad thing, if anything that's a necessary thing to really try and grasp a creator's body of work) or you're the kind of sicko who'd be in the tank for the whole thing, no, not really.

It is one of the most impressive and accomplished works I've ever read, I will probably come back to it for research purposes, but holy shit am I glad to put it behind me.

#also thank you davidmann for sending me the epilogue #replies tag #loeg #league of extraordinary gentlemen #alan moore #kevin o'neill #abc comics #comics

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olderthannetfic · 1 year ago

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Gotta say, as someone who is afrolatine who mostly hangs out in anime/manga/manhwa/BL/OI spaces, there's something really weird about the way that people in fandom engage with fantasy stories that have war, slavery, and oppression as backdrops. The stories themselves usually handle the subjects poorly, but the fandom jumps through hoops to justify characters' poor behaviors without considering context of how the real world works. Naruto and Villains Are Destined to Die fandoms handle it the worst I've seen in a long time.

Naruto's story is ultimately about a seemingly unremarkable guy who tells slaves that fate isn't real despite being a Child of Prophecy who goes around minimizing everyone's oppression from the fascist government because he, too, wants to lead the militaristic state, and it hurt his feelings that his "friend" who survived a genocide didn't validate Naruto's victim complex and wanted to change the fascist system while being an imperfect victim (even though Naruto continues to lie and spread misinfo about said genocide to protect the fascist state 10+ years later).

Then theres the VADTD fandom that treats a character (Eckles) as though he has the same level of agency as the main character and other love interests. "Eckles was lying to and manipulating Penelope the whole time to get her to like him 🤬." He's a slave. Of course he's going to lie to his master to avoid abuse or death when he's ranked even lower than a commoner in a classist hierarchy. "He betrayed her 🤬." He's a slave. They're not friends, and there's no such thing as a 'benevolent slave master.' He cannot 'betray' his master. That's not how it works. "Penelope offered him freedom, and he turned it down." You don't 'offer' freedom to a slave. You either give it or don't. She was attempting to emotionally manipulate him. He realized this, and responded in accordance with what he knew she wanted to hear... because he's a slave who doesn't want to die. "She gifted him a magical sword and expensive fur clothes, so she favored him despite him being ungrateful 🤬." A slave in a mink coat is still a slave. It also doesn't escape me that the male lead is the crowned prince, now a war hero, of the empire who gained his fame from his brutality against Eckles' people in the previous war that just ended maybe a few months prior to the story.

There's just something so odd about the ways in which people bend over backwards to justify imperialism and cruelty in stories just because the main characters are the ones who do it. I'm not completely sure if it's because the author's of the original works don't objectively see the undertones in what they wrote. or, maybe the fandoms are all just full of people who have victim complexes and project onto the main characters to make themselves feel better but don't see how their statements make others like me iffy of their stances on real world topics, so we avoid them, which then fuels their self-imposed victimhood even more as they whine "why won't x people in x fandom talk to me?! Or befriend me?!". Like, you just spent a whole essay justifying slavery and genocide because the main character was sad; I don't want to be your friend lol. I'm in the SnK fandom too, and despite the false statements others spread about the story, at least the fandom talks about the characters and themes with more nuance.

I never made it past the first few volumes of Naruto, but I do think many of these canons encourage people to judge morality based on what made the lead sad or not. The longer the canon goes on, the greater the dissonance between that message and whatever subtext is inherent to the setting.

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mayfriend-archive · 3 years ago

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Totally understand if you're not up for it and fully recognize the ronald mcdonald dom/sub anon vibes which is an AMAZING post btw but like...now i'm curious, what the hell did Lord of the Flies anon DO that got him blocked for the discourse? like...i just can't wrap my head around high school lit being...uh...that inflammatory i guess?

Okay so, I'll start by saying I've had a new anon from apparently the same anon saying they are NOT the person I blocked, just a rando making the same points, but I'll answer your question anyway just to set out why this person in particular got blocked, out of the several thousand who reblogged/commented on that very successful addition to the LoTF post I made.

First off, I added the 'real life Lord of the Flies' story because I thought it was a good story. I had read about it only a couple days beforehand in Humankind and, after reading out the entire chapter to my parents who weren't very interested, I was excited that there was not only a post where it would be relevant to post, but that I wouldn't be hijacking it, as it was already rejecting the widespread interpretation taught in many schools, that humanity is inherently savage.

When making the addition, I a) did not think it would get more than a couple reblogs, because the post was already at 50k notes and I figured anyone that might be interested would already have seen it, and b) I did not know the very specific context that prompted William Golding to write the book; all I knew was that he had been a teacher at a public school (basically, the poshest schools in the country - think Eton, Harrow, very 'old money' places that pump out Conservative politicians by the bucket-load 🤢) who hated his job and the boys he taught (which, valid), and new information I'd been given in Humankind - that Golding had said to his wife one day, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to write a story about some boys on an island, showing how they would really behave?" - which had no mention of The Coral Island by R. M. Ballantyne, which I have since learned was the text that Golding loathed enough to write an entire novel in refutation of - and included what I considered a very telling letter from Golding to his publisher, in which Golding wrote of his belief that 'even if we start with a clean slate, our nature compels us to make a muck of it.' Another Golding quote that I believe portrays his belief in humanity's 'innate savagery' is that "man produces evil as a bee produces honey."

Obviously, the author of a book putting forward the case for humanity's inherent goodness was going to oppose Golding's hypothesis; Bregman not only noted Golding's literary accomplishments and beliefs, but his personal life.

When I began delving into the author's life, I learned what an unhappy individual he'd been. An alcoholic. Prone to depression. A man who, as a teacher, once divided his pupils into gangs and encouraged them to attack each other. "I have always understood the Nazis," Golding confessed, "because I am of that sort by nature." (Humankind by Rutger Bregman, p. 24-25)

I have bolded the part about him as a teacher, because it is incredibly relevant to the original post that I commented on, which begins with a comic of a teacher locking her class in to see them 'recreate' Lord of the Flies, something which the follow up comments before mine staunchly reject as both misunderstanding the point of the book, and the fact that it took the kids in Lord of the Flies a significant amount of time without adult supervision to go 'savage'. This misreading of the text is widespread enough that when Golding won the Nobel Prize for Lord of the Flies, the Swedish Nobel committee wrote that his book 'illuminate[s] the human condition in the world of today'. Whether or not they misread it is beyond my expertise - they do at least mention the factors of the outside world neglected by many when analysing the book, but still seem to believe it says something about human nature as a whole rather than just, to quote thedarkbutbeige 'British kids being rat bastards' - but Golding quite happily took his Nobel prize on this basis. Which, in fairness, I would too. It's a fucking Nobel prize.

It was with this knowledge, and this knowledge alone, that I stated in my now very, very widely read comment that Golding 'wrote the book to be a dick', in response to the tags of the person I reblogged from. As I said, I now know that Golding did not write the book (solely) because he hated the kids he taught, but as a response to The Coral Island and the general idea that clearly the British were inherently civilsed, whilst the people they colonised and enslaved were inherently savage. So. That's the background.

The anon - or rather, the person I thought was anon - was the sole exception out of dozens of replies, who instead of telling me about The Coral Island politely decided it was time to go ALL CAPS and regurgitate points already made by thespaceshipoftheseus, and implied that the only reason that the real life Tongan castaways didn't go all Lord of the Flies was because they weren't British. Not because they weren't surrounded by violence like the boys in Lord of the Flies, or there wasn't a World War ongoing, or that they weren't the upper, upper, upper crust of a class-obsessed society like Britain - but because they weren't British. A complete inversion of the concept that Golding was trying to get across - now, instead of all of humanity being equally prone to savagery in the right conditions, it was solely nationality that determined it. As in, the British were inherently savage, but nobody else was.

I, trying for humour, made the terrible mistake of replying to them.

I won't lie, I was absolutely blown away that this was real life. What I think they were trying to do was be that Cool Tumblr Person who, after somebody's been shitty on a post, goes to their blog and sees something Damning in their about/description. In an ideal world, I imagine I'd have gone nuts or done something Unforgiveable. In what I can only call the rant that followed, they stated several times that I needed to go back to high school to get some 'proper literary analysis' skills and that the story of the Tongan castaways was completely unrelated to the point at hand which. I mean, I disagree, considering that I made the addition, but I couldn't get my head around how commenting on a post that was already rejecting the thesis that the 'point' of Lord of the Flies was that humanity was inherently savage and was, in fact, about how kids - British or otherwise - learn how to function from the adults around them, and that traumatised, terrified children aren't going to create a mini-Utopia, and put forward a real life example of how without the key additions of an ongoing world war, a colonial Empire and the subsequent mindset of thinking you are 'inherently civilised' and therefore can't do anything wrong, actually, people just want to take care of each other.

A friend has since asked me why I even have 'england' in my description. To be honest, it's a timezone thing - I talk to a lot of people online who don't share my timezone, and it generally makes me feel like if I don't reply immediately because it's 3am, they have the tools to see that I'm not in their timezone and not just ignoring them. I did consider changing it to 'british' or 'uk' after it was... 'used against me', I guess, simply because I didn't want to deal with it, but you know what. No. Not gonna do that. I am from England, and I have never hid that fact. I have a tag called 'uk politics', during Eurovision I refer to the UK's act as 'us' (even if I really, really don't want to. Because James Newman slaughtered that song and it was downright embarrassing), I regularly post stuff in my personal tag about where I live (and mostly complain about this piece of shit government). If people really think my nationality makes every point I make null and void, then they don't have to follow me or interact with my posts; tumblr is big, and I am one medium-small blog very easily passed over.

I did reply to them, trying to explain the above, but their next response really just doubled down. Because I used the word British instead of English - foolishly because the posts above mine focused on Britishness, and also because although Golding was English and taught English kids, the pro-Imperialism author of The Coral Island, R. M. Bannatyne was actually Scottish so, ding ding ding, falls into the 'British' category - they then decided that I was somehow trying to pretend I wasn't English and made all the same points, before ending with this doozy:

At this point, I knew there was nothing to be gained from replying, because if we're whipping out conditions like they're pokemon cards then there's no actual conversation anymore, and I'm not going to start mudslinging like an identity politician. They made up their mind, and I figured there could be no harm in letting them think that they 'won' by blocking them instead of replying.

Until the ask. INNATE ENGLISH SAVAGERY did, I'll admit, make me think it was them, back again. I even thought up a really good response approximately 12 hours after I replied, I was that sure. Until the second message came in, and said they were just someone who came from the post and made the same point by chance. So the saga draws to a close... for now.

It may have been them, it may not have been - the anon feature makes it impossible to be sure, but as the second message I got said, we're in a heatwave. It's too hot to argue. And I've just written a goddamn essay about a book I dislike anyway.

My pasty English ass is going to go melt. If there's Disk Horse, do not tell me. I am Done™

#emily speaks #asks #anon #lord of the flies #this is long. this is so long. why is this so long #i literally got out humankind so i could quote directly. how is this my life

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btsiguess · 5 years ago

Text

Self Indulgence (m) - Oneshot

Summary: Professor Yoonji can’t help but notice that the teacher’s pet is looking quite attractive today...

Pairing: Yoonji/Reader

Genre: PWP. JUST SMUT.

Word Count: 2905

Warnings: PROFESSOR YOONJI.....uhhh professor/student relationship which is soooo inappropriate even if it’s lowkey hot... ahhh. Choking, sweet sweet lesbian action

A/Ns: I’m so sorry guys. I’m actually druNK right now. Like so drunk i couldn’t even give it a read through at the end........so please forgive......... everything....

“It’s weird that you want to fuck the teacher.” Seungmin says, eyeing the way your stare follows professor Min around the classroom.

She knows you’re absolutely not paying attention to the class lecture. The way your hand doodles crudely drawn vaginas on the page in front of you does enough to illustrate that. You’re not quite sure why it was vaginas today. Maybe something about wanting to shove your face in one had something to do with it?

“And what do you all think?” Your ears perk up at your professors words. Dr. Min Yoonji, standing at the front of the class, asking for your attention even though she can tell all of you are bored. “What do you think about cultural hybridization? Is it a reality or simply a connotatively positive term for American imperialism?” You sigh happily at her words. She looked so good when she was speaking dense academic language. You press your thighs together.

Professor Min was probably somewhere in her mid-forties. Although it was near impossible to tell since she dressed so hip. You had an inkling that she might be queer as well, but nothing definitive. Perhaps that’s why you were drawing pussys on your class notes… hoping she just might see it and know.

“I think it’s absolutely different! Hybridization is all about globalization.” Juahn says. Of course he does. He was such a fucking brown noser. He had his head so far up Min’s ass, even you didn’t want to stick your tongue there. And that was impressive, because you’d take what you could get. He was wrong too. Just speaking so that Min would look at him. God you hated that stupid fucker. Sometimes he sent professor Min articles. You’re not saying that it was necessarily bad to engage with your teacher on the class work, but you knew that it was because he was vying for her attention. Attention that should have gone to you. And you thought it was disrespectful anyway, since she treated her as if he knew more than her. Like she didn’t have an entire PhD in the fucking field. What a cuck.

Your sneer doesn’t go unnoticed by Professor Min, who singles you out immediately.

“Oh? Y/N. Do you disagree? Speak your mind.” It wasn’t unusual that she call on you. The class was relatively quiet when it came to class discussions, apart from you and Juahn. Still your heart fluttered at the attention.

“I just think it’s hard to say whether it’s either or. It depends how much each culture has influenced the specific, like, new culture. I’m not sure if it’s quantifiable?” Your professor hums at your words and you watch Junahn’s back straighten slightly in aggravation. It was no secret the two of you didn’t like one another. And you had the text message arguments to prove it. You weren’t even quiet of your distaste for the boy in the class and the professor seemed to know it and thrive off of it. Was it hot? Absolutely.

“Right, well,” Dr. Min says, cutting the conversation short, “that’s all the time we have for today, unfortunately.” The class sighs in relief. “Make sure to do the readings. And Y/N? If you could stay after class. Thank you.”

Seungmin shoots you a look as a slight flush of red colors your cheeks. It’s a look that says “don’t be excited our teacher wants you to stay after. That probably means you’re in trouble.” ... At least. That’s what you imagine the look would say, if looks could talk.

You make your way to the front of the room, standing quietly as your professor wipes the board. Once the classroom is completely empty, she turns to you again.

“Perhaps if you were more focused on class instead of drawing female genitalia in your notebook, you might’ve done better on the midterm.” She says simply. Your mouth drops open. You had done well on the midterm! You’d gotten a 37/40. A 92%. 7 points above the class average.

“You did well,” Min continues, “but you weren’t the highest grade in the class. You were second. Behind Juahn.” Your blood boils and she smirks—full on smirks—at you.

“I thought that would get your attention.” She said. “Just understand. I like pussy too, but class isn’t the time to be thinking about it so thoroughly.” You bite your lip as your cheeks color red with embarrassment and slight arousal at the way Min Yoonji’s mouth had curled delicately around the word pussy.

There’s a slight pause in the conversation as Yoonji lets her eyes watch the way you worry your lip between your teeth. So cute. In Yoonji’s youth, you were exactly her type. Shy, nervous, … totally devoted. If Yoonji had been any younger she would’ve had you already; had your body arching underneath her, your pussy clenching around her tongue and fingers. She knows you have a little schoolgirl crush on her. How could she not know? You practically wrote it across her forehead. She had an inkling during the first semester you had class with her. You had even titled your final essay “Every time I read Kipling I remember why I’m gay” just to get her attention. And get her attention it did…

Originally, she had done her best to ignore it. You were her student, after all. But Yoonji had always been a bit reckless. It’s that fact that leads her to ask you the worst possible question she could have.

“Why pussy? Were you thinking about someone eating yours? Or you eating someone else’s?”

The older women can’t help but smile as your face goes bright red. Yoonji imagined that while you had been hoping desperately to get her attention, you’d never actually thought you’d have it.

“P-Professor, I’m sorry about not paying attention! It won't happen again!” You turn to flee from the room, but Yoonji catches you gently by the elbow.

“It’s alright, Y/N. You’re not in trouble. And you didn’t answer my question.” Yoonji isn’t proud of herself for succumbing to your coy temptation. She feels altogether too much like all the skeezy old men that used to solicit her. But she also knows she’d treat you better than all of them. Teach you more than all of them.

Yoonji should’ve realized that you would be a problem from the very first month, when she had wound up checking the school’s database for your age. You were nearly 23, almost graduated, but that meant little. You were well past too young for her, and she knew it.

But Yoonji knew she was past waiting. She couldn’t help that she wanted you. She didn’t want to deny herself, either. Yoonji wasn’t a good person, and she didn’t pretend to be.

“Both, Professor.” You finally say. And Yoonji’s eyes follow the way in which your thighs squeeze together.

“You know,” Yoonji says, and you try your best to focus on her voice, despite how distracted you are by the thought of her going down on you. “I know you have a little bit of a crush on me.”

You wish the ground would swallow you whole.

“Don’t look so embarrassed.” Your Professor scoffs. “I like the idea. Much more than I should. And I think you’ve teased me for far too long, hmm? Why don’t you hop up on that desk there. Be a good girl for me.” You scramble to follow her instructions. Knowing that it’s wrong and not caring in the slightest.

Yoonji wastes no time pushing your knees apart so that your skirt rides up your knees and reveals your underwear.

“You’re wet already, I can see it.” She teases. “Is it just from my voice? Do you sit in class all wet like this for me every day?” Her thumb begins to delicately trace over the wet patch on your underwear. Making your hips twitch in desire. You must be dreaming. You must be.

Yoonji slides her fingers past your panties, and finds your clit with practiced ease.

“Ahh,” she sighs. “You’re so delicate. So perfect…” She shuffles in between your knees, getting close enough to brush your nose with her own.

Her thumb, moving in easy circles, is driving you mad. You’re helpless in her arms, whimpering quietly as the woman you’ve been lusting after for the greater part of two semesters begins tracing softly up and down your core.

You lament briefly the loss of stimulation on your clit, but bite your lip hard at the feeling of your professor’s teasing. With each slow pass of her fingers, her index finger catches against your swollen nub, making you shake with want.

Something about the way that her ministrations are altogether too light to actually get you to cum makes you crazy. You can’t help but let your mind run wild. You were putty in Yoonji’s hands, completely at her whim. She could keep you here for hours. Just slowly tracing you up and down, watching you pant and sweat, desperately wanting to cum but being unable to.

“Do you like this, Y/N? I’m hardly giving you anything at all…” She tuts quietly. “No one’s ever treated you right before have they?”

“P-Professor--” You try to respond but suddenly the girl in question presses two fingers inside of you, the stretch making your head fall back and your hands grasp at Yoonji’s wrist.

“Can you hear yourself, sweetheart?” Yoonji says, pressing her mouth against the exposed column of your neck. “Can you hear how wet you are? All for me, right?” The squelching of your sex turns the both of you on. You because it’s finally happening, and her because… well, of course she likes the sound of you aroused for her.

You nod, your breath hitching as she sinks her teeth into your skin.

Yoonji works her fingers hard within you. Curling to find the spot that has you writhing against her.

Yoonji knows what she is doing. You’ve clearly never had a good fuck from anyone before, and Yoonji is a bit smug over the way she’s worked you up so easily. She’d never fucked someone so young before. And she had definitely never fucked one of her students. But somehow, she didn’t feel as guilty as she should, too would up in the way you were biting your lip to keep from moaning out loud at the pleasure she was giving you.

“P-Professor,” You groaned, wanting to say something more, but not having the strength to.

Yoonji was surprised at how malleable you had become at the touch of her fingers. She felt herself start to get wet at the feel of you around her fingers, feeling the tight clenching which signified your earnest participation in the illicit acts she had finally succumbed to. God, she couldn’t decide whether she should stop, or whether she was mad at herself for not having done this earlier.

Yoonji decides it’s definitely the latter as you pussy clenches around her fingers, and a small moan presses its way through your lips.

Yoonji had never been the one to play favorites. She almost always didn’t have preferences among her students. Usually in her courses everyone was so quiet. But you and Juahn had been so vocal. Juahn had frustrated her, putting his nose in business he didn’t belong in, trying to weasel his way into a good grade despite the fact that it took almost nothing to get a passing grade in the course--Yoonji hardly cared, good grades reflected kindly on herself. But you? You seemed to go to bat against the stubborn boy for no reason other than to protect Yoonji’s honor.

It was absolutely unnecessary, but still made Yoonji smile to herself every time. She didn’t need anyone’s help, but she liked the way you blushed when she called on you. And even more so she was charmed by the fact that you always had something to say, even when you didn’t volunteer for fear of seeming like the teacher’s pet.

But as Yoonji curled her fingers inside of you, wrenching a moan from your plump lips, she couldn’t help but admire the way this particular teacher’s pet seemed so eager for her good graces.

“Professor,” you gasp with as much brain power you could muster. “Professor, I wanna make you feel good too!” yoonji laughs quietly. She isn’t surprised by your eagerness to please, in fact, she relishes in it.

“Oh yeah?” Yoonji says, withdrawing her fingers from your heat, drawing a slight whimper from you. “Then get on the floor baby, tongue out.”

You follow her instructions as quickly as you can, and Yoonji wastes no time in shuffling her dress up, just a bit, so she’ll be able to see your pretty eyes as she cums on your tongue.

You look desperate and hopelessly infatuated as Yoonji shimmies her underwear down her legs, and positions herself above you.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” She says, watching you melt under her pet name.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been ready.” You reply, softly wiggling your tongue at her.

“Have you done this before?” Yoonji questions, tilting her head to the side.

You shake your head in denial, but the challenge in your eyes shows Yoonji that you couldn’t be more than ready to learn now.

Yoonji grasps the back of your head and pulls you into her pussy, sighing in relief as your tongue slides along her core. You’re sloppy and messy as you begin to eat her out, but for some reason Yoonji can’t help the shiver that runs along her spine at the unrefined way your tongue caresses her.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Yoonji sighs, beginning to rock her core against your face. “Can you put your tongue inside of me?” She asks, and you follow her instructions to the letter, just like you always do.

Yoonji rocks her hips against your face over and over again, allowing your tongue to pierce the deepest part of her. God, she should have been doing this all semester. Even professors need to release built up tension.

You’re moaning against her folds, as if there is truly no place you would rather be than lapping up the nectar between Yoonji’s thighs, and the thought makes Yoonji gush even more. There’s something so hot about the way you gasp and pant against her pussy, as if there was nowhere else you could imagine being. As if you were all Yoonji’s, ripe for the taking.

Yoonji is getting close, but as much as she’d love to make you drink her cum, she’s absolutely desperate to see you come apart beneath her.

“Stop.” She orders, and you do, just like a good little slut, looking up at her with those big doe eyes, questioning her.

“Lay on the floor.” Yoonji demands, and while you seem confused, you follow her directions regardless.

Yoonji positions herself above you, her legs slotted between your own in order to align your sexes. Then she presses herself down into you, eliciting a sigh from your reddened mouth. It elapses into a groan as Yoonji starts rocking against you. Dragging her pussy against yours just right, so your clits bump against one another over and over again. The two of you are blinded by lust, neither of you can think of anything but the way you feel against one another. The messy wetness dripping down your thighs and onto the classroom floor beneath you.

You both know you ought to feel guilty for the travesty you are committing. But it’s impossible as you feel the sparks run up your spine repeatedly. God, why hadn’t you both done this sooner?

Both of you can feel the pressure building. Mounting as it takes over each of your entire bodies.

Yoonji won’t let you get off that easy though, and so she presses her hand over your throat, cutting off your air supply and you twitch and shake beneath her.

“Are you gonna cum, my pretty baby?” Yoonji asks you, rocking her hips faster and faster, almost impossibly fast, against your own. “Are you gonna make your professor’s pussy all wet and dirty? Little slut.” She smirks as your eyes seem to roll back in your head, waves of pleasure washing over you one after the other, over and over, until Yoonji releases your throat to hunch over you, her own orgasm rushing in fiercely, allowing your juices to mix and pulse together into one sinful, noticeable puddle on the floor beneath you.

You’re both panting hard, huddled together, drenched in sweat and cum, when Yoonji takes your face in her hands and kisses you.

It’s a light kiss, so different from the aggressive way she just fucked you. And as you pant together, you feel the older woman’s body mold into your own.

“You’ve always been my favorite student you know.” Yoonji whispers to you. “You don’t have to compete with anyone. It’s always been you.”

You sigh and kiss her again.

“I love you, professor.” You sigh, not realizing what you’re saying.

She laughs quietly.

“Maybe we can go to dinner together, sometime after finals.” Yoonji mutters, and you nod. “I mean, finals are only two weeks away. You can last that long without me making you cum, can’t you?”

You nod shakily. “I can at least try, professor.”

“Alright my darling,” Yoonji responds. “Alright.”

*******

A/N: Again, I am soooo sorry. this is just weird pent up attraction i have to this one professor coming out all over the page ughhiuhjbfsldf bdbfkjedsfncjksdmfn. Tag yourself, I’m the essay title being copy and pasted from an actual essay i turned in to this woman because i was so helplessly into her. FUCK

#bts #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #min yoonji #min yoongi #yoonji #yoongi #suga #min yoongi fanfiction #min yoonji fanfiction #smut #fluff #dirty talk #choking #drunk fic #help me

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years ago

Text

THIS ONE IS REAL

Those are pretty expensive. If they were obviously good, someone would already be writing stuff on top of it. He made cars, which had been a luxury item, into a commodity. But maybe the older generation would laugh at me for opinions expressed here, remember that anything you see here that's not in the middle. I once wrote that startup founders should be at least 23, and that one should just go to grad school.1 Why do you think so? Could you turn theorems into a commodity, and they were still mostly in denial about problems. When we got real funding near the end of it, but regardless it's certainly constraining.

Soon after we arrived at Yahoo, we got an email from Filo, who had been crawling around our directory hierarchy, asking if it was really necessary to store so much of it. At each step, flow down. Our generation wants to get paid for doing work you love, you're practically there. I said a good rule of thumb for recognizing when you have competitors, because it's painful to observe the gap between them. But when I finally tried living there for a bit last year, and the Bible is quite explicit on the subject of homosexuality. Though unprecedented, I predict this situation is also temporary. They can't hire smart people anymore, but they don't get blamed for it. This one is real. But unfortunately you run into a chicken and egg problem here. And when you see something that's taking advantage of new technology to give people something they want that they couldn't have before, you're probably looking at a winner. In a field like math or physics, where no audience matters except your peers, and judging ability is sufficiently straightforward that hiring and admissions committees can do it without setting off the kind of work you do, and since you have to jump through in school.2 So Dad, there's this company called Apple.

Err. And indeed, a lot of meetings; don't have chunks of code that multiple people own; don't have chunks of code that multiple people own; don't have chunks of code that multiple people own; don't have a cofounder, but that there be few of them. Afterward I wondered, what am I even measuring? And that's fine. If you're a hacker thinking about starting a startup in New York admire more.3 Even Einstein probably had moments when he wanted to have a meeting about it. Don't maltreat users is a subset of a more general technique: making things easier.

At least, it has to look professional. My only leisure activities were running, which I think even Spamhaus would admit is a rough guess at the top spammers. Wealth is defined democratically. While you're at it, you should get a job. After all, a Web 2. But an online square is more dangerous than a physical one. Startup ideas are ideas for companies, and sales depends mostly on effort. Surely one had to force oneself to work on, toward things you actually like. By seeming unable even to cut a grapefruit in half let alone go to the store and buy one, he forced other people to use.4 If anyone is dishonest, it's the one with fewer employees that's more impressive.

The intervening years have created a situation that is, someone whose best work was behind him—and hand over the project with copious free advice about how the book should show in positive terms the strength and diversity of the American people, etc, etc. If this were a movie, for example. If you want to stay happy, you have to assume there was someone born in Milan with as much natural ability as Leonardo couldn't beat the force of environment, do you suppose you can? Even if your only goal is to please them, the way to get information out of them. The Bay Area has a lot of time thinking about language design. One reason people who've been out in the world. Thanks to Sam Altman, was 19 at the time.

As I was leaving I offered it to him, as I've done countless times before in the same way the classic airline pilot manner is said to derive from Chuck Yeager. Once publishing—giving people copies—becomes the most natural way of distributing your content, it probably isn't, it tended to pervade the atmosphere of early universities. How many times have you heard hackers speak fondly of how in, say, transportation or communications. But the reason reporters ended up writing stories about this particular truth, rather than by compiler writers. For better or worse, the idea of starting a startup just doesn't require that much intelligence. But it's harder than it looks. Serving web pages is very, very large. Most of us hate to acknowledge this. When the values of the elite. If you're sure of the general area you want to do when they're 12, and just the sort of trifle that breaks deals when investors feel they have the upper hand—over an uncertainty about whether the founders had correctly filed their 83 b forms, if you asked random people on the street if they'd like to do is figure things out, why do you need to in order to store something for them. Most good mathematicians would work on math even if there were no jobs as math professors, whereas in the departments at the other students' without having more than glanced over the book to learn the names of users with the highest average comment scores in orange.

And software sells hardware. I wanted. Taking a shower is like a form of meditation. And the boneheads who designed this stove even had an example of loving their work might help their kids more than an expensive house. The Bay Area has a lot of startups—probaby most startups funded by Y Combinator. It's an old idea that new things come from the margin is simply that you don't have an idea. Java will turn out to be a tradition of startups taking VC money, and work on what you love is very difficult. Responsibility is an occupational disease of eminence. Odd as it might sound, we tell startups that they should try to make friends with as many smart people as you can. Or they could return to their roots and make going to the theater a treat. Well, no.

So what's interesting? The reason we have high level languages is because people can't deal with machine language. How hard would it be to jumpstart a silicon valley? So far the complete list of messages I've picked up from cities is: wealth, style, hipness, physical attractiveness, fame, political power, economic power, intelligence, social class, and quality of life. Audiences have to be derived from working in that field. I learned to program when computer power was scarce.5 This extra cost buys you flexibility. These are the only places I know that Richard and Jonathan Rees have done a lot quicker.

Notes

They would have a bogus political agenda or are feebly executed. Not only do convertible debt, so problems they face are probably not do that. Some who read this essay I'm talking mainly about software design.

Put in chopped garlic, pepper, cumin, and stir. And of course reflects a willful misunderstanding of what you launch with, you might be digital talent. The Civil Service Examinations of Imperial China, many of the definition of important problems includes only those on the subject of language power in Succinctness is Power. But be careful here, I was writing this, but something feminists need to be when it converts you get stock as if you'd just thought of them could as accurately be called acting Japanese.

If this happens it will become increasingly easy to believe your whole future depends on the matter. In sufficiently disordered times, even if they do the opposite: when we created pets. If you're part of an audience of investors want to invest in successive rounds, it will thereby expose it to profitability on a map. But you can eliminate, do not try too hard at fixing bugs—which is the least important of the world wars to say that it will seem as if the fix is at pains to point out that this isn't strictly true, because spam and P nonspam are both genuinely formidable, and only incidentally to tell someone that I hadn't had much success in doing a bad idea has been rewritten to suit present fashions.

Together these were the impressive ones. I switch person. And while this is the way to create a silicon valley out of school. Obviously signalling risk.

Another thing I learned from this experiment: set aside an option to maintain their percentage. What you're looking for something they wanted, so you'd find you couldn't slow the latter without also slowing the former.

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starlightshore · 4 years ago

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i accidentally wrote this essay about post pacifist undertale

ok i did this and it’s incoherent. i literally keep thinking about this i can’t make sense of this please mr.fox give us the forbidden undertale lore in the comics i beg of you

anyway i’ve seen arguments for and against the idea that UT takes place 100 years after 201x. Some say its more likely to be a few years but that sounds hard to swallow, especially since it being a long time for toriel being stuck in the ruins is essential to her character. it’s asgore and toriel’s immortality and tragedy of being stuck in a perpetual state of grief and inaction that define them. to have it just be a few years, while, to us mortals that’s a long time, but it doesn't hit the same does it? also, why would gerson who was alive back in the war with knights say it’s been a long time since toriel and asgore have been together. when he’s the only one to remember the story of “fluffybuns.”

the only time we get a character (one, mind you, has a meta-sense of humor) talk about how long toriel’s been in the ruins with a real number is with sans saying a hundred years. and that gives us enough time for humans to fall into the underground but still have most monsters be born and grow up without seeing any.

and you can argue around that, and you can look at different game clues that point to the other interpretation like how chara might(?) know the snowdrake family, or how the dog couple competed against asgore and toriel. and toby is very good at story consistency and world building. it’s a strange detail that the dogs would compete with them, especially when they’re still alive. but i’d argue that they’re clearly really old now. their fur is 100% white and they can’t see. which is like, very common for old dogs. tho that doesn’t say a lot since white dogs are also a thing akdsfjasldf

and honestly idk how intentional this weird timeline thing even is! because like, at the pacifist ending it’s already established frisk is not chara and if it was the future we could at least get some hint to that? but then again if toby just dropped in a sci-fi world or post-apocalypse setting in the credits that’d be super jarring. but then again its not like! we see much??? we see a cityscape in the distance, an empty highway and a beach, all devoid of humans

like... it doesn’t disprove or prove either.

i guess and the end of the day your decision if the 100 year thing is true or not matters purely on personal preference. i find it hard to add real life politics (not as in, actual figure heads. tho that also just feels super wrong) to undertale’s universe like i don’t know the societal factors of either group. what are their populations, where are they, how much money do they have, what’s their education system and how does human society contrast that and interact with that. i hate to think of monsters coming out to our horrible, capitalistic nightmare of a world built on imperialism and a .001% hierarchy ruling class.

that said, it’s still a big factor in why chara and frisk likely chose to go to the mountain. Humanity is terrible, there’s a lot of floweys out there. that’s the whole point.

regardless though, if their world is modern or not, if it keeps the modern structure of awful systems (and frankly, with climate change this isn’t sustainable for 100 more years) its hard to imagine what UT’s surface world is like with just frisk’s fashion and a few quick glimpses. also, equally hard to think of these goofy monsters interacting with our real world in anyway.

also, as a side note, just who is the ruler post pacifist? because i see asgore is still king but he SHOULDN’T frankly, he’s not a good king as much as i love him as a character he’s not fit to rule. toriel is clearly living her dream of being a teacher but who else would rule fairly? a big part of the neutral endings being “bad” endings are that no one is fit to rule the underground.

on-top of that, how do they handle the whole “yeah our king killed 6 kids but like, ya’ll imprisoned us to die in a mountain 1000 years ago and you killed our prince x years ago so we cool? we good? yeah?”do they... not mention it? do they keep it a secret? cause then that’s conspiracy. humanity will want to know how come monsters were trapped and how they got out. they will demand answers.

this haunts me

and i get half the fun of fandom is coming up with your answers and maybe that’s why it’s left to be interpreted, or maybe it was the end of the game and there wasn’t enough room to explore all these things or there could be future material that covers it like how the first UT anniversary had that askblog set in real time 1 year later.

and at this point we could play death of the author, there is no canon answer, there is no 100% complete canon evidence-based result. none of this matters. we gotta pick and choose our own answers

#personal stuff #long post

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jeannereames · 5 years ago

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Hi i have a follow up question to your latest ask. I tried looking through your asks if you had answered something similar but only found a post about your book which is also good but not exactly what i was looking for haha. Anyway, so I was wondering what sources we have showing or referencing the historical alexanders relationship to achilles? And maybe his mothers too. Is it just in later authors works? Is it based on lost sources from alexanders time? Are there coins or anything? Thanks (:

TL;DR version: we don’t have anything from Alexander’s own day that firmly connects him to Achilles. His coins all show Herakles, and then later himself “Heraklized.”

IF the armor in Tomb II at Vergina is his (e.g., it’s his half-brother Arrhidaios in there, not Philip II), then we may have an artistic reference on the magnificent shield recovered and reconstructed via archaeological magic. The shield’s central boss shows Achilles killing Penthesileia. Is that the “Shield of Achilles” Alexander supposedly picked up at Troy, and then carried in battle like a standard? Maybe. But, either way, it’s a reference to Achilles.

Otherwise, Achilles just doesn’t show up in Macedonian artwork. As he was supposedly from Epiros next door west, that may not be a big surprise, whereas Herakles (who’s all over the place) was believed to be the ancestor of the Argead clan. Alexander’s claim to Achilles came through Mommy, Olympias.

So virtually ALL our references to Alex and Achilles are from literary sources. And those are also ALL later. Which brings us to our source problem….

—————————————

The sources for Alexander are a regular Gordion Knot. We’re gonna get into the weeds here. Stay with me. And you may want to bookmark this for yourself if you need a handy (if saucy) later reference on the Alexander sources.

I’m not sure how much the asker already knows, but let me lay out some basics for everyone, including common terminology. You can probably suss out a lot from context, but just to be clear:

“Primary” evidence means documents and materials from the time period under consideration, and “secondary” evidence means modern authors assembling/editing and writing about those sources. When we look at the ancient world, primary evidence refers to documents (writings, including inscriptions), artwork (vases, sculptures, mosaics, etc.), and material evidence (e.g., “stuff” unearthed by archaeologists).

Obviously, only a fraction of what once existed has survived. Sometimes we know of writings that are no longer “extant.” Extant means a document we still have, or at least have most of. We hear about a lot more via “testamonia” and “fragmenta.” Testamonia are mention of a document (or author) found in another document. And fragmenta are pieces of a lost work (typically) embedded as quotes in somebody else’s work. Unfortunately, ancient authors don’t always admit where they get their information. “Citing” wasn’t a thing, back then.

Now, that out of the way, let’s take a look at Alexander sources in particular.

We have 5 extant histories/biographies for Alexander, more than virtually any other ancient figure. That’s great!

Problem. Not a single one was written by anyone who knew him, saw him, or even lived when he did. Two of them aren’t even in Greek; they’re in Latin. I’ve listed them below from earliest to latest, with approximate dates, and a bit of info about the author. (While I prefer Greek transliterations, I’m using the most common spelling of the names for familiarity.)

Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca Historica, specifically books 16 (Philip), 17 (Alexander), 18-20 (Successors). As “world histories,” they do talk about events in other places, including Syracuse, Athens, Sparta, and Rome. As his name suggests, Diodorus was from Sicily, and died c. 30 BCE, just as the Roman Republic was morphing into Empire. We have only books 1-5 and 11-20 of a total of 40. Books 18-20 are incomplete (fragments).

THIS IS OUR EARLIEST EXTANT SOURCE: a guy who lived in the first century BCE and was born almost 300 years after Philip of Macedon.

Let that sink in a moment.

Curtius Rufus, Historiae Alexandri Magni, is the better known of our two Latin histories. The author is a mystery, which complicates dating it. He lived under the empire, while the Parthians existed. A consul suffectus in late 43 CE (Claudius) has been proposed as him, but speculation abounds he might have used a nom de plume—not unlike a fanfiction author. 😊 The best study of Curtius’s work is by Elizabeth Baynam. He probably belongs to the first century, just a little earlier than Plutarch, and his work bears all the hallmarks of the Latin Silver Age.

Plutarch of Chaironeia wrote a lot, including his collection, Lives of Famous Greeks and Romans, which includes Alexander (as well as some Successors) + a massive number of essays collected under the general title Moralia. These include The Fortune of Alexander the Great, and Sayings of Kings and Commanders. Plutarch was a Dionysian priest from central Greece (Boeotia) who lived in the late first century CE, and died c. 120…that’s when HADRIAN was emperor. He belongs to a group of writers typically called the Second Sophistic.

Arrian of Nicomedia, The Anabasis and Indica, written in two different dialects of Greek (Attic and Ionic); he also wrote some philosophic stuff. We know a decent amount about him. He was an Asian Greek from modern Bithynia (the home province of Hadrian’s boyfriend Antinoos), a military man, a senator, a friend of Hadrian, a consul suffectus, and later, an archon of Athens, but most famously, governor (legate) of Cappadocia under Hadrian. He died in Athens c. 160 CE. He liked to call himself the New Xenophon and naming his work on Alexander the Anabasis (after Xenophon’s famous history) is pointed. Although Greek, he was strongly Romanized.

Justin, wrote an epitome of Pompeius Trogus’s expansive Liber Historiarum Philippicarum, which was a history of the Macedonian kingdom, written when Augustus was Empror. An “epitome” is a digest, or shortened version. Trogus’s work was 44 books. Justin’s is much, much smaller, but it’s not a true digest in that he collected what he considered the more interesting titbits rather than trying to summarize the whole thing. We do not know when he lived, precisely, and dates have been thrown out from shortly after Pompeius Trogus all the way to 390 CE! His Latin matches the second century or perhaps early third. This one doesn’t have a Loeb edition, so get the translation by John Yardley with Waldemar Heckel’s commentary on Justin.

In addition, information and stories about Alexander can be found scattered in other ancient sources, notably:

Athenaeus of Naucratus (Greece), Supper Party (Deipnosophistae), which is a weird collection of stories about famous people and food, told at a fictional dinner banguet. It’s long, and fairly entertaining reading, if you’re interested in Greek (and Roman) dining customs. Athenaeus lived in the late 2nd/early 3rd century CE, so he’s even later than most of our historians. Athenaeus used a lot of now-missing sources.

Polyaenus, Strategems. Military handbook from another late author—2nd century CE—but he’s of special interest as he’s Macedonian, our sole extant ancient source from a Macedonian, but keep in mind 500+ years passed between Alexander’s day and his. The Strategems is broken down by leader, which include Archelaus, Philip, and Alexander, plus some of the Successors, too. Until recently, there wasn’t a really good translation (the last was done in the 1800s), but it was finally updated by Krentz and Wheeler for Ares Press.

In addition, he’s mentioned in passing by sources from Strabo to Pliny the Elder to Aelian.

This gives you a good idea of what we do have, and the nature of our problem. It may also help explain what I (or other historians) mean when we talk about the danger of “Romanizing,” even with Greek authors. By the time any of them were writing, even Diodorus, Rome dominated the Mediterranean, and most of them really knew only the imperial period.

Besides the obvious problem of the distance in time, some also had axes to grind. Plutarch is probably the most obvious, as he admits he’s not writing history, but this new thing (he invented) called “Lives” (e.g., biography). More to the point, he’s writing moral tales. Ergo, his bio of Alex is really a long discourse in the old saw, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Likewise, Curtius had a lesson about the evils of Roman imperial debauchery, especially as influenced by Eastern Ways pulling good men away from Roman discipline and clemency.

So what about our now-missing historians who were used by the guys above, and lived closer to ATG’s time? Some of the more important include:

The Ephemerides, or Royal Journal: a daily account of the king’s activities similar to other Ancient Near Eastern traditions, kept by Eumenes, Alexander’s personal secretary. You’ll see them referred to chiefly when talking about Alexander’s last days, as they (supposedly) give an account of his deterioration and death. But they may (and probably were) “doctored” later. Ed Anson has an article about them: important reading.

Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, the official Royal Historian…at least until he got himself in trouble with the Page’s Conspiracy and ATG had him executed (or caged, accounts differ). His history was noted even in antiquity for being flowery and effusive, despite his personal claims to be a philosopher and pretense of austerity. If Alexander wanted a Homer, it wasn’t Callisthenes. Among his failings, he attempted to write about ATG’s battles…badly (so Polybius). Still, this was the official record up till Baktria, used by all the historians still extant. Don’t confuse it with Pseudo-Callisthenes which is the chief source of the Alexander Romance.

Marsyas: Macedonian literati who went to school with the prince, and not only wrote about his childhood (his Education of Alexander was modeled on Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus) and career, but also wrote a work about Macedonian customs that I’d simply LOVE to have. If I could ask for one work from antiquity to be discovered tomorrow, that would be it.

Ptolemy I, of Egypt: Alexander’s general, the guy who stole his body and stole Egypt too in the Successor wars that followed. He was one of Arrian’s main sources when writing his histories. Despite Arrian’s declaration that Ptolemy could be trusted because it would be bad for a king to lie, we can’t trust him. Among other things, he set out to smear the name of his Successor-era rival Perdikkas, and also, apparently, made himself sound more important than he really was. 😉

Nearchus of Crete/Amphipolis, Alexander’s chief admiral and a player in the later Successor wars, wrote an account of his naval trip from India, et al., used chiefly by Arrian.

Aristobulus of Cassandreia: Arrian’s other chief source, he was an engineer, architect, and friend of the king; his main problem seems to have been a tendency to whitewash or explain away critiques of Alexander. It’s Aristobulus who claims ATG didn’t drink heavily, just sat long over his wine for the conversation (uh…I’m sure Kleitos agrees with that). It’s also from him that we get the alternative story that Alexander didn’t cut the Gordion Knot, just pulled the pin out of the yoke and untied it from inside (he didn’t cheat!). Hmmm.

Chares of Mytilene, Alexander’s chamberlain, wrote a 10-book history of Alexander that focused largely on his personal affairs. Boy, wouldn’t that be a fun read? Arrian uses him sometimes, as does Plutarch, et al. Chares is one of the chief sources on the Proskenysis Affair.

Cleitarchus, History of Alexander. Probably the best-known ancient “pop history” of Alexander, but given the ancient equivalent of 2-stars even by historians of his time. His father was a historian too, but apparently, he got more ambition than ability, and was accused of flat making up shit. He lived at Ptolemy’s court later, we think, and a recent fragment tells us he was a tutor. His date is in dispute as late 4th or middle 3rd, and he probably never actually met Alexander. Kleitarchos’s account was used heavily by Plutarch, Curtius, Diodorus, and Pompeius Trogus (Justin’s source). Even Arrian uses him occasionally.

Onesicritus, a Cynic philosopher who studied under Diogenes and later traveled with Alexander. Despite that, his reputation for honesty was even worse than Kleitarchos; Lysimakhos famously called him out publicly, and Strabo considered him a joke. It’s from Onesicritus we hear about Alexander’s sexual servicing of the Amazon Queen to give her a daughter (that’s what Lysimakhos made fun of him for: “Where was I when that happened?”).

These are the main ancient sources you’ll see mentioned, although parts of Alexander’s life are covered in smaller essays, e.g., On the Death (and Funeral) of Alexander and Hephaistion by Euphippus, which is unashamedly hostile to both men. All our fragments from Euphippos come from Athenaeus’s Supper Party, mentioned above.

We also have the Alexander Romance, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish and not my bailiwick. I refer folks to the work by Richard Stoneman.

There you go! Your handy-dandy potted summary of the ancient authors. To learn more about them, please see Lionel Pearson’s The Lost Historians of Alexander the Great, Scholar’s Press, 1983. There have been articles and material about them in other commentaries and sources, but Pearson remains useful, if somewhat dated, simply for collecting it all in one place, including mention of some minor sources I didn’t cover here.

Finally, I’m including a flowchart I’ve made for my ATG class that lists all the known sources (including several not discussed above); it is copyrighted to me, but may be used for educational purposes. Yes, yes, it really is as crazy as this chart makes it look. And keep in mind, some dependencies are speculative rather than internally confirmed. E.g., as I mentioned earlier, not all ancient sources say what/who they consulted because, againg, citing wasn’t a thing, back then.

#Alexander the Great #Sources on Alexander the Great #Classics #Arrian #Plutarch #Diodorus #Curtius Rufus #Justin #Source problems in antiquity #Lost historians of Alexander #one-stop shopping for Alexander historians #asks #ancient history #tagamemnon #historiography

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throwinggrapesoffthebalcony · 4 years ago

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Literary Essay: THE LOVE DESTROYING THE PIECE

It brings back memories when realizing why I’d removed this material from How to grow roses in the past. This is the poetic tone that was breaking the thread of the main narrative, and why I’d struggled with it previously while trying to merge the pieces. I think the appeal, or the temptation, is to write an elaborate, ‘unfinished feeling’ novel; which doesn’t always result in a better novel. More elaborate works own the reader, while simpler works might be something a reader can more easily hold to their heart; when the last pages are read and the book is closed. This material - that I wrote while immersed in the love, under the title black holes and revelations - deserves life without being broken by any other narrative, or literary obsession. How to grow roses is life, removed from all that destroys me, while black holes and revelations is all that destroys me.

Does it fulfill you, this life of events that you live? From one event to another, is it happiness?

Sexual events and conversation are my formal occasions, like a rush to create a collage of experiences to blot you out; like bodies and hair and faces and legs and arms floating on the surface of the pool and I’m trying to stay under, while I’m still taken by the shimmering gaps coming down through. There is no escape from you. I’ll hold my breath forever if I have to.

Why was I always so quiet when she mentioned you or your parents or anything about you? No line for your strangeness. Should I have taken a number the first time that I saw your face. It’s too late. But I know it’s just about the options on that other plane. I will always be slightly confused and lost without you. And so I’m walking through this perfect neighborhood again like a lost child, sniffing at the base of perfumes to keep me from falling apart. And despite its worldwide acclaim, I have to admit it isn’t as beautiful as that neighborhood in the salt air with the breeze coming off the water, with the thought of you near. I can sit for an hour, drinking a glass of wine so still, that they don’t begin to fall. Two little puddles sitting there in each of my eyes that don’t evaporate or fall.

Whispering to the landscaping. Mental anguish is a greater burden than the physical sense. Like working with concrete, clothes bleached by the lime. Xxx telling me not to bother to look nice for this. Or mowing the neighbors lawns, afraid the whole time that a pretty girl might pass by and see me doing that. And there is something that is lacking, even when they let you experience them in every way, there’s something lingering in their imperial eyes, a futile thread embroidered in the bigger tapestry - not of your kind. Hey! I’ve got some royal blood of my own. But it’s a cry too late for that. Out at sea and looking towards the shore, for a glimmer of your blue jeep. You’re all alone and waiting for me to come in. You’ve got a beach towel spread out for us that says love. The currents there, that so frequently had me alone and drifted off. A hurricane, a little fun, and I’m miles and miles down the coast. Feeling at times like just letting it take me, from that little wooden house and the misery. Drifting past.

But what’s in brackets remains guarded. Easy to write, impossible to show.

And how can you miss something so much that you never had. What is it that one is missing, when one does not know what they’re missing?

…I look over towards the bed and think what if you were really there sleeping close right now. Let me kiss each of them. My doll, my love, open them like two little butterflies. And you look at me in that way that I’ve always prayed. The very thought leads me on. I can’t bear to close my eyes again and see you there. When I fall into bed as if onto you and close them they become the shape of yours. And now it’s completely back and I’m crashing out to the thoughts of you again. There are the pieces of you about this bedroom, as I’m crashing out to the thoughts of you again. And like a desperate voice drifting off, I’m still speaking to you. I’ll put on that expression of self control that I used to put on when you were mentioned by friends: a face, casual, distant, unconcerned and strong, while the mention of you with another boy took me under like nothing else ever could. Allison talking about someone we knew who’d been visiting you at your house and I wanted to go and vomit in her bathroom. Oh my god. Going and sitting on the lid of the toilet with my legs crossed, leaned over with my own hand going through my hair, while her and Kelly’s voices go on about college plans. And I even know what it’s like to be taken under by the rip-currents of a hurricane; held under, pressed against the sandbar until you’re sure you’ll never live to take another breath. And I was there saying under my breath again, What the fuck? It was like a cruel joke. What strangeness. What unlikeliness.

As if that one particular face never existed. Those eyes. The way your mouth spoke. And my heart was taken like a child takes a toy off a shelf. Like a glass heart off a mantle. And I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t scream to wake up this girl, this woman, to make sure nothing was broken. And it’s as if I’m still watching you from a distance, through the glass panes of french doors and you’re on a couch, sitting there in this beautiful environment with a glass heart in your hand. As if you’re just almost seeing how special it is. And the phone rings.

Even if I were to end up with a woman as wonderful as Barbara, it would degrade even that in time. There’s no fortunate circumstance to withstand it. A house to survive a storm. And who would even want to live in a house like that with me. That is the beauty of a relationship, that neither has to worry that the other is looking off to someone else. Whether practical thoughts about someone you could be with or something that’s not possible.

Your phone number that I’ve acquired, sits by like a dare. Like a risk. To go on thinking that maybe it could happen is survival, an even keel. You’ll cut me short and I’ll burn. Why are you calling me and what do you want? That’s what I fear the most. I want to call you from some beautiful place, as if I were at some acceptable elevation, somehow on your plane. As if that’s all there was to it. Then a conversation would take place. A conversation between two people who are somehow apart of each other’s lives. And then I could go on. I’m trapped here instead, feeling myself becoming the worst part of this Hollywood scene. Escaping into less glamorous parts of the woods, trying to feel like I’m still part of a neighborhood, and not a transient area of those trying to feel like they exist. I’m so fortunate, but your eyes left me feeling like all those who aren’t. It’s a secret that your eyes left me feeling like I don’t exist. And I know it’s not purely you that had the power to do that, but it was the combination of you and your rejection of so much love. Like the perfect storm that I can’t outrun. I can’t wish it away. And the universe is so mysterious like that. While people tell me that the world is at my feet, my heads fallen into pieces. From that period of time in that neighborhood, I haven’t been free. I can’t see the world without this tint, this pattern. Corridors and hallways and courtyards destroy me. Windows, fucking windows. They’re not what they should be to me. And every other girl is a dead end.

I head this way towards Beverly Hills and Brentwood and then to the ocean. I stop along the sidewalk for a minute. Those funny little tendrils have mysteriously appeared from a hedge that looks to have just been sheared clean, maybe yesterday or as early as this morning. I stop and make believe that it’s the manifestation of your love reaching out for me. I feel over this beautiful bright new little jasmine tendril, perfect skin, in the air reaching out to wrap itself around something. If I stood here long enough, still enough, waiting, it would intwine. Nature has become something else to me, and I’m always looking for signs in it that you love me, that you’re thinking about me too. To save myself. And I don’t know if it’s childish or insane, that I feel it that way, that for a moment I really do feel like this foliage is you thinking about me. The modern world will laugh and tell me, that it’s just a hedge, it’s just a tendril, it’s just a young girl that looks like you, it’s just a twinkling star. That other world that I’m thinking about doesn’t exist anymore. In this one everything means something else and reminds me of something or someone else in that one. I haven’t seen you in years and I rub over these new little leaves as if no time at all has passed.

Wherever it flutters, is where I’ll be found. I’m chasing the butterfly of love, deeper into it when I should be forgetting. It’s fluttering around the memory of you. I’m still chasing it down. Up the Malibu coast. Beautiful butterfly, I say, I let go! I give myself up to fate and the tide if it really wasn’t meant to be. It shows itself and I run after it again without looking. It lands on the memory of you at the naval air station in a pair of aviator sunglasses, on that afternoon when I thought to myself at the Naval Air Station, that’s my wife sitting close by. Just a matter of time. A world of people. Like that life, with the blue angels glimmering by in array. And I was looking at you in those aviator sunglasses, looking up and away. You are a beautiful sight. The glare, the glimmer, the twinkle in my eye. xxx.

Love intwined is a paradise. Living in one, feeling nothing. I can only comment on it, like commenting on a painting. I’m the one that doesn’t feel this place. I’m the one that doesn’t feel anything. The past is greater than the future. It’s greater than the present. Screaming out your name is like sex in itself.

With no closure it keeps you in circles. And I lay down sometimes in some beautiful place, on the sand with the sea-breeze or in a garden and I feel the weight of love and I don’t want to get up again. After crying there is this stillness. And you’re just gone from waiting and all the games in this place called Hollywood. I don’t want to encounter the world anymore. Laying there through sunset and twilight, then staring up at the stars until finally getting up. I don’t want to die to this love of you. I don’t want to be non-viable, a flawed lover, a beautiful body but with half a heart for someone else. But I keep trying. Sex means more to me because I’m trying to save myself with it. The beauty of women means more to me because amongst them, there’s some chance of escape. I approach this beautiful girl dressed so beautifully with this look in my eyes. Love in the escape of love. It’s a serious look. There’s no way around me. The dress goes up. And I hold her there like that with her arms above her head and wrists together, looking over this figure and smelling this girl. And it scares her and she loves it, that I’m not cautious at all as she lets it happen with this boy that she’s never seen before. Oh my god what are you doing? An open window with the wind coming in. Morning. At least tell me where you work. It doesn’t matter anymore.

And I can’t forget. And it is a moment as if I’ve never reached for a phone before, as if calling from this phone and this esteemed environment would make a difference and somehow create an impression over the phone lines of a boy who might have something now to offer. I've had it shivering in my hand. She doesn't answer. After the beep, I only leave the ambient sound of that sunny room in a hotel before softly setting the phone down. A vacuous message hoping somehow, she’d hear this love, crackling through distance and time. I’m sweating and not even sure what in the hell I would have said to you. I say it to this beautiful air. Xxx I love you.

My punishment is the elegant hell of your indifference and aversion. And it’s a place where words mean nothing. Where we go about in silence with you not loving me. And I live forever with you in that house near the water without a word, trying to convince you in a waking dream to love me, to take a walk with me to the water. To lean against me and hold me from the breeze. I won’t hate anyone. I’m in too much the daze of this heavenly place. Have you ever had anyone see that aura of yours? Feel that from you. Dying with love to the sound of your laughter. Hold it off until it’s gone. Until there’s no life left in our light. It’s love like a radiating heart, and isn’t it like any fruit that forms then falls to the ground and eventually shrivels away. Closing my eyes beneath this lime tree tightly. They flutter off amongst the branches. One is me, the other is you. I take her hand, because nothing I’m writing about you can save me. As beautiful as that vision of you in a wedding dress is. I wasn’t the groom.

They haven’t fired me but changed the schedule around on me. There’s not enough of me left to argue about it. Just a little more disorientation. And if I thought humiliation by candle light was such a terrible thing, I would try the stark sunlight. Squinting on the way at this time of the late morning. The light’s so contrary to the way that I'm feeling; like morning sickness. But if anything, I must admit that the outdoor patio is really beautiful during the day. And all of a sudden it wasn’t an annoyance, but was almost like perfect timing, as if I was fated to work this shift, when there she was! In a way. Heaven sent! Sitting so mannerly, like a sight that I needed so badly. What a beautiful child. While waiting on her I'm a Prince to her every need. My pleasure through two courses. She’s only eaten a little piece of her cake, leaving the best part. I peak out at her. For a moment I feel pathetic but alive with my heart beating this way. I have that feeling again almost completely, like when you were near me, and it brings me to tears. She looks so much like you, my god. And the greatest signs come without the purposeful intrusions of man. Nature can be much more insightful and excruciating at times. Beautiful little girl sitting in such brilliant sunlight, don’t look at me please. Oh that precious face! An overlay of yours. Like cellophane. If you only knew. Darling do you know what it means to me? The cut of your eyes, of your mouth. I don’t know what her mother must think, when I can't help myself and I lean over and kiss the shiny hair on the top of her head. And thankfully there's what seems like an understanding look from her mother - so strangely as if she understands everything, brushing the little girl's hair back and smiling like part of the compliment, the universal love. And she should. And horribly, I'm wanting so badly to say to this little girl what I'd wanted to say to you. As if now was the chance. I’ve lost you in a life before. Let's not do this again! But it would be too strange for me to say those things to a nine or ten year old girl. And it would be too strange for me to beg them to come back again soon and to forever request me as their loving waiter! And if I could I’d take her home, and raise her, as if she were ours. It has me sweeping it up while watching them leave. It's fallen into a thousand pieces. What's missed that precious mouth, missed the plate, missed the table, missed everything but the floor. I hold that piece that’s left, trembling on a porcelain plate. Wanting to run out and speak to her one more time. I hold it between my fingers, this piece, the end, with white icing and a little lavender flower on it. Sweetness. So I’m not dead quite yet! Even while the scent of that little girls hair has me flat on the mauve carpet with my arms stretched out and staring at the ceiling with plenty of afternoon light left.

A poster of this little girl with a piece of cake in front of her and a big smile on her face, is all that I would ever need to decorate my room. And now it’s brought on an even greater flood. It’s washed me right back through those low stone Hewit gates.

Late that afternoon, you’ve never seen a happier writer, no white out. I paint my nails with it. Oblivious with the thought that another face like yours might be found.

This storm is so damn frustrating. Cursed. And it’s hard for me not to compare love. It’s like a tide line along the seawall and it hasn’t reached that point again, that all time record high again. I feel the tide of other girls rising, lapping at it like that green salt water in the wind, but it doesn’t happen and I always remain on the surface, the love and sex with other woman unable to sink me entirely or raise me to that previous love. There is that place with your name on it, exposed on a higher step on the seawall. While just the thought of the love I want from you so badly is drowning me. It washes over Ocean Drive. And any attempt at a relationship will fail again, predictably. Here it comes. Like a tidal surge. Like a sudden and unseen front. It comes through the screen windows of the apartment and takes me over. And I can smell that place. High school hallways. The salt water. You next to me. Contentment. My doll. I feel like these depths are running out of light. And I’m too young to live the rest of my life in the twilight hours. Forgive what I say about you at moments of weakness, at moments of desperation, when I think I can cast you out of my heart with words of denigration. Forgive that I’ve bathed my face and neck in holy water on a hot summer day, alone, on my way to the alter in a quiet and empty church to say such horrible things about you. I pray the Virgin Mary doesn’t think I’m speaking of her while trying to get over you. But of course this house is all knowing and would never be confused.

As memories begin to sprawl again and grow, one scene leads to the before and after and you’re there again at sea level in that sprawl of streets in the salty windy air. But it was clear that what was in the brackets wasn’t going to lead me to any kind of success here, at least not of the gilded kind.

I’m not here with some clear and lucid understanding of the industry and studio system, but moving through all of it like a drunk boy from one pretty face to another, from one pretty place to another at the mercy of the haziness of thinking about you.

And that’s not only where the relationships become uncertain, but also where the writing splits in two. It starts to ruin the life above the surface, the moments you’re granted that might not be with her. Writing how you feel is so difficult because of that. Because according to most people, you’re not supposed to feel like this. It is a show of weakness. Something’s wrong with you. It’s a flaw of masculinity that you can’t get her off your mind, and at the same time an offense to any other girl or woman who can’t take her off your mind. So it’s continually split while you’re hidden. Like this beautiful curd that has to be skimmed off of everything I write. Or like the pulp from the wine. Or like myself from my other self; that self loyal to you. I can say things in the brackets that I couldn’t mention otherwise. I suppose people use them for different reasons and find them in different ways, to keep things in or to keep things out. I couldn’t even say her name outside of them, even while I was desperate to bail this heart out of her. I felt like I was quietly wanting her so badly again amongst those streets. A few people knew how I felt. In high school you don’t trust just anyone to your vulnerabilities. And the friends that you’re with all the time, know it. They want to know what that sick look on my face is, when I’ve seen you with that other boy again. The most that they could do was mention when they’d seen you and what you might have said, in a loving way, giving me a glimpse. Although I knew it was just rubbing it in. They want to see me quiver, it’s all in good fun. I would just fall back, thinking, oh please don’t do this to me. But please, what else did she say, what was she wearing? Listening to every precious word about you. If I can’t have the first hand, then the second will have to do. Is it the shape of your face? Like a previous face in a previous life that I’d adored? Was it the cuddly warmth of your body that I felt when you were close? This energy in phase with mine. But a love, out of phase. Have I been chasing you for a thousand years, is that why it was so lighting quick into my blood when I first saw you. Amazing how a confident boy was all of a sudden turned to jello. Love at first sight. Like picking myself up from a high school hallway dream after that. Unbroken by the bell. Do you know what you’ve done? Maybe even without knowing it, you’ve destroyed every relationship that I’ve ever had since then. And it kills me, what reaction you might have at hearing me say, I love you. To look into those eyes, waiting. Like waiting for the final results. No reply. Wasn’t I beautiful?

Dallas is where your family moved on to. I was so sad when my mother told me that. Off to another world, one glamorous enough for you. So I flew a little higher up to live for a while. Not as high as that, so you were still way up there. With my toes at the northern, Austin city limits. I almost got all the way up there one time to look for you. But I only got as far as Temple. And I met this young blonde cheerleader there. And that’s a whole other funny story. I’m safe here with the thoughts of you. Somehow there’s a chance for you here. I feel like I’m somewhere.

But I still want to lay it at your door. I remember when we were still there and I wanted to write something and place it at your door in place of the errant knocks, but I wasn’t in that stage of life to do that. Spiral notebooks and attempts. It wasn’t all pared down yet. It was Corpus Christi and included all the people and faces that were there. And I don’t know if it was closer to what it felt like or not. I read through some of it and it’s just what happened. And being from there, there’s always the temptation to write it just as it was, to write a simple and heartfelt version. I start into something like that but then I don’t think that’s enough. As if to say, that’s nice, but not a nice enough ring for the girl that I love. Always feeling like I could never write anything more important than what I lay at your door. Confusion. Seeking perfection. I don’t even know what I’m expecting to come of it. Maybe it’s just for myself, just another attempt to free myself from it. And I’m looking over these scenes, these situations that I tried to express. With the names of all these other girls. And if there’s no freedom forward, then maybe if I delve further into the past, before I met you. And I spend a little time with those passages and it feels good. You’re not even in the picture yet. Like reversing the reel. A girl in a little yellow convertible Triumph, has my attention for a little while. And then I’m feeling like I could write an entire picture about Nicole. There’s an afternoon with some girl named Devin packing to go off to college. There’s a beautiful blonde girl named Jill that smells like suntan lotion. Then there’s going down Ocean Drive with Kevin Robinson, behind you, with you looking out the back window of your parents luxury car. And there’s the sound of his Porsche clattering and that feeling that I had at the sight of your face.

Freedom in the writing, isn’t freedom at all. Being able to write your name and not want to hide the way I feel, might feel like a breakthrough in the writing, but in reality has me right back where I was. Trapped in those streets. Progression in the work is not progression in life.

It’s stasis. Love is stasis.

And I don’t pick up the phone. She’s not you.

I’ve done as much as I can do to get rid of this love. And I’m sorry that I love love so much. I do want to just move through life with a half-numb practical mind or in drunkenness where everything is just a consideration. They are the lucky ones, never at the mercy of love. There are all these varieties of love. But you really touched my heart, for better or for worse, in a very different way than any other. And it’s this potent excruciating feeling of love without intimacy. And I crave it, just to throw my arms around you and hold you. Writing about us in a foreign land are the most comfortable pieces that I write; removed from that place and everyone that we knew. There are no bridges there, one thought doesn’t lead to the next like they should. Something’s broken, something’s burned. But here there is this atmosphere to hold it together, this aether, this talcum powdered air. And the faces, bodies, places, perfumes, every drop of it, is like a brilliant displacement to a perfect and faultless amnesia.

And when I work on it, what Barbara had asked keeps crossing my mind. What is it about? And if I can’t answer that question I shouldn’t be writing it. I don’t know what I’m trying to get to or what I’m trying to get at. What is it that I want to accomplish with it? Why have I used this opportunity as just another opportunity to speak to you instead of trying to make it here? What is it about? It’s about being in love with a girl that you can’t have, that just goes on like this horrible nightmare. And because it did’t come back my way, should I just pretend like it’s gone. Working on this labor of love while it dies inside of me. Does it turn to poison after so many years? How well does love keep? It’s still as fresh as a new born baby. I’m still shivering, thinking about that big round dial patio thermometer that looks like a clock under that green corrugated fiberglass roof, when a norther’s blown in and you can write things on the glass. And I’m standing there staring out the sliding glass doors again. So close, I could walk there even in this frigid weather without a coat on. I would survive, if only not left shivering at your door. That was never opened for this burning heart of mine. Melting down in the dead of winter on your esteemed steps. Perhaps there’s no one home, perhaps you love the sight of a boy freezing to death. At least be kind enough to throw me out an arctic sweater. Love and no arctic sweater. Forever like two frozen lovers.

That afternoon with the heavenly white thunderous, cumulus clouds billowing into the summer sky over the bay, high up into the atmosphere. I’m coming around that arch, coming to confess my love or to beg and the sweet breeze is blowing and I’m ready. I’m ready to make a fool of myself. I’m just going to grab you and kiss you. Then I see your cars next to each other. I was gazing, nearly transfixed, stopping like a dumb animal in risk of peril. Love is moving you in that direction and you arrived at that beautiful scene. And it might as well be a picture. But pictures don’t hurt this much. I should have gone to the door, interrupting that summertime interlude. Your two cars like two lovers in the sun. I should have cared less about my survival, or losing my cool. Only you can’t fight for love. There’s no war for it. There’s no place to invade for it. It must come by its own volition. And it’s so beautiful that nature’s created something so fragile and illusive, that makes it hurt so much more when it chooses not to land. And my arm and hand is outstretched and poised, waiting, trembling at the choice. Like watching the diminishing sight of a butterfly fluttering around into the blinding glare of the garden. Until I realize it’s not meant to be. But I can’t feel that way and I go further into the garden. It was a glorious avoidance that I still can’t understand. Don’t ever say why you didn’t love me, please. I’m sure there are reasons upon reasons. It’s what no other girl has been able to understand and it’s nothing that I could ever expect them to. You’re supposed to be there completely for someone else when you’re together. Someone unreachable has left me unreachable. I’ll let it ring. It’s not you.

Alone tonight at my discretion. A woman told me that it’s like lying, a lie of omission. That I didn’t mention that there was someone I felt like that about. And it’s true that you on my mind is lying to every woman that I’m with. I’ll see one of them tonight anyway. Barbara’s away and I go through these numbers that I’ve collected at the restaurant as if in a panic and it’s getting late. It’s wonderful, but it’s not that moment of decision at that precious age. Your decision not to. It’s not that moment of denial in the past that you put me on the cross with. Forever trapped in that pattern of streets. My writing is every variation of how it might have turned out. You opened the door and made love to me. I can write the truth in the disco version. I wanted you pregnant not even out of high school. I wanted everything that could be done between two people. Sitting there one night in that park, then a smile with a turn of the head with the wishful thinking of you pregnant in a cheerleading outfit. I was lost even then, a romantic amongst those going through the motions and looking forward to future plans. I saw what I wanted too early on. It would have been nice to have stayed who I was the day before I met you.

The sound of the clock goes on ticking on my expression of what it would feel like if you were here right now, and how wonderful that would be. It’s gotten late. And this ticking clock reminds me of that old Roman numeraled clock on the kitchen wall that was like the metronome of hell. Laying there in my childhood bedroom, with my arms like a summer field dreamer, but looking up at the cracks on the ceiling like another map, always about to fall in on me. Shotguns under bed and the boxes of shells like potpourri finely scenting my bedroom. Oil based paint in the kitchen hardened in the worst of ways, amazingly un-chipped by all the years of dishes thrown against the walls. They don’t make paint like they used to. It was when you could still die eating paint chips. They were like olive green lead walls. A wall splattered with food, and no one had wandered back in that night to clean it up. And when standing there in the kitchen in the near darkness, I thought about you and how beautiful you are and how close you were, and that you were only streets away. You were so close! Then I was counting you like sheep again, that never brought me any rest. You’re coming over my bed again. On a few occasions when I thought it could happen, I set the phone on the bed next to me praying you’d call me back. I laid there fingering that spiraled cord. I laid there with the thoughts of you laying next to everyone. Is that weird of me to have imagined you with other boys, and what you were like with them? The positions. I go quietly out the back sliding glass door in the middle of the night just to get as close to you as I possibly can. It’s windy, you know the air, and I go across the path of what I can’t have. Looking down your street as I pass it by, orbiting a little closer to the object of my affection. Did you ever feel the waves emanating from the flesh of a boy that loves you so much? Did you ever feel me walking through your dream while you slept. Did I love you too much from that little house to the sea? I’m not supposed to love someone this much! No one is supposed to love someone this much. There are no buildings or rooms or clocks in love. My eyes looking into your eyes didn’t leave you with anything? Nothing at all? And I know that silence can be as horrible as violence. Not to have you, not to be speaking with you was worse than violence, I swear. When I was in that house, in that little house growing up, in all the yelling and screaming and violence, I found peace in thinking about you. I hesitate as I pass your bending street, like the top arch of a heart. That way, for perfection and rejection! And sweetie I would have kept knocking on that door if it didn’t hurt so damn much. It never opened. So then, to feel nothing is perfection. It’s what I’m working on. It’s survival. Then an ocean drive, desperate weather, desperate words, cries for armageddon. There is no sea here! There is no ocean here. Just this black hole! Thank god, is that the end coming? A ghost jet plane coming into the naval air station with lights ablaze. No, come this way. Here’s your target, come and zero in on me. With spine against a palm I wanted the entire place destroyed. That black bay laughing as I cried, ‘If I can’t have you then no one can!’ It doesn’t work that way. And life keeps going on like the sound of water dripping in the sink, the clock ticking like a frigid metronome. Without you I’m lost in the woods. It’s cold. It’s later than I thought. I go out walking again in the middle of the night; here, not there.

And I reach the edge in the writing, where I reach the edge of how well I ever knew you. And I try to go on and go into that vague terrain a little bit further but it’s useless. I want so badly to write these scenes between you and me, with more conversation, with time spent together, with lovemaking. Limitations, limitations. I’m a fucking waiter; in the highest echelons of this craft, thinking about a girl who denied me any real time with her. How humorously cruel can nature be? That’s not a question for you. That’s a question for the universe.

What I’d taken Barbara before was so boring. It was a rosy picture, with not a mention of love, or obsession, with not a mention of violence; not in life or in thoughts. No house full of fights. No accidents. No mistakes. It was like the description of a coastal town, as if out of an encyclopedia that lasts forever because it��s merely the description of a pretty little place, not tied to anyone’s feelings, a pretty little sparkling city by the sea, without love, without hurt, without confusion. And who wants to read a diary about a miserable tiny wooden house with the wind blowing over all sides of it and paragraphs about fishing, about drum and redfish and speckled trout. And how my mother would prepare them, fresh in the skillet. And the worst part of delving back into it is delving back into it, still breathing in the air of that small wooden house, the smell of termite eaten wood and gunpowder. We no longer went hunting, if only because my father had somehow become soft hearted and said that he couldn’t pull the trigger on the fuzzy little creatures anymore: a buck had looked him in the eyes before dying. Before it was easy for him. A seven millimeter magnum on a high blind, under a Texas blue sky. Out of the scope, you can hardly even see it. It’s a long walk after to find it. But the weapons and ammunition persisted in dusty zippered bags through the years, cleaned and oiled once in a while, looking down the spiral with daylight at the end of it in my bedroom.

I remember looking into his eyes. And I couldn’t tell him that I loved you. And I couldn’t tell him that I was so proud, that at least it had been one of us; in this little area of wooden houses. I wished he’d married you and she hadn’t gone off into an open world again. I don’t know who they are? I can’t feel a part of it at all. And weren’t we all so anxious to get away completely from that place.

Every walk is amazing. I don’t know why I saw you and felt like there was no other. Like food coloring into a glass of water. Sitting there and watching my mother bake on a holiday and holding it over like an eye dropper. And you watch how it slowly spreads into the water and becomes inseparable, tainted. Always wondering if I’m tainted or fortunate to have this feeling of love. Is it a gift or a burden? I’ve spoken to others who’ve gone through life, having been in love, but never really really in love. Should I be jealous of that? I met you at Ray High School in the hallway. I knew something had happened to me when I staggered home. Not knowing if that feeling was sickness or happiness or joy. What just happened to me? Don’t let this be happening. Then I didn’t see you. That was such a lonely summer. So close but not in the same circles. Praying they’d converge in that strange place. How could I lose you in such a small town, only streets away. Those precious moments when I thought it was possible, I still turn in them. And somehow who we all chose and who we ended up with and who we tried, was all laughable to me. As if I could see too much in the future. Don’t you know that that one will be fat and bald in ten years. Don’t you know that one’s a babbling idiot. Don’t you know who it is that really loves you? Drinking and friends mouths left open at my mouth denigrating someone you were seeing. And I never mention that it’s because they’re dating you. Just that I hate that person as an individual, as a human being for some reason. I’m sure they suspect why.

And somehow here, in this world of the studio system, I can keep it alive. They can broadcast me up there on the hill. The dream story of my life.

In the mirror, it’s a quiet confrontation of the body, face, mouth, eyes, teeth - not with a Hollywood setting, but with the circumstances of my own life. Thinking back to high school and that little bathroom, rubbing that Obsession gel through my hair and practicing that line in the mirror. That line that means everything and means nothing. Will you marry me? I’m that boy in the mirror again in that little bathroom by the den, still in love with you. Is there some chance that you would ever need this face and body and love? Should I just let go and be devoured by time? I’m lost and tired of looking for you in all these other faces. Like letting go of that mirror with ornate gold frame in the living room that I would gaze at myself in before exiting the screen door. A mirror that was like something palatial in our little wooden house. I didn’t feel like I was owed you. But just that I love you so much. It’s just a thought that goes hand in hand with every look at myself in a mirror. How could I be so lucky in love, but not with you? That face, that voice, that heart, the one I wanted. Quiet desperation. Is it too late to smile onto you? A girl you love, and even nature itself wouldn’t give a damn whether you live or die. Every glance, every view is already like a freeze frame that you’ve moved on from. A place already empty of you and anything that you were feeling.

I’ve made the past a palace, like this magnificent scene of eating with my mother at the Crystal Confectionary, with something strangely profound about the light coming down. Meaning as well as she always means. She so humble and never wants to ruffle the feathers of perception. She doesn’t understand yet, that I’ve seen a greater vision of my life. And I’m trying to explain to her, that I’m like a cicada. I was born many lives before. Not wanting to, but asking, have you seen Jewels lately? Hoping there’s some mention of you, some mention of your life or what you might be up to. I think she knew I loved you. I think everybody did. Everybody had that look on their face looking at me when your name was brought up. And you can’t hide it. Always asking about your grandmother. Have you seen Jewels? Have you seen Jewels? Have you seen Jewels? A mother wants for her son what her son desires, with her heart so closely connected to the expressions on her son’s face. She was always too humble and polite to say anything negative. Always so calm with never a temper, such strange blood. And it’s not a mother’s place to tell her son that he can’t have someone that he loves, because of this reason, or that reason. Life goes on, just as it’s gone on before. Don’t speak to me like a child. This lunch is over! Oh mother, do you know where we’re from? Living a charade in this town, playing dumb. Take notice of nature, would you please. Shake off some of your modesty. I’ll let my blood take hold elsewhere. Dozens of races set into three boxes. Laughable. Let’s go shopping for fabric again. I’ll have to look through a thousand bolts of fabric. I’ll have to sit down and find the perfect Simplicity pattern. It’s either you look at the truth or you look away mom. I want to make a dress for her. I haven’t talked to my mother for months on end, but I’ll have to call her to find out how your grandmother spells her name sometime. You know it’s funny. My mother was always talking to her little old ladies while she did their hair about her son, how proud she was of me, and I always wondered if she ever mentioned me to your grandmother and if your grandmother ever mentioned me to you. I’ll never forget that movement of my mother, with one hand guarding the face of the old woman, and with the other spraying Tresemmé over some fresh hairdo. And the farther into fall the prettier it becomes. I remember as a child looking over those wigs, one that was silvery blue with big shiny curls on it, always thinking they were so beautiful, like works of art. And maybe I won’t have you until then. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to say that I don’t want it now. Will that be possible to do someday. It would be interesting to see what would happen, if I had a wife and family someday and you came walking through the door, and you said that you couldn’t live without me. Better yet, you just come in and kiss me. I’m so curious as to what I’d do. And I’m not curious as a writer, I’m curious as a human being. And it’s a daylight revelation, when I find myself looking through this work that no one in the world should ever see, in which I’m this animal at the periphery of your life. Not of your ilk, even when I could never even figure out what your ilk was. Climbing up onto the aluminum carport and then up onto that little gray tar shingled roof, standing there looking that way towards the bay as if trying to see your house from there. Wanting to jump off your roof down into your pool. I’m dumbstruck in the sunlight, as if still in that breeze, as if every achilles, as if every bitter humiliation is laid out on full display. Asking myself, why is it so embarrassing to have loved someone who didn’t love me back? So there’s this annoying struggle between the revelation of my life and a disco version. And more of a temptation because Barbara was someone I felt like I could trust to tell everything to. Sex has us feeling so close so fast. And I’m always unsure if that’s self deception or not. It’s the most intimate thing that two people can do together. Then it’s divulging almost everything over a couple of glasses of wine. But it’s very different when you’re speaking to someone than writing it down. Speaking isn’t admitting to how you feel. It’s like talking about some restaurant that didn’t appeal to you and you’re never going back there. When you write it, you have to look at it. And you have to look at it again and again. It’s pared down to a classical sense, to love and the rejection of love. Well that plays been done, how many times? So it’s thrown out and I’m running to the disco. It’s much easier to write. And everyone has a wood paneled den to remember.

I don’t want to love you anymore. I want the chance to fall out of love with you. I want to be free of this feeling. I think I hear someone calling to me. I turn into the wind, there is no one there. It is this love that I’m consumed by. The wind and every memory of how it all got away. Like a moment, where after I was diverging from myself. I’m separated from you.

Although I miss the clouds. And of my entire life there, it is the impression of you that embodies the place. It’s like I was born again from the womb of your disdain for me. You are the port. When you appeared, my fate was sealed for sure.

Is it humiliation and embarrassment to love someone who doesn’t love you? I spend days on that concept. Pretending to save face, while the love is there in you. The tendrils and the vines and the thorns and roses emanating from inside you. And you go about like this with it just under the skin. Time is passing and I’m panicked in a calm sort of way. I can’t emulate the expressions of your face so perfectly anymore. And the memory of your voice that was like an adoration slowly sucking the life out of me has become slightly washed out by the voices of girls that sounded like you, off by so many degrees. Any of your attributes and I’ve been like a bee to honey. Stay just like that honey. From that angle you’d think… I remember hearing about you at some company picnic in a sundress, and even that second hand sighting of you brought such joy into my heart. Isn’t one tapestry as good as any other? Saying to yourself, well then any girl in a sundress will do. And you try to trick yourself into believing that.

The movements don’t make any sense. Everything breaks down to it. A love letter just becomes the ramblings of a boy on Hoffman street. That for you was only a lesser easement on the way home. The glimpse of your car streaking by was like a bullet. Didn’t you ever stop to think about the fate of the quickest way home? That burning streak left through my mind. We were meant to be. But was it always such a straight and easy shot through my heart? Didn’t you see the balconies and bell tower in the sky over my little wooden house with a flag waving for you. Did you ever notice the Christmas lights I left up half the year, hoping that you’d finally come in. Such a touching streak of a car, kept me feeling like there was some pursuit. My head turning with the instincts of a canine through a bay window. Have you ever seen a dog chase a car down the street to the bloodiest of paws? Well I sort of felt that way when I saw you go by. Slow that car and let me jump in. I promise not to drool.

And how can I just walk along so blasé, where it’s like picking the most beautiful place to suffer. There’s no time to dwell on a hummingbird in some war-torn place. But there’s time here to do that. To think that everything is a sign. To think that everything means something else. That everything is about love or disgrace. And how can you be there during the hours that you’re not? How to become a transcendental ghost to satisfy the calling and the calling. While the faces gather and the conversations and laughter take place without you. What it must be that is being said. My ears are burning. But my mother did her grandmother’s hair, how I would have loved to have braided Natalie’s. Those eyes falling closed with the tenderness. I remember looking at your face and listening to your voice that I loved so much, trying to get some trace of what had occurred during all the unseen hours, wanting to be part of your life. And when these young beautiful rich mothers come in with their daughters that look just like them, and I watch them sit and fix their hair that way. It’s like a breakdown just under the surface of this waiter’s calm. I bring a little ribbon. I want so badly to be part of their lives. But I’m the periphery. If someone isn’t part of your life, they aren’t part of your life, it’s that simple. It becomes fantasy. I’ve never been to Italy. I’m writing pages and pages about us in Italy. But it’s like this consciousness of a past life. I was there before and I know the love is real.

I avoid it (spiral notebook) for a few days and I know when I open it again it will leave me salty and shivering in that breeze of indifference again with a rosy pink carnation wilting in my hand waiting for you to want me too. I’d put it away into the clear plastic container like something that can be preserved for a lifetime. Hidden in refrigerator in the back little room, so my parents wouldn’t ask me what it was for. Bought on a whim at H.E.B.’s after a day of surfing. And I’d thought, I’m going to pin this on you. I’m going to walk over and knock and you’re going to open the door and I’m going to pin this on you even if you’re in a t-shirt or sweatshirt. The rest of our life, a coronation of love. And maybe because it’s where you were heading, I always picture you in a sorority girl’s sweatshirt all the time, with the Greek insignia on it. I don’t know if you even wear those. You’re precious to me. It becomes - in the wishful heart of a boy in love - a new reality of time, discontinuity, disco, like waiting for something now to end or fall into ruins. And I’ve been asked, where’d you get your patience? It’s absolute shock and the slow burn of love. That’s all it is. Not being able to go on with your life for one reason or another. The heart in stasis is patience. There’s no secret. You can’t fake it. I’m a product of the continuity of my life. Like layers upon layers of circumstances. And you become. They try every explanation. But it’s not a miracle and it’s not evil and it’s not un-human. It’s just someone with a ghost, someone without their soulmate that keeps walking along, looking around for another flower that makes him forget. And you’d think, that in a garden like this it wouldn’t be so hard to find.

It’s a sunny day on the island. And it’s just about the currents. The currents in the sweeping clouds. The currents in the water. I remember days when the wind was blowing so hard and the currents were moving so fast along the beach when you’d have to paddle so hard just to stay in one place. And you can’t let go of that place where you paddled out, or you don’t want to. And you’re looking towards the shore and you’re paddling and paddling. And your blue jeep is sitting there and you’re laying out on this towel beside it. And I can’t get a wave in and I’m drifting and I’m fighting the currents, paddling and paddling. And the windshield of your blue jeep is there glimmering. It’s like this strange dream where all I have to do is catch a wave in to you, but I can’t. And I just can’t. And there’s the exhaustion, and this droning love that just won’t stop. And suddenly it’s like it does something to me. And I can’t write anymore. And I’m just staring down at that scene as if looking from high above with the currents carrying me away from you. Sweeping me down that coast away from you in some strange twilight. And I know that I’m going to put it all away for a while again, and try to live life.

Love. Masochism. Self flagellation. Craft. Denial. It’s not a way out of it, paper and ink and typewriter. Taking the batteries out of the fire alarm. It leaves a soot mark on the bathtub porcelain. I ignore the banging at the screen door. That draft didn’t work; curling up and burning like rose petals.

Breaking Love

-Alan Augustine

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christinefoley · 4 years ago

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How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

I’ve been a teacher for nearly thirty years now, and so I should be red hot at knowing how to manage time. After all, the average classroom teacher regularly has so many plates spinning on a daily basis that every limb is a whirling blur in perpetual motion. Experience has taught me that allowing even one plate to go gyrating off its axis can bring chaos and catastrophe for the whole delicately balanced collection.

Blogging

But this blogging malarkey- well, that’s different. And I’m finding the whole issue of time management more challenging than I’d anticipated, to be completely honest. I mean, thinking about the whole idea of becoming a blogger was…well- just fantastic, really. I love writing, and blogging means that I can write about stuff that really interests me, and never again have to write about things that just don’t.

Primary School Teacher

To clarify what I’m talking about, you may not know this, but the average primary school classroom teacher is obliged to take an interest in such mind-numbing subjects as: rocks and soils, units of measure ( both metric and imperial), adverbial phrases and subordinating and coordinating conjunctions. Admit it- you’re bored already! Imagine having to feign interest in that lot- and a whole host of even more boring topics besides- for nearly thirty years! I don’t know how I’ve done it!

Working From Home

So, what I thought was: become a blogger: write about interesting things, things that get my fingers positively sparking over the laptop key board: it’ll be great! Hey- and you get to do it from home, and manage your own time! Goodbye M6! Goodbye difficult parents! Ta-ta to staff meetings and professional development and tedious meetings about assessment. No more report writing- hurray!!

This will be the new pattern of my Week

Monday morning: awakened at 7am by the alarm- no more 6:30 for me anymore! Up, dressed, breakfast and ready at my laptop to report for writing duty by 8:30 am at the latest.

Straight into writing/ preparing next blog post.

Timetable

9:30 am: take first break: wee, coffee, throw the ball for the dog in the garden for around 20 minutes, then back to the keyboard to work steadily through until lunch at around 12:00.

12:00 healthy lunch put together: salad, hummus, green stuff- that sort of thing- and eaten before 1pm before returning to the laptop for another hour’s work. That hour will be spent emailing, and suchlike.

FREE TIME!

2pm-5:00 FREE TIME! Wow! The whole afternoon off!!

Obviously ,this precious time will not be frittered away on any kind of pointless activities: no, it will be utilised for exercise, dog-walking and attending classes that I’ve really wanted to attend but have always been otherwise occupied teaching PE, the Egyptians or subordinate clauses or suchlike. No, now I will spend my afternoons attending French conversation sessions, singing, creative writing workshops and book clubs. I may even join a hiking club and enjoy hiking in the nearby Lake District.

5pm: teatime. Evenings will be spent working on my blog business- no more than an hour or so- and then I’ll actually go out: live music, pubs, the theatre, meals out- whatever I want, because there are no lessons to plan for the next day- and certainly no marking. Fantastic!!

Manage Time?

It’ll be a joy! No more telling myself I’ll do an hour’s marking, then I’ll fill in those assessment tables and then I’ll spend another hour and half preparing tomorrow’s lessons, before……..NO MORE, No more for me!

So, you’re asking, has it worked out like that?

Well, the fact is that I’m still teaching at the moment, so haven’t had the chance to try out this new lifestyle which I have planned out for myself just yet; but I’m having this creeping suspicion that I’m not going to be able to live that life exactly to plan.

Deadlines

Why not? Well, I guess I kind of like deadlines- I am programmed to respond to them anyway. I was always that one who started working on my essays well before the deadline at university, so that I had plenty of time. I was never the last minute panic type-no, I kind of used the whole two weeks preparation time to get pages of notes together and then panic over the last few days about how I was going to create anything of any value out of all that stuff.

Being My Own Boss

What worries me now, is that, as a blogger, working on my own blog, I am going to have to impose my own deadlines, and I’m not convinced that I’ll be all that good at it. It’s that thing about being my own boss- in one way, it’s what we dream of, but in another way it’s kind of scary. I mean, when you’re at work and things go tits up, the boss is ultimately the one who has to take it on the chin- not you. But if you are your own boss, and things don’t go right- well……it’s all your fault.

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

So, before I cut the umbilical cord of a regular job and life pattern, I’ve been researching some hints and tips from the experts about time management- I’m in my note-taking preparation stage.

Find Your Most Productive Hours

Now, there’s a great idea! Work out when you are generally at your most productive and schedule most of your heavy lifting tasks for those times. A first rate tip for time management- after all, how many people have you heard declare themselves a ‘night owl’ or ‘an early bird’? Loads, right?

Night Owl, or Early Bird?

So obviously that got me to thinking about myself: am I a night owl, or an early bird? A night owl, probably, because I’m used to working in the evenings after school. OK, so save all the deep-thinking stuff for the evenings. Yes…..possible, I guess.

Write a to-do List the Night Before

Undeniably a top idea! Apparently, only takes about five minutes and it means that the next day you can hit the ground running without any fiddling about. Hmmm, so- five minutes before bedtime…just a quick list…

You know what that would mean for me? Five minutes writing, followed by 45 minutes lying awake thinking it all through. Sleep well and up at 7:00 am to hit the ground running? Not on your nelly.

Back to the drawing board…next tip for how to manage time, please?

Start on the Most Critical Task First

Yes….now, that’s good….I get that. Get the thing that’s bothering you most out of the way first thing and you’re bound to feel better about yourself and what you can achieve.

Now that makes perfect sense! Thing is….that’s just not me. No, better for me to get a few little things ticked off my list first to get me stoked up with enough confidence to bring out the big guns and get cracking on those tasks that are going to CHANGE MY LIFE.

Sit down at my laptop and hit myself straight between the eyes with something that scares the pants off me and has probably kept me awake ever since I wrote it down on that to-do list the night before? That just ain’t happening.

Next hint, please….

The Eisenhower Matrix

What d’you mean- you’ve never heard of it? Well, I’m not a fan of tables, because they bring out all my twitches, but this one makes perfect sense- you may want to look it up. In essence, the idea is that you write down all the tasks you need to do- in one, long, terrifying list- then you categorise all the tasks. If it’s urgent, mark it ‘U’, if it’s important, mark it ‘I’, and if it’s neither of those, then cross it out.

Still following me?

Next, you evaluate how much time each of the remaining tasks on your list is likely to take and arrange a plan for yourself. Now, I must admit, I’m liking this idea of time management…especially the stuff that you can cross off the list altogether. The aim is to identify your genuine priorities: which tasks on your list are going to get you to achieve your objective the most quickly, and which, simply, are not.

Like it. Yes, this is one for me! Next tip, please…..

Use Time Constraints- Set a Timer

This tip to help you to manage your time advises using a timer to set time to achieve certain tasks, as the task will inevitably expand if there is an unrestrained time in which to do it. The idea is to beat the timer- complete the task in even less time than that which you allocated!

Hmm. Have I not escaped the 5-9 to escape exactly that- time constraints? The school timetable is gone, so I devise one of my own? Not sure I want to do that to myself, although I do understand the benefits of this time management idea, and every task does undoubtedly expand if there are no constraints in terms of time.

Hmm… I need to think this one through…….and while I’m thinking about it I might just make another cup of coffee and put a load of washing on…maybe iron those few shirts? Watch a bit of TV?

No, Christine, you’re talking about being productive, remember? Now, sit down and just get on with it.

Next hint to ace time management, please.

No Distractions

No browsing your ‘phone, checking through emails, doing odd bits of housework. Now I have struggled with this trick of how to manage time, but have actually had a breakthrough in recent weeks.

What has worked for me, is to go out of the house- no dog wanting to play, no endless possibilities for making coffee and no housework-style responsibilities. The other benefit of being out of the house-for me- is no silence.

Silence

I’m not very happy with silence- it makes me a bit edgy. Never been very productive working in libraries and such places. However, it’s no good putting on music either, because then I start listening to that instead of concentrating on the job in hand.

Coffee Shops

I’ve found that coffee shops are my perfect place for productivity. Not only is there the gorgeous aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting up my nose, but there’s just the right kind of background noise- neither too loud nor too silent to distract me. Obviously, a great cup of cappuccino also enhances the whole experience.

If you would like to learn more about how to manage time, and tips that you could use to improve your own productivity, then take a look at this excellent article by Dan Silvestre: ’23 Time Management Techniques of Insanely Busy People.’

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kimyoonmiauthor · 5 years ago

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Types of Cultural Dissemination for Laymen

If you won’t bother reading the profile, and the previous posts, I’m going to introduce myself again. I’m an anthropology major, and short of Calc I for my degree. (which I’m miserably failing and I don’t need). For my BA I focused mainly on systems (racism, sexism, etc), but my true interest is in media exchange with systems. i.e. trade of things like movies, books, and seeing how they are interpreted in the country of origin v. internationally and how they might be reinterpreted, etc with a focus on say... gay people. So say, how Sailor Moon views gay couples and how they are represented versus how say, Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus were made cousins for the sub and why that might have changed for the DVDs. No one was interested in something like this though, since we’re still stuck with Eurocentricism, even though I did a paper for my high school’s senior thesis back in 1999. (It’s been a long road) As such, I know the internet loves, loves to confuse cultural dissemination terms up, and make it super simple, but it isn’t. And last round of me doing this essay had it stolen, so, in respect to that, I’m going to be giving my profs credit for their ideas, so if it does get stolen (again), at least SOMEONE will get credit. (maybe, hopefully). So I tip my hat off to:

Wendy Fonarow for the basic analogy of the house for imperialism.

Also Eric Johnston for the physical Anthropology parts of the article.

Lilith Mahmud for having an awesome class on systems and power struggles.

Jerry Won Lee for being really good at talking about Korean history and its relations with the US.

Eleana Kim for doing studies on Korean adoptees and economics of that.

And James Egan for teaching about Economics and various types of reciprocity and exchanges. (He’d also credit Marcel Mauss’s work on reciprocity.)

I ask, if you don’t credit me for this, you at least keep in their credits. Though it’s pretty much a terrible move to appropriate an essay on the subject of appropriation in the first place. Also, any mistakes made aren’t their fault since I compiled this myself. I apologize to them ahead of time if this is the case. But please please keep the credits. If this essay is so good, to be stolen, at least have respect for them.

Basic terms:

Cultural Dissemination is the spreading of culture to one place to another either by mutual, imposed or invited consent.

There is an essay (which I know my professors would chase me after to cite... but I disagree) about how Nationhood is more recent, so ideas of “imperialism” and “appropriation” are more problematic for time periods roughly before the 1400′s (probably a mistake on the dates). But I’m still a bit skeptical about it being so widely accepted since there’s historical evidence for the idea of sacrificing yourself to the state going way back in human history (They would point to the rise of agriculture, mainly) and the essay is widely Eurocentric with no one questioning this fact. So while we don’t have specific dates for the following things, I’m going to probably simplify it in ways my professors are going to hate me for and mark me down for. But then this isn’t a paper for them. Types of Cultural Dissemination

Cultural Exchange- basically, this is your trade. Someone comes up with a cultural good, you share it with them, and you think it’s a great idea, so take it back and keep it as it is and then give them something in return. Trade, BTW, goes back to Homo Erectus, so humans didn’t invent it. There is evidence in a Chinese cave of rocks from Africa (yes, I know that Africa isn’t a country, but it also got sliced and diced to smithereens, so in respect to that, that’s why I say Africa, the continent) that must have followed a trade route. Granted there is debate whether it was someone traveling from Africa specifically to that location or if it traveled more slowly by local trade. (Credit to Johnston for this). The idea that Homo sapiens sapiens invented trade, and specifically Europeans is pretty ridiculous. We’ve always traded from the beginning.

Cultural Adaptation (as a sub category of Exchange)- If something exchanged is adapted to the country in its own unique way because of exchange over a long period of time, that’s Cultural adaptation of the object. And no, I’m not saying cultures get “better” with this term. There is no such thing, they change, but the needs from that object when embedded into a culture might need to change. So chopsticks and how they are used is slightly different from China, Korea, Mongolia and Japan, so since they became a part of how to eat food, their design is different. (There are youtube videos on why, etc) Cultural Sharing or Cultural Invitation- is one way. (Cultural sharing is used more than cultural invitation, but I think Cultural invitation is more precise). I invite you to learn about how I do things and participate. Like learning how to make kimchi or soy sauce. But I also expect that once you have this knowledge, you won’t backstab me later after all of that emotional labor put in. Cultural Appreciation- Look, don’t touch. Basically the museum model. You don’t try to steal the painting off the wall and then take it home and claim you painted it. You look at how its curated and appreciate it for where it is (Yes, I know about museums appropriating objects... we’ll get there.)

Fetishization of a culture- Basically having a crush on a culture without understanding and accepting the downsides of the culture. Accepting means you can’t change what’s wrong, but can enable people within that culture to change it if they want to. (How to do charity is another essay, though). For example, K-drama fans who weren’t Korean were not appreciative of Greatest Marriage, the drama, because it showed the underbelly of Single Motherhood in Korean society and they rallied against it and judged Korea directly for it, rather than taking a balanced approach to it.

Cultural Appropriation

- Stealing. If people made the word stealing, I think they’d understand it better. There are three basic conditions for this and exacerbation points. It’s not clear cut in some cases. (I’ll get to those) BTW, some would also argue can’t exist before the nationstate... as I said I’m iffy on that considering the history of China which predates most of Europe.... but later.

The three main points are:

History of Imperialization (exacerbation of making it worse)

Mockery of cultural items (or history thereof)

Taking of Sacred objects without invitation of participation or any understanding.

Imperialism -

Basically forcing “help” along the way by imposing one’s culture on another with total disregard for what’s there. (for the context of this essay, though my professors would chase me for simplifying it this way.) Not sorry. Also argued, you need the nation state for this, but I have a whole other essay for why Europe tried to colonize and imperialize the world. Imperializing, though, initially profitable ran out of steam once they came to the Pacific, though no doubt they did a ton of destruction, including the US causing a nuclear disaster in the area. (The irony that the US dropped more nuclear bombs than anyone and has one of the largest programs, yet regulates others is an example of nationalism and imperialism all in one neat package). This one goes to Egan, BTW. People have meltdowns over these things and mix them up, but I put it in a simple way for you. All of these have basic forms of human rules worldwide of emotional intelligence, consent, boundaries, love and respect. What you are willing to share or not share and how, on an individual level should be understandable to everyone. Those rules might change per culture or individual, but it’s basic human intelligence to respect boundaries. And this type of intelligence is taught in kindergarten worldwide (and believe me I’ve watched a lot of those videos--most kindergartens teach emotional intelligence). Got it?

The idea that sharing, appreciation, appropriation, and adaptation are the exact same thing is ridiculous. So let’s get into why this is different since some people forgot their lessons from kindergarten. But let’s get to the next section. An Analogy to break it all down. The initial analogy handed to me was that often White Europeans would go to a different tribe and then try to get them to sell a different tribe’s lands. (Africa and North America and Australia and New Zealand apply here) which is like someone going to your neighbor’s house and offering a bunch of cash for your house, writing up a deed of sale, and then claiming that your house is there’s. This is Wendy Fonarow’s analogy.

What I did, since I got annoyed with how people couldn’t personalize it and thought that say killing 80,000 people isn’t as bad as someone they know dying, was when I was in a doctor’s office, think about how to break it down, since my analogy of the museums and paintings wasn’t working for a group I was talking to about appropriation, and how to extend that to a larger sample. I wrote that essay, posted it, it got stolen (the irony isn’t lost on me), but I’ve improve it since because I’m a fan of extended analogies. In the positive reciprocity model, as James Egan would put it, you give hoping for something close to an equal exchange. But often money is the cut off point for this. This is called “Balanced reciprocity”. (There is also generalized reciprocity and negative reciprocity).

So I’ll go over the set up for the balanced reciprocity models with two families for the terms except fetishization, appropriation and imperialism.

Say, Person X is invited to Person Y’s house. This would be sharing. They have dinner, there, they really like the food. If they look at the art and like it, then that’s appreciation. They looked, but didn’t touch it. Now, say, Person X invites Person Y to their house. They also serve them dinner, then that becomes an exchange. Person Y comes to admire a painting of theirs

Say Person X goes to build a family and Person Y does too. They become the best of friends, and over time, Person X is like, “You know what, I want to give you the painting you so like.” And then Person Y said, “And I’d like to give you the painting you so like.” So they trade the paintings and talk about their history and meaning to them. So for generations both families keep the paintings and keep in contact, but the paintings, as they do, get damaged beyond repair, and being sad, one of the family members tries to recreate the paintings, not as an exact replica, but more like a tribute to it with their own interpretations of what has happened so far. This becomes adaptation. So let’s go over the negative models in analogy. You have Person A, and they really, really think that Person B does not deserve the house they are living in. I mean, look at all that gold. And they’ve heard there is a fountain of youth inside. And they look dirty all the time. Plus they have a beautiful garden they want. Person A, then goes to Person C, Person B’s neighbor and says, “You know what, I’ll give you a bunch of goods and money to sell Person B out.”

Person C has always hated Person B, and Person A knows it, so Person C writes up a house sale slip, even though it’s fake. Person A, living in a different county currently is able to file the house sale. They break into the house, steal the food, wreck the garden, and say the upper floors are all for them. Person B finds out and is devastated, but can’t get the house sale overturned because they have no jurisdiction there. They work from home, but now Person A says they own their transportation too.

Person A starts telling them how terrible they really are. “You’re dirty, you’re angry, and you’re violent.” when Person A was the one that broke into person B’s house. What’s more, Person A moves their family in, who also trash the house and starts claiming that the alter that Person B set up was invented by them and they built it. Then claim all of the clothes are also theirs because they bought it with the house. Person B can’t get the law to kick these people out. How are they less than A? How are they violent? They try to resist, but get taunted and jeered at, but Person A’s family tells them, they can live in the basement--if they want.

Person B’s family has no recourse and no money to recover the house or move--besides, this house was in their family for generations--it means a ton to them. They remember when their great grandfather planted that apple tree which he brought to the property by a tiny sapling. They live in the basement, hoping things will change.

Things don’t change. Person A starts telling Person B’s family, they own the house, and another generation rolls by. Person B’s family is fighting for the house, but law enforcement is ignoring them.

Person A starts saying that the clothes that Person B owned were their invention. That they can do as they like, but Person B needs to adapt to Person A’s way of life, otherwise, they’ll cut off their food supply, and water to the basement, though Person B barely gets either of those. Person A’s family starts selling the unique designs of Person B’s home business and Person B finds out once again, they can’t sue, but they are upset about it. What’s more, they find out that the items from the alter are being sold. So far, it’s imperialism. So, say Person A’s family after generations goes, “You know what? Our bad. You’ll still have to live in the basement, but now we think we kinda like you enough to let you guys have jobs, even though you’re lazy all this time and we can’t understand why you couldn’t make any money.”

Someone from Person A’s family, let’s say Becky, thinks of the poor people living in the basement and starts calling them a great culture that people should appreciate. But when Person B’s family complains about the generational hate they received from Person A’s family and how much that hurt their present conditions because they don’t get heat in the basement, food or water, and they have to fight each other, Becky won’t hear about it. Becky cares more about what clothes are Person B’s family creating now that they can sell to her. She cares about more what types of entertainment they watch. She doesn’t want to hear about how they have barely any food or water and have to live by her family’s terms. Because her family is good and righteous and besides, it was her great grandfather that stole the house and where is Person A’s family supposed to live anyway? Back at Person A’s original house? Unthinkable. The old house didn’t have the garden, the clothes, or Person B’s established business. This is fetishization. If you have no interest in understanding why or who the people are in full breath and their joys and sorrows, it is a total misunderstanding of the culture. Basic rules of consent, boundaries, love and respect apply to large groups of people as it does to individuals. Also, punching people while telling them how great they are, is generally a terrible idea. The fancy jargon doesn’t change that. You don’t go and wreck people’s temples and think you’re a great person. You don’t steal their stuff. And you don’t buy their goods only and think you know everything about them. Anthropology teaches you to ask respectful questions and listen and dive deep. That’s respect. Something if you forgot, Mr. Rogers taught on his TV show. Where appropriation gets tricky

The easiest one is dread locks. The history of dread locks is that they started in Africa, traveled and were shared/traded with West Asians (Jews, for example,) then traveled to India. Some say they started in India. You can read the history here: http://ragingrootsstudio.com/the-history-of-dreadlocks/

So then it strongly got associated with black people, but really, it’s a giant circle. The problem lies in the face that white people (despite white people also wearing them in history) often call dreadlocks “dirty” and “unkempt”. (This is why I instill the rule of if you’re going to judge others, look at yourself first). So this is where it gets tricky... There is also sideways appropriation. Say when Koreans take reggae music, and then say they like it because they relate to the struggles of Jamaicans. (This one makes me squirm personally) Koreans have no understanding of the music dynamics of reggae music, how it relates to the culture, and are appropriating a struggle of slavery that isn’t theirs. At the same time as absorbing Hollywood movies which contain anti-blackness (like the N-word, gangs, etc). But technically, Korea has never imperialized Africa. (There is some history in Joseon and the earlier kingdoms where they cooperated, but you really have to dig to find it). For me, it makes me uneasy... but it’s this wobbly line since there are equally black people into K-pop music that have no intention of learning anything about the culture. (Two wrongs don’t make a right... but still iffy around the corners.)

Then there are the politics with diaspora with some countries too, where say, a Native Japanese says they are “real” Japanese and have NO problem with say a tea ceremony, (even if the details are done wrong), because the country is pushing towards tourism to generate profits, and then the diaspora saying “You’re backstabbing us because you don’t go through a third of the prejudice that we went through” (In this case the internment camps). Because people don’t all think the same. And if native Japanese saw the rise and fall of diaspora businesses, they probably wouldn’t be backstabbing about fetishization. (BTW, this also goes for Korea, which I’m pretty much railing against them trying to push tourism so much because I’ve seen the cost of cultural fads. Chinatowns are looking pretty nasty these days for a reason. And fetishization can easily turn to hate in the next breath and devastate economies.) And then someone say, writing a black person as a white person, which could go several ways. It could be brilliant because they did the research, figured out the boundaries and consent rules, or it could be say... Uncle Tom’s Cabin for the modern era. It’s OK for it to be iffy. Just sort it out. And most of the time it’s better to get an invitation and research and learn than it is to take and say you appreciate it. People want it to be black and white, especially with the European ideals of binary. But also examine and be uncomfortable with the grey’s too. Because everyone is on some kind of spectrum there aren’t clear cut answers the majority of the time. Celebrate that. (Except that the Earth is egg-shaped-ish and is rounder than a ping pong ball and you should always give credit where it is due, because the idea of copyright goes back to the time we were all foragers.)

#culture #cultural appreciation #cultural appropriation #cultural anthropology

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tinydums · 5 years ago

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Memories that I will never forget.

The very first time na hinatid moko sa bahay. I came home, and told everyone na hinatid ako ng crush ko. Hindi ako along the way pauwi mo, pero hinatid moko.

Sobrang tagal na bago ako sumakay ng motor ulit, tapos sobrang bilis mo mag patakbo eh ang hawak ko sa buntot ng motor. Then you told me na ihug ka. And I did. I was smiling the whole time, but I don't know if you saw it sa side mirrors mo.

Nung nag bibiro lang naman ako na mag sorry ka sa personal, tapos pinuntahan moko ng bahay. Nag usap tayo sa waiting shed. Lol. Tapos tinanong mo ako ng "ba't ka nahhurt" :) That day was the first photo I had with you that I didn't have to crop everyone else out of the photo para mag tayo lang yung tira.

Every conversation at night ends open kasi nakakatulog ka, and the next day you would text me "Sorry nakatulog ako kagabi" then the conversation continues.

Remember that time I wrote a long ass essay here in tumblr of why you shouldn't choose me and that was okay? We met later that day. I was letting you go. You cried. Then I realized I must really mean something to you.

When you asked me to make your project (wedding invitation), and I asked you who to put. You said tayong dalawa na very casual. Sobrang kinilig ako, syempre crush na crush kita eh.

When everytime na sinusuyo moko, pinupudpod moko ng sorry stickers + nakahug.

When everytime you're out with friends, sometimes you'd want to see me and hug me, so leave them for 10 mins para pumunta sa bahay, mayakap lang ako.

Nung ako na lagi mo kasama mag grocery instead na sina kuya mo, and lalo na when they left. Tapos nasa cart natin are diapers, milk, all baby stuff, tapos tinitingnan tayo ng mga tao cause they think may baby na tayo. I lowkey like it tho. Everytime, I would pretend that we are living together, and that was normal.

Na pag am duty ka, automatic, magkasama tayo after duty mo. Kakain sa labas, maglalakad lakad.

How you used emojis on me before. Simpleng "😂/😍/😘"

How everytime one topic ends and we need to think of another one, you'd tell me you love me.

My whole stay in Macau with you and your family. Our petty fights, just sitting next to each other chatting kasi we were fighting, or sitting next to each other scrolling on social media. Yung monthsary date natin sa mcdonalds. Yung lakad lakad natin sa san malo na nabubusog tayo dahil sa free taste— hanggang sa nag bitbit na tayo ng plastic to put everything. We even found a spot to go to hide and put everything inside. Everything I hold close to my heart

Pag special yung araw automatic may bulaklak ako kasi I always force you, and you know how much it means to me.

The very first time you posted me on your ig. Hindi pa tayo nun. Sobrang random. I'm not worthy lol. Ni hindi nga ako nakatingin nun. Tapos yung mga post mo sa ig nun na mukha ko or tayong dalawa. I didn't have to tell you na mag post ka 'cause you do it anyway. Minsan surprised pako, gaya nalang nung hindi kita pinapansin tapos pinicturan moko with a caption "silent treatment". Those random things I appreciate and love about you.

Our anniversaries. I always make it to a point that I'd give you something na pinag isipan ko and pinag effortan ko. Kasi I wanted you to feel that I would always go out of my way to make you feel special 'cause you deserve effort.

Those small notes I would put on you helmet or in your bag, anywhere. Cause I know it made you feel kilig inside, also I wanted to remind you that I love you. That everytime I'd pass by your building, I thought of you.

Eto pa, times na nag eexpire unli ko tapos makikitext ako sa friends ko na expired na unli ko, in 5 minutes meron ako marreceive na pasa load lol. Made me feel na you really wanted to talk to me.

Times na nakikisabay ka sa friends natin para pakiligin si other friend natin na involve ako, I know how awkward it was for you kasi lowkey naglalandian na tayo lol.

Ay. That time we want to Naga with our friends, nung pauwi tayo, I woke up na hawak mo kamay ko. Aminin ko I was kilig, shocked, and hiya kasi hindi malambot kamay ko and baka naturnoff ka.

Yung mga lakad natin na nakamotor tayo tapos uulan. Nasa ilalim ako ng coat mo nakahug sayo. Tapos minsan pag di kaya, mag sstop tayo kung saan.

That time din na you helped me with my project. Sa jollibee imperial tayo nun kasi walang kuryente. Also nag stay ka din sa bahay hanggang past 9 para matapos yung project ko.

I didn't mind doing you reflection papers, essays, editing your thesis or anything that involves microsoft word, kasi I was good at it and I love you.

All the times I was there sa mga events mo, not even events kahit trainings, andyan yung girlfriend. But you didn't mind having me there. You insisted having me there, so you're classmates got used to it, and they liked me kahit di ko naman sila kausap.

For all the times na may errands ka, I was always there and I loved it so much. Tapos pag may questions, ako yung magtatanong.

Our jollibee moments, may one phase tayo na lagi tayo jabee, you would always order yung supreme na meal with egg, and then one time I tried it kasi naiingit ako sayo, and I loved it.

Also, uncle ton's. Lagi uncle ton's with the same order everytime hanggang sa nagsawa tayo.

YOLO moments.

Joyride kung saan.

Pag punta sa places that's new to both of us. Exploring places.

Beach days with just you and me.

How we plan things, how you make to do lists, and to buy lists.

Yung mga night outs natin na lagi tayo time concious kasi may curfew ako. Sobrang bilis mo mag patakbo ng motor. Tapos naluluha ako sa hangin then sasabihin ko sayo may tears ako lol

Lahat ng efforts mo to make me smile or laugh pari bati na tayo. Example: breakdance mo.

Yung time na natatae ako. Tapos nahihiya pako mag sabi nun sayo sa BU kasi bago palang tayo. Kaso di ko kinaya and sinabi ko sayo tapos tawa ka ng tawa, then nanandya ka pang mag patakbo ng mabagal nung malapit na tayo sa bahay. Di ka pwede makita kasi nakamotor tayo kaya sa 711 ka tumambay tapos nag lakad ako after para imeet ka dun.

Those judgemental eyes I get whenever we're out with Liam, and the whispers I hear from salesladies "may anak na pala sya" lol

How could I forget yung nag asikaso ako ng scholarship money back sa dswd tapos sinamahan moko.. then sinama moko sa bahay nyo, that was there very first time I met your family and relatives from cabanatuan. Iniwan mo pako sa dining table with them habang tawa tawa ka sa sofa sa gilid kasi alam mo sobrang hiya ako.

Pag may kinicrave akong nakikita ko sa newsfeed, yun kinakain natin kasi alam mo gusto ko.

Potato corner, turks, tapsilog, pizza, batchoy, lomi, calamares, etc etc etc

Funny moments na tawa tawa tayo. I would never forget that time you forgot na kasama moko, and was already on your way back to BU.

Rough roads na dinaanan natin in the relationship when we thought we'd break up for real but ends up always running back to each other kahit sobrang lala nung away. Cool off ng 1 day lol

I love when you hold my hand pag tatawid.

I love when you try to make me laugh pag galit ako sayo.

Also remember that time na nag away tayo sa bday ng friend natin that we went home early kaso umiiyak ako kaha diniretso mo tayo sa Puro so we can talk kasi sabi mo ayaw moko umuwi ng ganun. I was crying tapos kinausap moko and nag sorry ka. Then nung nakauwi na tayo, you told me it broke your heart seeing me like that. And that made me love you even more.

Yung marriage booth sainyo nun na kunwari pako ayaw ko kasi nakakahiya but deep inside kilig na kilig ako and thankful kila nikki lol.

Yung times din na nagsusulat pako sa diary ko tapos lagi moko kinukulit na pabasa.

Yung hinatid moko and you waited the very first time na nag apply ako maging flight attendant.

Nung sabay tayo grumaduate.

All our big and small achievements that we were there for each other. And how 11 was our number.

Sabay tayo nag "adulting". Magkasama sa lahat ng bagay.

Pag busy, mag make time padin kahit isang oras magkita. Lomi saglit, batchoy saglit. Yung kahit sobrang busy mo, you made time to see me. You made ways kahit mag kaaway tayo. I loved that about you. You made me feel how much you value me.

That time I forced you na dapat lagi moko hug and kiss kahit sa cheeks or ulo pag magkikita tayo, and I saw at the begging how uncomfortable it was for you lalo na pag may tao kasi nahihiya ka. Kasi ayaw mo pda.

May mga araw na gentleman ka na ikaw magbibit bit ng bag ko.

Yung nag aapply apply palang ako for the job I really wanted. After ko mag ayos, mag sesend ako pic and you would tell me na ang ganda ko. Tapos ieencourage moko na kaya ko.

Pag pinag uusapan natin dreams natin. Our jobs, our future together. Alin mauuna na bilhin, bahay or kotse. Kung bahay muna bago ikasal. All these things made me so happy kasi I was part of your plans. All the way.

For all the times you showed me how relevant my feelings are to you. How certain things made me uncomfortable and you try your best to not make me feel that way. How certain things upset me so you would think about me first. For all the times you included me.

When you would go to family gatherings with me and that one time without me. You showed me how my family became yours too.

Yung mga beses na ikaw sinusundo moko sa airport whether we were okay or not. You're there.

Pag may duty ka sa alis ko, kahit di ka mag sundo sakin but you made sure you make it before I go inside the airport.

Video calls you initiated. Morning and night messages.

Hugs and kisses.

Dreaming together.

It also makes me happy how each step to get you to where you are now, I was part of it all. Kasi when we were still dreaming, I've always said to myself na tulungan tayo, na hindi ka mag iisa. That I would be there as much as you need me to be. It makes me so happy to know where you are.

I could go on and on about a lot of things. Pero sobrang haba na nito, so I'll just end it here. I still have a lot of good memories with you, things I can't share with anyone else. Intimate moments (funny ones too), as well as moments that are just for us. Also memories that I could write and chose not to 'cause that's for me to cherish alone. I just want to say that it was a great almost 6 years of knowing you. Besides your family, I'll be the most proud when you become a nurse there 'cause I think besides your family, I'm the only one who knew what you've been through, the good and bad. I declared myself your bestfriend. There may be moments that I'm the only one who knew, right? All these memories I will keep forever. 'Cause no matter what ugly moments we had, everything gets washed out by these wonderful memories. It's painful remembering all these, but it's the kind of pain that makes you smile too.

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fuyonggu · 5 years ago

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Book of Jin 50: Biography of Cao Zhi

The son of the famous one.

曹志，字允恭，譙國譙人，魏陳思王植之孽子也。少好學，以才行稱，夷簡有大度，兼善騎射。植曰：「此保家主也。」立以為嗣。後改封濟北王。武帝為撫軍將軍，迎陳留王於鄴，志夜謁見，帝與語，自暮達旦，甚奇之。及帝受禪，降為鄄城縣公。詔曰：「昔在前世，雖曆運迭興，至於先代苗裔，傳祚不替，或列籓九服，式序王官。選眾命賢，惟德是與，蓋至公之道也。魏氏諸王公養德藏器，壅滯曠久，前雖有詔，當須簡授，而自頃眾職少缺，未得式敘。前濟北王曹志履德清純，才高行潔，好古博物，為魏宗英，朕甚嘉之。其以志為樂平太守。」志在郡上書，以為宜尊儒重道，請為博士置吏卒。遷章武、趙郡太守。雖累郡職，不以政事為意，晝則遊獵，夜誦《詩》《書》，以聲色自娛，當時見者未能審其量也。

Cao Zhi, styled Yungong, was a native of Qiao county in the Qiao princely fief. He was the son of Cao-Wei's Prince of Chen, Cao Zhi, by a concubine. But even as a youth, this Cao Zhi was fond of studying; he was commended for his talent and conduct, and he had a refined and simple nature with great potential. He was also skilled at mounted archery. The elder Cao Zhi remarked, "He is the one who will preserve our family." And he selected Cao Zhi to be his heir. His title was later changed to Prince of Jibei.

During the time that Sima Yan was serving as Cao-Wei's General Who Nurtures The Army, he welcomed the Prince of Chenliu (presumably Cao Huan) at Ye (in order to escort him to Luoyang to succeed Cao Mao). At that time, the younger Cao Zhi came to visit Sima Yan during the night, and they remained talking from dusk until dawn, so taken was Sima Yan by him.

After Sima Yan accepted the abdication of Cao-Wei (and Cao Zhi was thus no longer a member of the royal family), Cao Zhi's title was demoted to Duke of Juancheng county.

Sima Yan issued an edict stating, "Although in past ages power has shifted between dynasties, such that the chief royal line did not always successfully pass its mandate from ancestor to descendant, still there were always those stationed on the borders and in the nine regions who were worthy in their capacity as princes. And when choosing people to employ and commanding the worthy, virtue is the only real standard that should be considered; this is the natural way of things.

"Now there were several princes and nobles among the royal family of Wei who have cultivated virtue and nurtured potential, yet have never been given a chance to express it, wasting away in obscurity. I have issued edicts in the past ordering that such people ought to have been granted ranks and rewards, yet until now few of them have actually been given offices. This is not setting the proper example.

"The former Prince of Jibei, Cao Zhi, has trod the path of virtue, purity, and honesty; his talents are great, his conduct exceptional. He is most fond of ancient learning. He was a hero of the imperial clan of Wei, and I deeply praise him. Thus he is hereby appointed as Administrator of Leping."

After having taken up his post in the commandary, Cao Zhi sent a letter to the court stating that, in order for them to honor scholarship and show due appreciation for propriety, they should appoint clerks and attendants on behalf of the Academicians. From Leping, he was successively transferred to be Administrator first of Zhangwu and then of Zhao commandary. But during his time in these posts, he never cared for his administrative duties. He would spend the days in wandering and hunting, and the nights in reciting the Book of Poetry or Book of Documents, and he amused himself with sensual pleasures. No one who witnessed his conduct during this time realized his true potential.

咸甯初，詔曰：「鄄城公曹志，篤行履素，達學通識，宜在儒林，以弘胄子之教。其以志為��騎常侍、國子博士。」帝嘗閱《六代論》，問志曰：「是卿先王所作邪？」志對曰：「先王有��所作目錄，請歸尋按。」還奏曰：「按錄無此。」帝曰：「誰作？」志曰：「以臣所聞，是臣族父冏所作。以先王文高名著，欲令書傳於後，是以假託。」帝曰：「古來亦多有是。」顧謂公卿曰：「父子證明，足以為審。自今已後，可無復疑。」

At the beginning of the Xianning reign era (~275), Sima Yan issued an edict stating, "The Duke of Juancheng, Cao Zhi, has been sincere in conduct and trod a blameless path, and he is skilled at learning and most educated. He ought to join the ranks of the 'forest of scholars', in order to promote the education of the youth. Thus I hereby appoint him as a Cavalier In Regular Attendance and Academician for the National Youth."

On one occasion, having read the Discourse on the Six Dynasties*, Sima Yan asked Cao Zhi, "Did your late father compose this work?"

Cao Zhi replied, "My father kept a handwritten list of all the works he made. Allow me to go and consult it." Having returned, Cao Zhi said, "According to the list, it is not one of his works."

Sima Yan asked, "Then who wrote it?"

Cao Zhi replied, "From what I have heard, it was written by an elder kinsman of my family, Cao Jiong. He merely borrowed my father's name for the work because of my father's great reputation, hoping to thereby preserve it for future appreciation."

Sima Yan said, "Such has often been the practice, ever since ancient times." Then he turned to the nobles and chief ministers and said, "You see how father and son have cleared up the whole matter. From now on, let there be no further doubt."

*This was an essay on the six dynasties that had existed up until the time of Cao-Wei (Xia, Shang/Yin, Zhou, Qin, Han, Cao-Wei). The main argument of the essay was the critical importance of granting fiefs to members of the royal family in order to ensure their support for the dynasty.

後遷祭酒。齊王攸將之國，下太常議崇錫文物。時博士秦秀等以為齊王宜內匡朝政，不可之籓。志又常恨其父不得志于魏，因愴然歎曰：「安有如此之才，如此之親，不得樹本助化，而遠出海隅？晉朝之隆，其殆乎哉！」乃奏議曰：「伏聞大司馬齊王當出籓東夏，備物盡禮，同之二伯。今陛下為聖君，稷、契為賢臣，內有魯、衛之親，外有齊、晉之輔，坐而守安，此萬世之基也。古之夾輔王室，同姓則周公其人也，異姓則太公其人也，皆身在內，五世反葬。後雖有五霸代興，桓、文譎主，下有請隧之僭，上有九錫之禮，終於譎而不正，驗於尾大不掉，豈與召公之歌《棠棣》，周詩之詠《鴟鴞》同日論哉！今聖朝創業之始，始之不諒，後事難工。幹植不強，枝葉不茂；骨骾不存，皮膚不充。自羲皇以來，豈是一姓之獨有！欲結其心者，當有磐石之固。夫欲享萬世之利者，當與天下議之。故天之聰明，自我人之聰明。秦、魏欲獨擅其威，而財得沒其身；周、漢能分其利，而親疏為之用。此自聖主之深慮，日月之所照。事雖淺，當深謀之；言雖輕，當重思之。志備位儒官，若言不及禮，是志寇竊。知忠不言，議所不敢。志以為當如博士等議。」

Cao Zhi was later transferred to be a Libationer.

When the Prince of Qi, Sima You, was about to go out to his fief, Sima Yan sent the Minister of Ceremonies to lead a discussion of how best to draw up the necessary edict in lofty terms. But at that time, many of the Academicians, Qin Xiu and others, believed that Sima You ought to remain in the capital to help rectify the court and the government, and that he could not be sent away to the border. And Cao Zhi too often thought with regret of how his father had likewise been denied his ambitions during the time of Cao-Wei. He sighed sorrowfully and said, "How can it be that a man with such talent and such closeness to the royal family not be allowed to provide aid and shape to the trunk of the state's tree, and is instead sent away to the ends of the sea! The rise of the Jin court is nearly at an end!"

And Cao Zhi submitted a petition stating, "I have heard that the Grand Marshal and Prince of Qi is about to go out to serve on the border in the east; the ceremonies are all prepared, such that he and yourself will be like the Two Lords. But Your Majesty is a wise sovereign, and you have ministers as worthy as Houji and Qi; within, you have subjects as loyal as the states of Lu and Wey to support you, and without, you have ministers like Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin to assist you. You may sit in perfect tranquility, enjoying a foundation to last ten thousand generations.

"In ancient times, of those who provided close personal aid to the royal family, there were those of the same surname as the royal clan, like the Duke of Zhou, and there were those of differing surnames, like the Grand Duke (Jiang Ziya). They all lived themselves at court, and for five generations their bodies were brought back to be buried at Zhou. But afterwards, although the Five Hegemons were nominally the supporters of the dynasty, Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin cheated their sovereigns. Below, they sought to claim further titles, and above, they demanded the honors of the Nine Bestowments. In the end, they demanded what was improper, and it was like a beast with a tail so large that it cannot be lifted. How could such an age compare to when the Dukes of Zhou and Shao ruled at the same time and discussed affairs, when the Duke of Shao sang of the 'Cherry Tree' and the Duke of Zhou of the 'Owl'?

"Now the dynasty has only just begun its new endeavor. A lack of magnanimity at the start of such things shall lead to difficult work later on. For when the trunk is not sturdy, the leaves will not be luxurious; when the bones are brittle, the skin will not be healthy. And of all the sovereigns since Fuxi, how could any of their families have ruled alone?

"It is through binding the hearts of all together that the state gains a foundation as sturdy as stone. And one who wishes to enjoy ten thousand years of prosperity must make it their business to discuss the affairs of state with all the realm. It is thus that the wisdom and intelligence of Heaven comes from the wisdom and intelligence of us all. This was why the Qin and Wei dynasties, in seeking to monopolize all power to themselves, did not long outlive their own founders, while the Zhou and Han dynasties, who found uses for and shared blessings with those both close to and distant from their royal families, lasted long. A wise sovereign would thus deeply reflect upon such things, and realize their relevance in our own times.

"This affair may be shallow, but still it requires deep planning; my words may be light, but still they merit great consideration. I am merely a scholar-official, and where I have spoken out of turn, it comes from my impudence. Even so, I have loyal words to offer, and in such a discussion I dare not hold them back. I believe that the rest of the Court Academicians believe the same as I do."

議成當上，見其從弟高邑公嘉。嘉曰：「兄議甚切，百年之後必書晉史，目下將見責邪。」帝覽議，大怒曰：「曹志尚不明吾心，況四海乎！」以議者不指答所問，橫造異論，策免太常鄭默。於是有司奏收志等結罪，詔惟免志官，以公還第，其餘皆付廷尉。

When Cao Zhi had finished his remarks and was about to submit them, he first met with the Duke of Gaoyi, his cousin Cao Jia. Cao Jia told him, "Cousin, your remarks are especially harsh. A hundred years from now, you will surely be recorded as a fine official of the Jin dynasty. But as for our own time, I'm afraid you'll only be reproached."

Indeed, when Sima Yan read the remarks, he was enraged, and he said, "Cao Zhi does not even understand my own beliefs, much less those of all within the Four Seas!"

Sima Yan felt that the Court Academicians had not answered what was asked of them, and they had conducted a perverse and unsought discussion. He ordered the officials to have the Minister of Ceremonies, Zheng Mo, stripped of office. The officials then submitted a petition asking to have Cao Zhi and the others arrested and charged with crimes. But Sima Yan only issued an edict stripping Cao Zhi of office and exiling him to his ducal manor. The other Court Academicians were all handed over to the Minister of Justice.

頃之，志復為散騎常侍。遭母憂，居喪過禮，因此篤病，喜怒失常��九年卒，太常奏以惡諡。崔褒歎曰：「魏顆不從亂，以病為亂故也。今諡曹志而諡其病，豈謂其病不為亂乎！」於是諡為定。

Sometime later, Cao Zhi was reappointed as a Cavalier In Regular Attendance.

When Cao Zhi's mother passed away and he lived at home in mourning for her, he went beyond the usual morning rites and thus developed a heavy illness. Due to this, he had several episodes both of mania and of rage. Thus when, in the ninth year (of Taikang, 288), he passed away, the Minister of Ceremonies submitted a petition asking that Cao Zhi be granted a poor posthumous name. But Cui Bao lamented, "In ancient times, Wei Ke was praised for ignoring the final wishes of his father, and that was because his father was not in his right mind at the end of his life. So too with Cao Zhi; he was not in his right mind. Yet you would accord him a poor posthumous name on account of that?" So Cao Zhi was granted the posthumous name Ding ("the Firm").

#Jinshu #Book of Jin #Cao Zhi #Jin Dynasty #Western Jin

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preserving-ferretbrain · 6 years ago

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It's Not Easy Being Green

by Dan H

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Dan gets his Minority Warrior freak on, big time~

So here's the deal.

Once upon a time, a heterosexual, white man from Oregon wrote a book dealing with complex issues of race, sexuality, imperialism, slavery and Otherness. Then a heterosexual, white man from Oxford read that book and decided that the heterosexual, white man from Oregon was Doing It Wrong and proceeded to complain about it on the internet.

This is one of those iffy things where I'm trying to defuse my own hypocrisy by drawing attention to it but I do genuinely feel that it's a problem when white people use racism as an excuse to score points off of other white people, or when men use sexism as an excuse to score points off other men (this last being one of my major issues with a lot of later Joss Whedon). This of course creates a bit of a paradox (paradox (n): convenient excuse for behaving like an inconsistent jackass) because you can't say “this guy is trying to use sexism to score points off other men” without doing the exact same thing yourself.

So umm ... yeah, that's what this article is going to be about. It's going to be me trying to score points off a guy called Jay Lake by complaining about the fact that he's trying to score points off me, while criticising his work as being skeevy on a variety of levels.

For what it's worth, part of the skeeviness in Green involves a certain amount of discussion of rape so: trigger warning.

Also spoiler warning, but you should expect that by now.

Where to begin:

Reverse Racism

One of the many quite positive things to come out of Racefail '09 were some interesting essays/articles/blogposts on the concept of “reverse racism”. Broadly, as far as I can tell, this was a reaction against a lot of discussions along the lines of, well, of the introductory sequence to Everyone's a Little Bit Racist where the white puppet “exposes” how racist the monster puppet is being for not letting him come so their Monster's Support Group. It's the sort of apologist claptrap you get all the time where somebody “insightfully” points out that having – say – an award for Music of Black Origin is racist because you couldn't have an award for Music of White Origin.

On the other hand there's another side to the whole “reverse-*ism” issue which is just as pernicious as the first.

A little while ago I had a trawl through the archives of

Girls Read Comics (and They're Pissed)

and found a post about a guy who had shown up and complained that they felt that female superheroes didn't make sense. But wait, they weren't being sexist, oh no. Because you see the thing is that they thought that women were too sensible and mature to be superheroes. Because you see superheroes are basically just adolescent power fantasies, and isn't it just us silly, silly men who need to dress up in tights and have fun beating up baddies. Aren't women so much betterthan that, with their caring natures and their ability to listen. Needless to say the girls at Girls Read Comics... were not amused.

Green reads a lot like that guy. All the bad guys are men. Most of them are white men. This wouldn't be a problem in itself, and I most certainly am not suggesting that it's “racist against whites” to have the bad guys all be white people. Rather the problem is that the whole book is shot through with some slightly creepy, faintly Victorian attitudes to women and to non-white cultures. Bad guys all white men? Fine. Bad guys all white men because they're the only people that appear to have volition and agency, while everybody else just kind of sits there quietly starving, not fine.

So anyway, I'm six hundred and something words in, and I'm still ploughing through disclaimers, I should probably start actually talking about the book. As always this isn't really a review, it's a response. The rest of this article is basically going to be in four parts. I'm going to take a look at the overall plot, then at the way the book deals with sexuality, then at how it deals with gender, then how it deals with race and the trappings of Empire.

The Story

The story of Green is as follows. Green lives until the age of three in somewhere that is vaguely like India. It isn't spelled out at the time, but she basically lives a life of grinding poverty and desperation. She is sold by her father (her mother and grandmother have both died – this is the start of a long sequence of Green suffering misfortunes because of Men) to a man named Federo, who carries her across the sea to Copper Downs. There she is raised at fantastic expense as a courtesan on behalf of somebody called “The Factor”, while Federo and a catgirl “dancing mistress” train her up to be a kickass ninja assassin.

At the age of twelve she escapes from whore school amidst much angst (there's a lot of angst in the book) but is still recruited by Federo and the Dancing Mistress to take out the immortal Duke who has ruled over Copper Downs for four centuries. This she duly does, before fleeing over the see to Selistan, her homeland.

She returns to Selistan, and finds her father's farm, only to realise that it's a horrible poverty-stricken wreck and that being a slave was probably the best thing that could possibly have happened to her (the “being enslaved and oppressed was the best thing that could happen to these people” theme is a recurring one, and one of my biggest sources of trouble with the book). Then she hangs out on the streets of a big quasi-Indian city, gets recruited by a temple of all-female death-worshippers wherein she has sadomasochistic lesbian sex. Then she gets sent back to Copper Downs to fight a God, where she has more lesbian sex. Then she has sex with a man and gets pregnant. Then she kills a god, and makes her father's ox into a new God of Patience. Then she settles down to raise her kid. The end.

It's three hundred pages long. It feels longer. Which is odd because not much actually happens in it.

Anyway, on to the things that I want to score points over.

Sexuality

Green has a whole lot of lesbian sex. Like a whole lot of lesbian sex. It starts at the temple in Kalimpura, where she leses up with the other initiates and the older “Mothers.”

Couple of things about this.

First off, at the time she is in fact somewhere between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Again, I know that gender reversal isn't always the best way to judge these things (again it comes down to the reverse-ism problem) but for a book that is so preoccupied with notions of sex, slavery, sex slavery and rape it's a tiny bit problematic that it completely glosses over the fact that it's not okay for forty year olds to shag fourteen year olds, even if both parties are women.

Now I know that Green is set in a pre-industrial society. I know that most fourteen year old girls in such a society would already have been married off but guess what: the text is very, very clear about the fact that this is bad. But apparently all these issues of consent, power, society and duty of care evaporate like spit on a soldering iron the moment it's time for a bit of girl-on-girl.

Ages ago I wrote an article about

Nice Guy Syndrome

and pointed out that Nice Guys and a certain variety of feminist-identified-man go to extraordinary lengths to demonise male sexuality. Green only “lies with” one man in the entire book, and he's a priest who normally takes it up the arse:

“You re my first woman.” Something in his voice grew very shy. “My first entry, in truth. I have only been the vessel, not the seed, within the temple rites.”

You later meet his high priest, and he's obviously evil, and gloats about priest-dude's tight arsehole. It's a theme that's repeated throughout the book: penetration is evil, but being penetrated builds virtue through suffering. Green encounters literally no heterosexual men (okay, tell a lie, there's one one-legged cook) who are not either rapists or would-be rapists. The fear of rape is something that dogs Green from the first page of the book to the last and rears its head every time she talks to somebody with a penis (unless that penis has been rendered safe by a good buggering).

Again (you see now why I put that long disclaimer at the start) I'm not claiming that this is “reverse sexism” or “reverse homophobia”. I'm claiming that it is regular sexism and regular homophobia.

Here is Green on the discovery of a gay man aboard a ship:

Love between women I could understand, but men were such careless brutes that I did not see how two of them could love without someone to dampen the blows and soften the curses. This opinion was a legacy of the Factor's house, I now know but some of those habits of thought were years in the erasing.

Two things. Firstly in the Factor's house, Green met literally no men. She was raised and trained entirely by women, many of whom beat her at the slightest provocation, so how she came to those conclusions I have no idea. Secondly that simply isn't a woman's perspective on gay sex. Not even a gay woman's. It's a heterosexual man's opinion, forced uncomfortably into the mouth of a young girl. It's an attitude grounded in the idea that women are the natural objects of sexual desire and men the natural agents of it.

Green has a lot of sex, but she never really has sexual agency. Yes, most of the time when she has sex it's because she chooses to, but what you never get from Green is the sense that she is, for want of a better term, horny. She never actually gives the impression of experiencing sexual desire, of looking at somebody and just plain wanting to fuck them. Much like Inara in FireflyGreen has sex as a kind of benediction. She has sex with the women in the Temple as part of an all-girls-together bonding ritual. She has sex with priest-dude because he, in essence, proves himself worthy by talking to her about mythology (and what gets fantasy writers hotter than their own mythology).

Lake's demonisation of male sexuality and valorisation of lesbianism reaches its height in the confrontation against the Big Bad. The villain has captured Green and the catgirl Dancing Mistress, and is getting ready to cut them both into pieces so that he can reclaim the last shards of the power he needs to become a full on god. How do Green and the Dancing Mistress get out of this situation? Why they les up! And the truly stupid thing is that it works. It works so well that the Big Bad actually stops torturing the two of them to death and – I shit you not - sits down and starts masturbating. Here's how it plays out:

I crawled back up to nuzzle her face. “Oh please,” I moaned, “kiss my thighs.” My voice would have had the Lily Blades falling out with laughter, but Federo just echoed the moan. He was the rankest of boys. Facing Federo as I sprawled on the floor, I ran my tongue across my lips. Mistress Cherlise had shown me a number of such little bits of playacting that would arrest a man's attention. The Dancing Mistress gripped my thighs hard and kissed me back and forth along the inner line of each leg, working down towards my knees. When she reset her grip to my calves and eased herself further away I nearly shrieked. Instead I rolled slightly to my left so Federo could see my right breast. He wasn't looking any more. His eyes were closed, his back arched in his chair as he stroked himself very hard. Outside, thunder rolled almost continuously.

If this was just stupid, I'd let it go. But it's not just stupid, it's stupid and it's sexist. And just to be very clear, to say for the third time something I am sure I will say again, I don't mean that it's “reverse sexist” or “sexist against men” I mean it's sexist. It's an offensive, patriarchal stereotype which harms women far more than it harms men.

The attitude expressed in the passage above, and repeated throughout the whole of the book, is that male sexuality is intrinsically corrupt, fundamentally violent, and ultimately controlled by women. While men (white men at least) are morally responsible for all of the evils in Green the practical responsibility lies always with women. When Green returns to Copper Downs, it is revealed that after she killed the Duke, the Factor's house where she was trained was destroyed, the remaining Mistresses killed, and the girls who were kept there raped to death. And who was responsible for the girls being raped to death? Why they were of course! Once the Duke was dead, there was nobody to restrain the guards, and so they did what all men will naturally do when faced with beautiful women, they raped them until they died. “Because of their beauty” as Green herself puts it.

This is a world of not okay. Yes, the novel is written in the first person, and Green's perceptions are likely to have been shaped by her extremely fucked up upbringing (although if that was the case, you'd expect her to be more comfortable with the notion of being sold into slavery, since it was all she had known) but the text routinely operates from the assumption that men are Slaves to Their Lusts, that when faced with a hot woman, men will completely lose their reason and cease to be responsible for their actions (if you want an example, scroll back up and read the boss-fight-wanking-scene again, is that the description of a man who is in control of himself?). Green's attitudes are not deconstructed or shown to be false or harmful, quite the opposite. By the end of the book, Green is assumed to be in possession of a true and accurate understanding of the truth about men and women, at least as Lake sees it.

This is wrong. Rape is not some kind of natural disaster, something that just happens like a hurricane or an earthquake. It is not an occupational hazard of having a vagina, and it most certainly is not a fucking compliment (“because of their beauty” my arse). By the same token, lesbian sex is real sex, and lesbian sexual abuse is real sexual abuse. An institution in which forty year old women fuck thirteen year old girls is exactly as abusive as one in which the forty-year-olds are men.

Gender

I've touched on this already, but I'll just go over the basics again.

Men = bad people who have nasty things like ambitions and desires and sexual appetites.

Women = good people who have nice things like patience and wisdom and did I mention patience?

Again, I should come clean here and mention that the reason I'm so profoundly sensitive to this kind of thing is that I really do appreciate the temptation of this line of thinking. It's amazingly comforting as a man to bury your sexist, patronising bullshit under layer upon layer of “well really, I think women are superior to men” but sexist, patronising bullshit it remains.

Green (the novel) is preoccupied with Women. Green (the character) is preoccupied with Women as well. Unfortunately neither the novel nor the character are actually interested in women. For the benefit of those who don't have the patience for my smug games with capitalisation, the distinction I'm alluding to is between “Women” with a capital “W” - a broad impersonal concept chiefly designed to allow men to score points off of other men – versus women with a small w, actual people with names and personalities. Again this is something I've been guilty of myself, allowing my very real concern for the way that Men treat Women to blind me to the way I personally was treating actual people.

Green is obsessed with women, and in a peculiarly self-conscious way. She habitually uses the word “woman” to mean “people in general” (and even more peculiarly, sometimes uses “girl-child” to mean “children in general”). Now in all seriousness I do get that there are issues with using specifically masculine pronouns to describe people-in-general, but Green was born in one patriarchal society, and raised in another, where did she pick up the habit of using feminine pronouns?

Similarly she spends the entire book talking, talking, talking about how badly she wants to protect Women and children and did I mention Women. The problem is that she never actually does anything about it. Now I know she's only fifteen by the time the book finishes, but we spend the entire book being told how utterly precocious and omnicompetent she is and you can't have it both ways. Either it's a book about a powerful, independent woman who triumphs in the face of the horrors she faces, or it's about a broken woman who is destroyed by the people who enslave her and remade into their image. If she's as awesome as everybody says she is, she should damned well do something about those injustices instead of just talking about them.

It doesn't help that while Green goes on and on and on about Women and Girls, there isn't a single woman or girl she actually displays any compassion for or indeed interest in. Green as a character is relentlessly self-absorbed. One gets the impression that we are supposed to take the mere fact of her being a woman as evidence of virtue.

This is, in itself, mildly irritating, but it's so all pervasive in the text that it goes beyond “irritating” into “faintly skeevy”. Green (the novel) consistently refuses to allow women to be responsible for their own actions. Green herself never actually makes a decision, she gets bought at the age of three, and is then controlled entirely by the Factor, then by Federo and the Dancing Mistress, then by the Lily Goddess. Worse, she makes up for this by beating herself up about things that she has no control over whatsoever (like the aforesaid raping to death of the girls in the Factor's house). It all contributes to a worldview in which women are seen as incapable of acting for themselves, or controlling their own destinies. Even when female characters do things which are genuinely morally repugnant (violently beating a twelve year old girl, engaging in sexual activity with minors in their care) those things are either assumed to be acceptable (see “sex, lesbian”) or blamed on Men (see “beatings, violent”). Even Green's decision to cut up her own face is explicitly taken away from her and given to the nebulous They.

Basically Lake is so fixated on making the book about Women, Women, Women that he completely forgets to include any well-realised, sympathetic female characters.

Green (the book) is full of Goddess imagery. There are constant references to the obligatory maiden, mother and crone, and it is I think deliberate that Green starts the book as a child and ends it as a mother. Similarly virtually all of the female characters fit somewhere into the Triune – often explicitly, such as in the Lily Temple where the initiates specifically progress to being “Mothers”. Of course the problem with this is that it essentially reduces all women everywhere to three archetypes, and worse because it romanticises those archetypes it fails to recognise how limiting and constricting they are. It puts women in a box, then puts the box on a pedestal.

Race and Empire

This is the difficult bit. As ever there's nothing more dangerous than invoking the spectre of (whisper it) racism.

Once more I should say very, very clearly that I'm not actually calling Jay Lake a racist. He did sit down and write a book about a pseudo-south-Asian protagonist (although she is, of course, white on the cover) and much as I like to complain, the pseudo-Indian city of Kalimpura has as much imagination invested in it as Copper Downs. The book deals with some extremely complex, extremely sensitive issues, and if I were feeling like less of an asshole I'd probably give it some major points for trying. But I'm not, so I won't.

Green deals with some extremely complicated issues such as slavery, abuse, imperialism, and human trafficking (much like Dollhouse in fact). One of the most difficult things to deal with when handling the subject of abuse is the extent to which an abuse survivor is shaped by their experiences, the extent to which they – to use a loaded term – owe who they are to the events that shaped them. Post-imperial or post-colonial cultures have a similarly difficult relationship with their past, an occupying force brings stability and infrastructure and the removal of that infrastructure frequently causes as much trouble as the imposition of it. When a great injustice occurs – either to an individual or to a people – it can sometimes be hard to tell how much of what follows is because of that injustice, and how much is in spite of it.

Green beings the book being sold into slavery by her father. She observes, early on, that the food she is given by Federo is better than any meal she has had in her entire life. This itself isn't a problem. It's entirely reasonable that the food available to a rich human trafficker will be higher quality and more abundant than the food available to a subsistence-level rice farmer. To begin with, the issue of contrast between her old life and her new life is handled with sensitivity, Green seems genuinely conflicted about the fact that she is, in many ways, better off in Copper Downs. This feels believable and relatively respectful to Green, her culture, and her circumstances. She obviously feels a lot of guilt about finding some aspects of Copper Downs better than her old life, and the things she prefers are basically issues of material comfort.

It gets worse, considerably worse, when she returns to her home. Suddenly Copper Downs goes from being not merely more affluent than her homeland but objectively better. Green states, quite clearly, that:

My captors had been right. Rather I should have been on my knees thanking the Factor for what he had taken me from.

Now I know that this is partly Green giving in to despair, but nothing in the text challenges this conclusion. It's rather an object lesson in the dangers of taking on too many genre stereotypes at once.

Had this been the story of a white man who was taken away from his pseudo-European farming village and conscripted into the armies of the Dark Lord of Evil then I would have been overjoyed to find him returning home to realise that his long lost homeland was a poverty stricken shithole and his father was a bastard who never cared about him. It would challenge the assumptions of a genre that frequently glamourises poverty, and it wouldn't have any creepy overtones (unless you want to make a big thing about militarism).

Make the white man a south-Asian woman, however, and you start getting into difficulties, because now you're not saying “being poor sucks” you're saying “being foreign sucks”. Turn conscription into slavery and you're not saying “you might be better off in the army than on a farm” you're saying “you might be better off as a slave in Europe than as a free man in your own country.” Add in the courtesan angle and you're saying “it is a good thing for south-Asian women to be sold as sex slaves to European men.”

I hope I don't need to point out that this really isn't okay.

Green (the book) takes another hop, step and jump closer to a pit of utter fail when Green (the character) notices that her father's Ox – an image she clung to from childhood – has grown old in her absence:

He was a beast too, of course. Though somehow less animal than Papa, now.

That's right folks, the book directly compares poor people from hot countries to animals(compares them unfavourably to animals, in fact). Now to be fair her father has gone mad by this point (mostly it seems in order to conveniently prevent Green from finding out her birth name) but that only makes it ablist as well as racist. Sorry, I mean “possible to interpret as racist” because while comparing brown people to animals is dodgy, suggesting that a white man might be prejudiced is unforgivable.

The fucked up imperialist dogma actually reaches its peak, however, with the treatment of the “pardines” - the race of cat-people of whom Green's Dancing Mistress is one (the pardines do not tell their names to outsiders, much like the jellyfish dudes in Mass Effect). Now an early plot point in Green is that the power which allowed the Duke to maintain his immortality had been stolen from the pardines, much to the detriment of their people.

At the end of the book, Green confronts the ghost of the Duke (who was also the Factor, by the way) and he explains to her that actually stealing the power of the pardines was the right thing to do:

“Your crime,” I growled, “was to strip power from a peaceful people and bind it to yourself.” “How peaceful were those people?” Now his face flared with passion to match my own. “Do you know of the last war this city did fight? Under me, as a living man? We battled the pardines. In their time they were terrible hunters and raiders. Others followed them, thinking by their appearance that they were wise and powerful. The shared path they have instead of souls lent them a strength in this world that could not be matched. Over a thousand men were lost wrestling them down. I took what they used to wreak the death of farmers and children and traders, stripped it from them, and made peace for Copper Downs. I even made peace for them.”

Now as the subjective self-justification of the ghost of a tyrant, this is all well and good, but the problem is that it isn't. It's a pure statement of fact. Green accepts it as gospel and – and this is the really weird bit – so does the Dancing Mistress, who had up until that point been specifically trying to recapture the power of her people (as well she might).

Indeed the conversation between Green and the Duke's ghost seems – in the eyes of the text – to objectively redeem the Duke from all possible sins. It is even revealed that Green was being educated as a woman of four centuries past because the Duke was lonely and desired companionship of the sort he remembered from his youth. I get the distinct impression that we are actually supposed to sympathise with this (again this calls to mind Dollhouse and its seeming belief that it's okay to rape somebody if you pretend they're your dead wife). It is, in essence, a plot twist in which it is revealed that the Duke who Green thought was evil in fact is not.

Here is Green's summary of the story of the Duke and his theft of the pardines' collective power, as she relates it to an angry mob who have just torn apart a mad godling:

“Let me tell you a story,” I repeated “about a people who gave up their power long ago. A city man took it from them. Some agreed to this, but not all.” The silence held, I continued: “The man made himself prince of his city. He ruled for generations. There was peace, prosperity, a time of quiet. The gods fell quiet for the power was like a blanket to them. This took the soul of the people, for what are gods if not the sum of everyone who follows them? Choices fell away, as the power cares only for itself. Even so, the bargain was good for most.”

First of all, how the fuck does Green get from “I stripped them of their power and made it my own” to “a people gave up their power, the bargain was good for most”?

Second of all, I'm sorry but that's really fucking offensive.

I have no idea how deliberate this is but what you have here is a relatively modern culture which owes its strength and prosperity to resources that it took by force from the people who had them originally. People who, according to the guys who took those resources in the first place, were basically a bunch of raiders, hunters and savages.

Doesn't that sound rather a lot like the history of America?

Imagine, for a moment, Green standing up and making that speech (substituting, if you wish “land” for “power”) to an audience of Native Americans.

Umm ... pretty fucking offensive, isn't it.

Now I know, I know, I know that this is a fantasy setting, and the pardines are a fantasy race, but in a book which engages so directly and specifically with issues of race and imperialism you cannot avoid drawing parallels with the real world. Green's apologia – substituting “bargains” for conquest and talking about people “giving up” their power - is exactly the sort of historical revisionism that goes on with stories of the American West.

Ironically for a book all about a non-white gay woman, the whole thing is positively dripping with white male privilege. It's fantastically easy to make big speeches about how power is bad and corrupting, and how really people are better off without it, when you're part of the group that already has all the power. It's easy to praise women and non-whites for what you perceive as their superior qualities of patience and endurance, when you haven't had to be patient or endure, because you live in a world where you can get what you want when you want it. It's easy to write about how people should never try to change the way things are when the way things are primarily benefits you and people like you.

And breathe.

Taking a step back, it is possible that Lake is aware of all of these issues, and that the whole book is working on a much more subtle level. It is possible that the extent to which Green internalises the prejudices of her captors is supposed to be her final tragedy. The only way I could ever find this out, however, would be to read the two sequels which Lake is apparently working on and that I most assuredly will not be doing.

In Conclusion

Green engages with a variety of complex themes, but there is a fine line between engagement and apologia.

Earlier I mentioned the Avenue Q song Everyone's a Little Bit Racist. Some people (I know Rami's one of them) are big fans of this song, because it's really important to recognise that racism is pretty much endemic in society, and nobody is entirely free of it. It's also important to break some of the taboos surrounding racism, specifically “accusing” people of racism.

On the other hand, the song puts just slightly too much emphasis on the “racism” of non-whites. The whole thing is started by a white guy as a means to deflect an accusation of racism, and it works.

Green has similar problems. She starts the novel abducted and enslaved by a western imperial power, but the book focuses so much on the negative aspects of the life she would have had otherwise that it winds up justifying, if not glorifying, her initial enslavement. It's the same issue of uneven historical accuracy that leads to so many skeevy gender issues in Fantasy. Because the western imperialist culture is, to an extent, romanticised – we see very little of the grinding poverty that existed in nineteenth-century England for example – and the eastern agrarian culture is not, you wind up with a situation where Green's only protection from marital rape and early death is to be taken as a slave by a more “enlightened” culture.

So yeah, Green. Not something I'd suggest reading. It's ponderously written, pretentious, boring and full of fail.

And Finally...

Fantasy Rape Watch:

Number of Women Raped: Innumerable, possibly “every woman born in Selistan” depending on how you read the text.

Number of Women Raped to Death: Twelve

Proximal Causes of Aforesaid Raping To Death, According to Green, by importance:

Green's Failure to Save Them: 60%

Victims' Own Beauty: 20%

The Nature of Men: 20%

Actual Decisions Made by Rapists, Over Which They Had Ultimate Control and For Which They Bore Ultimate Moral Responsibility: 0%

Number of Times Heroine “Raped”: 0

Number of Times Heroine Engages in Sexual Activity to which She Does Not and Can Not Properly Consent for Reasons of Age and Power But it's Okay Because it's With Other Women: Countless, over the course of several years.

Number of Times Heroine Threatened with Rape: 3

Number of Times Heroine Meets Heterosexual Men other Than Federo: 3

Themes:

Fantasy Rape Watch

Books

Sci-fi / Fantasy

Minority Warrior

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~Comments (

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)

Wardog

at 10:36 on 2009-11-17I really rather wish I'd had the bollocks to say all this in my SH review but I felt I couldn't accuse a writer of this degree of fail on somebody else's website.

Green was astonishingly terrible book, and I hated and despised it.

Also what's with the cover? Why is she upside down and devoid of trousers?

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Arthur B

at 14:45 on 2009-11-17That looks painful. It's funny how the author, coming from a completely different angle, seems to have ended up portraying a situation remarkably like the

Gor

novels - in which men are violent and brutal and forceful and dominant, and women like it that way because of their intrinsic urge to be enslaved. It's just that John Norman celebrates this idea whereas it seems like Lake is trying to condemn it. In a sort of half-hearted fashion involving porno-style lesbian scenes.

But Dan, surely the inclusion of a catgirl was the warning sign that something was awry? I've never seen fantasy/SF authors use catgirls for anything but suspicious and unsavoury purposes.

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Arthur B

at 14:46 on 2009-11-17Wait, I tell a lie, there's a short story by Gene Wolfe about a man who gets really creeped out by his friend buying a genetically engineered anthropomorphic sex pet. The moral of the story being "Jesus Christ guys, what is it with you and the catgirls? I'm almost ashamed to write in the same genre as some of you."

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Sister Magpie

at 15:55 on 2009-11-17Wow. This book sounds like it could win some kind of award if they gave awards for things like this.

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http://fightsandtights.blogspot.com/

at 16:11 on 2009-11-17Yikes. Sounds like a very uncomfortable read all round. Is it just me, or does it sound like a deranged and sexist rip off of the Assassins of Tamurin? Green certainly sounds like she couldn't hold a candle to Lale Navari, though...

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Rami

at 16:55 on 2009-11-17

Earlier I mentioned the Avenue Q song Everyone's a Little Bit Racist. Some people (I know Rami's one of them) are big fans of this song, ... The whole thing is started by a white guy as a means to deflect an accusation of racism, and it works.

Right at the beginning, Princeton does admit "I'm sorry, I guess that was racist". Which isn't entirely a deflection. But the song does derail the conversation entirely, I will admit. Part of the reason I like it, and like to refer to it, is that it provides a convenient lighthearted reference I can make to defuse privilege-born defensiveness.

you're saying “you might be better off as a slave in Europe than as a free man in your own country.”

Unsurprisingly enough that really gets my back up. If we're reading it generously, I could see it as internalising her oppressors' cultural imperialism, which would be extra-tragic (and not uncommon; hell, I'm guilty of it myself) but that's something that readers are really rather unlikely to see in it IMHO.

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Melissa G.

at 21:03 on 2009-11-17Yikes. Just yikes.

That whole seduction to win the boss fight thing really irks me. First of all, it just seems utterly ridiculous and probably some of the laziest writing I've ever heard of. I can't even take it seriously; it's just comical.

And although I'm a woman, I find it extremely offensive to men to suggest that no matter how determined, focused, etc a man is, if a woman starts touching herself or each other, he'll just fall apart and forget all his plans as his jaw drops open and he just yelps "BOOBIES!". I mean, come on.

I'm sure that my rage is also compounded because I just had a conversation with my friend about "girls (in comics) in refrigerators" and how women are poorly treated in comics and there are a lot of similarities to how this man seems to want to portray women in his book.

Also, and I can't help but to add this as I just received another rejection yesterday, but HOW is sh*t like this published while I am sitting on my ass waiting for rejection after rejection to roll in on my own novel? It's just damn frustrating!

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Melissa G.

at 21:18 on 2009-11-17Excuse the double post, I just thought of something else about the deus ex seduction that bugs me. It also implies that sexuality would be the only possible way for women to win fights against men. Which, yeah, fully pisses me off.

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Rude Cyrus

at 21:21 on 2009-11-17A lot of people have some seriously fucked up trains of logic. What's scary is that many don't realize it.

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Dan H

at 22:24 on 2009-11-17

It's an interpretation I'd considered, and there was always a nagging sense that maybe Lake was making a really subtle point and that I wasn't giving him enough credit. The problem is that I think you consciously have to read it into the text. Part of the problem is that Green is at least in *theory* supposed to be narrating the series from a position of maturity and strength so when she says she "realises" something you don't really have much room to disagree with her.

Which makes it a bit fucked up.

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Dan H

at 22:28 on 2009-11-17

It also implies that sexuality would be the only possible way for women to win fights against men. Which, yeah, fully pisses me off.

Yeah, it's one of those nasty bits of sexism that cuts both ways. Although as ever I rather suspect that it's the ladies who come out worst. It basically gives us guys carte blanche to act like douchebags because we totally can't control ourselves.

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Viorica

at 00:13 on 2009-11-18It ties into the "Well, she was wearing a short skirt/walking alone at night/drinking" defence you see in rape cases. It's always something the woman did; the rapist just couldn't help himself.

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Guy

at 02:40 on 2009-11-18I think there's something interesting in the question about sexism/"reverse sexism" and racism/"reverse racism". It makes me think that what's happening is a sort of... reversal of terms that are already based on a set of binaries or polarisations and all that happens is a switching around of the moral weightings or moral judgements that go with them. So if we think of "classic sexism" having an ideology along the lines of "Men are vigorous and active (and this makes them good), while women are docile and passive (and this makes them bad)", then the kind of "revised sexism" (revised rather than reversed) seen here just switches the part in brackets; men are vigorous and active, which makes them bad, &c &c. An adherent of this kind of "revised sexism" may believe that they've overcome their patriarchal prejudices, when actually all that's happened is that that prejudice has taken a different form. I would argue that these kinds of diminishing-identity-constructions are an inevitable consequence of identity-based logic, and that no matter how carefully you work to ideologically perfect such a logic then some form of diminishment or deformation creeps back in... but I suspect that's a topic for another post.

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Dan H

at 11:53 on 2009-11-18

An adherent of this kind of "revised sexism" may believe that they've overcome their patriarchal prejudices, when actually all that's happened is that that prejudice has taken a different form

Pretty much, and the scary thing is it's terrifyingly easy to do.

Although ironically I don't even think there's change in the moral judgments attached. "Classic" sexism doesn't actually say women are *bad* for being docile and passive, quite the reverse - feminine virtues are usually considered extremely important, look at Victorian England - so it's not even "revised" sexism really, it's just sexism repackaged.

The same is true for the race issues. The concept of the noble savage goes back centuries and still exists in one form or another today.

Basically it all falls under the broad heading of "fetishisation of the other" and it's a horrible, horrible minefield.

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Robinson L

at 22:02 on 2009-11-19Wow! And I thought I'd set a pretty high standard for Minority Warrior with my first contribution. Should've known you'd top me, sooner or later. Fantastic article; probably one of your best.

I remember Ptolemaues reading one of Lake's books a year or two ago. I think by the time she reached page 30 he'd already overheated her clichédar. Apparently, she never finished it.

I remember that Girls Read Comics post. One of the earliest ones, I believe. Well done on distilling the logic of that argument.

This tactic of putting Women on a pedestal is actually a long-standing mechanism of patriarchy. Howard Zinn discusses (in a chapter about the oppression of women in the United States after the war of independence) the ideological underpinnings of the double standard in treatment of men who sleep around/have premarital and extra-marital sex and women who do the same.

As Zinn explains, while such sexual behaviors were and are looked down on by the mainstream culture, it was taken for granted that men are base and incapable controlling their own sex drives, so they get a pass on sexual "immorality." Women, on the other hand, are supposed to be made of purer stuff - they're not even supposed to enjoy sex anyway. Thus, when a woman does indulge in "immoral sex" it means she obviously is not a proper Woman, and deserves to be persecuted.

I imagine attitudes were similar in Victorian England, which you've alluded to a couple times now, Dan.

a pseudo-south-Asian protagonist (although she is, of course, white on the cove

Of course.

Melissa G.: Also, and I can't help but to add this as I just received another rejection yesterday, but HOW is sh*t like this published while I am sitting on my ass waiting for rejection after rejection to roll in on my own novel? It's just damn frustrating!

Law of inverse quality to publishing. Think Rowling, Meyer, Salvatore, etc. You can do this, just keep working at it!

Basically it all falls under the broad heading of "fetishisation of the other" and it's a horrible, horrible minefield.

That's fetishisation of the

Other

. And yes, yes it is.

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Wardog

at 23:32 on 2009-11-19I would rather prefer you boys could contain yourselves from quite this degree of wanking self-congratulation over your minority warrioring, a title I bestowed upon Dan in recognition of his sense of self-irony.

This tactic of putting Women on a pedestal is actually a long-standing mechanism of patriarchy

Good heavens, is it really? I'm stunned and appalled.

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Melissa G.

at 23:51 on 2009-11-19"Law of inverse quality to publishing. Think Rowling, Meyer, Salvatore, etc. You can do this, just keep working at it!" (Can't get the quote thing to work 'cause I'm dumb)

Thanks Robinson!! :-)

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Dan H

at 23:54 on 2009-11-19

I would rather prefer you boys could contain yourselves from quite this degree of wanking self-congratulation over your minority warrioring, a title I bestowed upon Dan in recognition of his sense of self-irony.

Umm ... yeah, I was about to say. The title "Minority Warrior" is an ironic one which we use quite specifically to say "we are aware that this actually strays quite close to being fucking patronising". It originally started as a private joke between Kyra and I, we'd be watching Buffy or Angel, and there's be one of those awful bits where Joss Whedon says Something Very Serious About Being Black or A Woman and we'd shout "Fear Not Ladies! I Am Joss Whedon! Minority Warrior!"

I *actually* feel really bad about laying into Green as badly as I did, not because I feel bad about Jay Lake (dude wrote a boring book) but because I feel genuinely uncomfortable getting on my high horse about these sorts of issues because as I say in - in fact - the start of this article, they often stray dangerously close to me using issues of race and gender as an excuse to score points off of other white men.

This is *not* a game of "more feminist than thou". I'm *not* in a competition to see who can spot the most racism. I'm *not* trying to set standards. You might have noticed that in a lot of my posts about race and gender issues, what I tend to say is "these attitudes are very common, and I understand why they are so common because there is an extent to which I share them".

This is a *world* of not about keeping score.

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Arthur B

at 23:58 on 2009-11-19I'm just glad Robinson clarified the capitalisation of "Other".

Clearly an important and relevant aspect of this discussion!

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Robinson L

at 00:30 on 2009-11-20Okay, yes, on reflection that was rather unnecessary and patronizing for this site. My apologies.

My comment about other/Other was intended mostly as a joke, but I can see now that doesn't come across at all, and it's still rather smug. Again, sorry.

@Melissa: it took me a while to figure out as well.

The standard html tag

for quoting is "blockquote," but I usually just use "i" for italics.

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Melissa G.

at 00:31 on 2009-11-20

it took me a while to figure out as well. The standard html tag for quoting is "blockquote," but I usually just use "i" for italics.

I got it! Thanks!

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Wardog

at 09:30 on 2009-11-20Alternatively you could just use the handy 'quote' function. Highlight any text any where on the page and click the 'quote selected text' button in this comment form. Try it today! The handy in-built quote function! 9/10 users recommend it! New from Rami Industries!

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http://oiooo.livejournal.com/

at 10:51 on 2009-11-20Yr cmmnts bt sxsm wld wrk bttr f hdn't jst rd th rtcl whr y cm ff lk th whnst f Slythrfn whl tlkng bt crtn "smg btch".

Editor's Comment: This comment has been disemvowelled. We welcome your comments here at Fb but if you disagree with something please address the article or the comment in question, rather than the style or nature of the writer.

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Dan H

at 11:16 on 2009-11-20For what it's worth I do actually realise that referring to J.K. Rowling as a "smug bitch" is, in fact, rather sexist. I'm afraid that I sometimes allow my sense of rhetoric to override my sense of what is appropriate.

However as the editors have pointed out, this comment is not really pertinent to the article or the arguments presented within it.

I would genuinely be more than happy if you were to leave a comment on the original article pointing out that my use of gendered insults to attack a female writer is not okay because it is, well, absolutely not.

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Melissa G.

at 13:36 on 2009-11-20

Try it today! The handy in-built quote function! 9/10 users recommend it! New from Rami Industries!

mwahaha! Is that how it works? I kept trying to select text that was already in the comment box, haha. Thanks!

And sorry to clutter the comments section with this stuff but I want to say a proper thank you. ^^

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Viorica

at 23:14 on 2010-08-30I thought Jay Lake's name seemed familiar when I read this article, but I couldn't remember where I heard it until I was linked to

this

. Turns out he was

involved

in RaceFail (on the Elizabeth Bear/Will Shetterley side, natch) and subsequently refused to attend a con because he thought that he would be "unsafe" there as a white, male author. So, yeah.

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Arthur B

at 01:19 on 2010-08-31Tempest's blog post is awesome. It's amazing how quick people can go from "Behold, I am Jay Lake, Minority Warrior!" to "It just ain't safe for a white male author at a con these days."

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Wardog

at 09:17 on 2010-08-31Gosh, is he terrified of all those angry black people resorting to violence?

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Michal

at 02:50 on 2011-06-19Ho boy. I read Lake's Mainspring, and in the first few pages I had this creeping feeling and a voice in my head kept saying "put this down, don't waste time on this, it's not worth it", but then, in my idiocy, I picked it up again. By the time I got to the part where my inner critic was screaming at me to stop, I was already too far and in my stubbornness ended up finishing it. It's only later that I found out he started Racefail, but my impressions from Mainspring were not at all good. For instance, I giant wall separates the northern and southern hemispheres. And when the main character finally crosses that wall into sub-Saharan Africa, instead of interesting cultures allowed to develop without European influence, we get ape men and evil black sorcerers. My jaw dropped.

Then the main character has sex with an ape-woman.

Then he saves the world with the power of love.

Yeah.

Looks like Lake continues on the same path in Green.

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https://me.yahoo.com/a/0txE6GYMzdiwjPOqDTwLdeHMvOdijS5Jm1c-#9995a

at 03:32 on 2011-06-19You know, on one hand I feel that the entire "women are purer than me" should be a compliment to women. On the other hand, it's the same old tactic of "put 'em on a throne then stab 'em in the back" as with the supposed glorification of women, whilst surreptitiously ridiculting the notion.

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Arthur B

at 04:02 on 2011-06-19The thing about defining some other category of people as being purer than you is that it simultaneously lets you off the hook for your own bad behaviour ("I'm just a stupid ol' man, how can I be expected to behave differently?") whilst simultaneously lets you hold that category of folks to a higher standard - and therefore get correspondingly nastier with them when they fail to meet the standard you've imposed. ("I'd have expected that from a man, but you, I thought I could trust you to do better. What sort of woman are you?")

It's basically yet one more flavour of creepery that needs to be pointed out for the creepery it is.

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Wardog

at 19:31 on 2011-06-19@Michal

Youch. I remember tying myself into knots of pure anguish trying to review this thing for Strange Horizons - I genuinely felt uncomfortable barging onto someone else's site and yelling that this white woman thought this dude was being a big racist, so I ended up talking about his creepy creepy attitude to sex instead. So this review from Dan, racefail and further commentary on Lake's general skeeviness has been, in some ways, quite cathartic. Sounds like Mainspring is continuing in the general Lake tradition of fail fail fail though.

Incidentally I just re-visited the cover of this book - just because she's upside-down doesn't detract from the fact it's basically fantasy crotchshot #27362. Not that I'm blaming Lake for his cover art or anything but just ... sigh.

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Cammalot

at 21:46 on 2011-06-19"And when the main character finally crosses that wall into sub-Saharan Africa, instead of interesting cultures allowed to develop without European influence"

Does anybody write this? Seriously, could somebody direct me to a place where this exists and is well written and I can have lots of it, please? Because my beloved Jacqueline Carey kind of falls on her face on this score, Stephen Barnes demonstrates homophobia in his modern-set works that makes me afraid to try his version, and everything else I've encountered has been about subjugation and death of such culture, not flourishing, and I get enough of that on my own planet, this is supposed to be fantasy here. Basically I resort to watching a bunch of historical KBS dramas for a non Western fix.

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Cammalot

at 22:00 on 2011-06-19(Speaking of which, I always thought the girl on this cover looked far more like a cross between Choi Jung-Won and Kim Sung-Eun --heavier on the

Kim Sung-Eun

side -- than any white girl, though that still doesn't really fix its problems--still wrong ethnicity/skin tone and yeah, the crotch thing...)

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Michal

at 22:08 on 2011-06-19Imaro is your answer, Cammalot. Imaro, by Charles R. Saunders. 4 books of sub-Saharan sword & sorcery without a white person in sight.

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Cammalot

at 22:16 on 2011-06-19Fantastic. :) And again the Ferreters deliver with speed and quickness. Love this site so much...

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Arthur B

at 22:23 on 2011-06-19I've wanted to read the

Imaro

stuff ever since I read a Saunders quote saying that his main inspiration for writing the things was wanting to see a black hero who could kick Conan's ass. And goodness, the sword and sorcery subgenre direly needed one.

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http://koboldwhisperer.livejournal.com/

at 22:43 on 2011-06-19Imaro is fantastic stuff; I have a spare copy if anyone wants it, actually. It should be noted that there are two substantially different versions of the Imaro books floating around: the original Imaro book from 1981 had a section ("Slaves of the Giant-Kings") which Saunders removed from the recent reprint because it paralleled too closely the events of the Rwanda genocide and he didn't want to be seen as profiting from that tragedy. So much of the series, and the relationships of some of the characters to one another, changed subtly because of the alternate chapter he used in the reprints.

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Michal

at 22:58 on 2011-06-19

I've wanted to read the Imaro stuff ever since I read a Saunders quote saying that his main inspiration for writing the things was wanting to see a black hero who could kick Conan's ass.

Actually, Tarzan's ass.

Saunder's hasn't been too skimpy on

praising Robert E. Howard

, but with obvious reservations. Imaro is a great retort to the charge that fantasy/sword & sorcery is inherently racist, and I wish Saunders had more publishing success than he did (he's still having a bitch of a time with it).

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valse de la lune

at 18:25 on 2011-06-21I just learned from a friend that Lake wrote

Green

for his daughter. His adopted

Chinese

daughter.

Oh god no.

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Michal

at 18:40 on 2011-06-21

I just learned from a friend that Lake wrote Green for his daughter. His adopted Chinese daughter.

You're not the first person to be a bit squicked.

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valse de la lune

at 19:15 on 2011-06-21Oh, found a whole new reason to hate this book and Lake:

I enjoyed seeing the Southeast Asian-inspired part of Jay Lake’s world in the second arc.

Die in a fire.

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Wardog

at 19:48 on 2011-06-21

I just learned from a friend that Lake wrote Green for his daughter. His adopted Chinese daughter.

I believe remember reading somewhere that was part of Lake's justification for why everyone's criticisms were wrong.

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Arthur B

at 19:49 on 2011-06-21Did this justification go "I'm not racist, I allow a Chinese person to live in my home?"

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Tamara

at 20:19 on 2011-06-24My boss had us let off steam a while back by having us make a giant list of all the phrases/words/terms that we thought were sexist and wished would go away, everything from "bitch" to "soccer mom" to "I want to have your baby." I threw out "the world would be a better place if women ran it," and my boss actually vetoed it. Basically, I wonder if it might not be a generation gap to some extent - i'm 24, she's in her 50/60's. To me thats obviously a continuation of a harmful dichotomy, de-individuation of women, patronizing, etc, and she just said, "Women never have run the world, and I do think it will be a better place if more of us did." And honestly i'm not sure what to answer to that. (This is entirely tangetial to the book, I suppose, which seems to be more concerned with the possession of power than with the use of it.)

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Dan H

at 21:22 on 2011-06-24

To me thats obviously a continuation of a harmful dichotomy, de-individuation of women, patronizing, etc, and she just said, "Women never have run the world, and I do think it will be a better place if more of us did." And honestly i'm not sure what to answer to that.

I think you might have been talking at slightly cross-purposes here, from her response it's possible that she sees "if women ran the world" as being a hyperbolic way of saying "if women were as involved in running the world as men are". It might also be a generational thing, my Mum was also fond of women-are-better-than-men rhetoric.

(This is entirely tangetial to the book, I suppose, which seems to be more concerned with the possession of power than with the use of it.)

I think it ties into the same set of assumptions. Certainly one of the things that squicked me out most about Green was the fact that there was no engagement at all with the fact that the Lily Temple basically sexually abuses Green, because the assumption seemed to be that in was a female-dominated institution serving a female divinity and it was therefore *utterly impossible* for it to be harmful to individual women.

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Arthur B

at 21:33 on 2011-06-24But Dan, it's OK, Jay Lake spent several years living in the temple of an all-female child abuse cult.

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valse de la lune

at 20:48 on 2011-10-25Amazon has notified me that the sequel to this book will be out on 8 Nov.

Take one for the team, Dan? :D

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Dan H

at 22:30 on 2011-10-25

Take one for the team, Dan? :D

I think I might actually prefer to mutilate my own face.

... d'you see. Because the heroine in the book mutilates her own face...

I actually found the original so *utterly* boring that I'm not sure I could be arsed. I think my terrible-book-reviewing career is likely to be on hiatus until the conclusion of the Kingkiller chronicles (because having read two thirds of the damned thing, I'm going to *have* to finish that fucker).

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Robinson L

at 18:30 on 2013-05-11According to a recent post in a fiction group I'm part of, Jay Lake has recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. That's pretty grim.

#Ferretbrain #Green #Jay Lake #Minority Warrior #Fantasy Rape Watch

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