#or was that removed when they excised their divinity

[zareleonis]

are—are focalors' blue fingernails and toenails an oceanid thing and not nail polish?

[krmndng]

"Even if I were to die, my name has remained engraved on your lips like an edict."

chapter 3 angst arlebina ethel cain hi enjoy

As the sun set, its radiance was blinding. It was an emptiness, a heat that killed even more than hunger. So unusual to have such a strong sun at this time, in this exact place. Yet there sat Columbina, head tilted towards the sun. Arlecchino couldn't bear this war that was unfolding, how she took and played, leaving pride behind, pursuing and chasing the maiden. Is this how people feel with her? So unpredictable? Arlecchino had stripped and torn away any impurity from her existence that would make her imperfect in Columbina's eyes. She excised her past, reinvented her future, shattered her plans, crushed them if possible. She had consumed herself in a fire, burned and wearied from loving in silence.

She shouldn't care. Stay strong and alert, Arlecchino, keep your heart cold. You could murder Columbina at this very moment and end this melancholy and suffering that leaves you with red eyes, marks your dark circles, and leaves you trembling. Because now you are prey, not the hunter, before someone who is nothing but the embodiment of an angel on Earth. She felt trapped in this masochism of adoring Columbina. Offering her devotion beneath her knees, feeling her hands tremble after repeating each prayer. The knave was a woman through and through, but when it came to Columbina, she was nothing but a desolate girl seeking a savior. She loved her so much that she hated her, loved her so much that she felt nauseous, loved her so much that she had lost herself but was willing to remove all her organs, everything that made her human if it meant that Columbina would feel a little happier.

"Let me love you, Columbina," she whispered, anger clenched in her fists and eyes red from holding back tears. Crying made her cheeks burn, and there was something delicious and sweet in all the migraine that Columbina caused her. Why does The Knave endure all this, she wonders, why does she persist? Just by getting a little closer, just a little closer, to remember why she considers her as her goddess. Hair as soft as silk, skin snowy and smooth, long eyelashes and eyes never fully open, her small stature making her a proper porcelain doll. There could be no other explanation; she was a doll created by the heavens, for who else could explain the masterpiece that was her delicate hands? How her hair, even when disheveled, fell perfectly into place? How even her clothes, even her eyes, complemented each other angelically? And Arlecchino, a sinner, dared to even call her his own? Oh, Columbina was plotting something more.

Arlecchino didn't realize how much the heat had overwhelmed her, as she collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. It seemed as if she were on the brink of death, head bowed, trying to gather as much air as possible. A hand reached out and grabbed her chin, positioning itself in front of her. The sun beat against Columbina's back, and the wind began to howl louder. The damsel remained motionless in front of Arlecchino for several minutes. Arlecchino finally erupted, starting to whimper and cough, kneeling before Columbina.

"You are not mine. And I will never, NEVER be yours," Columbina declared, seizing Arlecchino's neck, biting until it drew blood. With blood smeared on her lips, she proceeded to plant kiss after kiss on her face, as if they were stabs in Arlecchino's heart. How could The Knave long so much for a woman, long so much for a concept, for a goddess, and after giving her complete loyalty, the goddess offered divine punishment? Asking her to be hers was selfish, fine; Columbina could now take as much blood as she desired from Arlecchino. As long as she didn't speak of this event, as long as she didn't take advantage and trample on her pride, as long as she finally gave her that gentle love she had promised so much, that was enough for Arlecchino. But if the damsel continued to play games with Arlecchino, she might just drive a sharp knife into her neck.

"Take what you want. Take but do not humiliate me any further." "Why should a small sapling dictate how an ancient tree should be ordered? Why should I follow what you say, Arlecchino?" "You look…" Arlecchino let out a whimper, his face flushing. "Extraordinarily beautiful." "You too, sweet rose." Finally, Columbina planted a kiss on Arlecchino's lips. She plunged her tongue into Arlecchino's mouth and allowed herself to savor the nectar Arlecchino offered. Tears began to flow from The Knave's cheeks. "I love you, Arlecchino."

Arlecchino froze. Her heart stopped beating for a moment, and her hands began to tremble. Her vision blurred from so many tears. But this kind of love is not unconditional; it is a love whose only drive is desire, is melancholy, and savoring the other's suffering. She liked it, she liked it. To be consumed by someone, to feel inferior and to hell with all the reputation that people assigned her, to be possessed by Columbina felt great. But she must eventually set the rules of who was in charge.

The knave believed in her naivety that she would be able to bear such a burden. They had been doing this for a year, "loving each other in secret." They had spent a year where the roles were reversed, where Columbina no longer had to pretend to be submissive and obedient, where if she could, she could steal and devour Arlecchino's heart right in front of her, spit on it, and trample it as much as possible. They had spent a year of constant escapades, constant lies to the public, of seeing each other in secret and pretending and keeping this secret from the tsarina and all the Fatui. How did they get wrapped up in this? How did Arlecchino, thinking she would have Columbina eating out of the palm of her hand, end up worse than a prisoner tied to a lifelong sentence?

That would be Arlecchino's lifelong sentence. To love Columbina. To love how she uses her, how she only drinks her blood, loves… But the line is becoming increasingly blurred, her patience is wearing thin, that weapon looks more tempting, she feels more and more that she must immortalize poor Columbina. She can't bear so much contempt for herself, she can't bear to betray her ambitious side and her values. She has decided, and she will do it just as she killed her mother. She will kill Columbina.

It should be noted that this did not happen. But she plunged the cold knife into Columbina's abdomen, staining all the white clothes that covered her with a deep dark crimson. Arlecchino couldn't keep a clear mind, trying to speak to her more rational side, or perhaps the voices persuaded her. Even the souls that haunt her so much felt compassion for her. There she was, hand with a weapon in hand, pupils dilated, biting her lips. Columbina did nothing but smile at Arlecchino and utter:

"Even if I were to die, my name has remained engraved in your lips like a commandment. And there is only one you must follow, not to fall in love with anyone but me."

"Repeat it and I will plunge this knife into your jugular." She leaned back to attack once more, but—

"Am I lying? Live with that sentence. Look for me in as many women as you find possible, but you won't find me anywhere." The damsel mocked Arlecchino, and with a swift movement, she suddenly dissapeared from the scene. Leaving a blood trail, left unfinished.

[the-composer]

When he Ascended, he’d wanted more than anything to excise his humanity from his Soul’s composition. He’d been convinced that part of him would be left in the ashes of his death from which he rose, anew. But for a demigod, that’s not the case.

His humanity represented everything that was wrong with his life and broken inside him. The last thing he wanted was to tote that baggage into the afterlife. It was a second chance, but not necessarily a clean slate. What the Composer couldn’t carve out of him, he’d bury. What he couldn’t bury, he’d doggedly disregard. Simply pretend it didn’t exist — which would prove much harder than he thought when the novelty of being a veritable god wore off and all the afflictions of Yoshiya crept back in. The mental malaise, the distorted thinking, unstable emotions, loneliness, the ennui —

His human half is weak. Inefficient. Disruptive. Messy. It forcefully reminded him how to dread, ache, and cry.

To cope, he had to develop resilience through spiritual evolution by harnessing his divinity enough for the two warring divions to co-exist. 

He didn’t get there on his own. Most of the progress was catalyzed by others, and by learning to love, and to trust, and lean into those to be vulnerable in a way he never could as a human.

The human embodiment known as Yoshiya was finally accepted by Joshua and assimilated. In spite of his neuroses and, he’d go on to build an empire that’s unrivaled by anything the Higher Plane had ever seen. Ironically, it’s that pesky humanity that set him apart and lended itself to much of his success in relating to those he served.

It’s yet to be proven that a Composer’s existence is interminable, or invincible for that matter. Shibuya’s Composier is on record as one of the longest standing, but the Higher Plane could remove any Composer at any given time. If Shibuya’s Composer wished to rule without that looming fear, transformative changes needed to be made.

The second Ascension came as a surprise; it was premeditated but not by Joshua, not like his initial choice to cross over. With the aid of his disciple, he climbed the ladder to the stars, reaching the apex of his consciousness — fully apotheosized.

Strangely, it didn’t feel much different. It didn’t feel like anything. He didn’t feel anything. He could hear, see, and comprehend everything outside of himself, but inside it’s utter silence. Did he finally lose it — what made him human?

Ironically, it terrified him. It hit hard. There was a period of deep irreconcilable panic that he couldn’t describe, much less rationalize. What he’d wanted for so long…

The epiphany is profound. Joshua realizes that it’s his humanity that made him special. His human emotions allowed him to feel trust and love, to be open and be seen and change for the better.

If his human side disappeared, what would that leave him? A God that could no longer relate, that could no longer care, and most importantly could no longer be with them, be among them, be human.

He searched and searched and searched until he found his truth:

You will never be human again. That part of you is gone. There is no going back, which will hurt and must be grieved. But —

Your humanity is ingrained in you. There’s a difference between being a human and possessing humanity. That is what makes you special. That is what makes you an exceptional Composer, and a God to be lauded.

The fact you even feared such a thing speaks to how deserving you are. You will always belong to your people, and you don’t have to give up a shred of your humanity to be with them. You have lost nothing you haven't been ready to release and gained more than you ever imagined you'd ever hold. Congratulations, Yoshiya Joshua Kiryu ~

[umbiedecoder]

Just read your post on the omen bros, but aw man!

Did you know that there's certain items - namely the Crucible Set - that certain aspects(likethe horns) were once considered a blessing? But as time went on, such things became reviled...

Now, look at the Crucible Knights... Some wield magical tails. Others summon golden wings.

Now look at Morgott and Mohg... Tail... Wings.

Morgott has these abnormal stubs on his back that jut out. Makes you wonder if he had wings himself. And if he did, what became of them.

Were they cut in battle? Did he cut them himself?

... And then you look at Morgott. How he is after that battle: a shriveled husk who looks as though he'd been dead for years.

Absent his horns and tail.

And then you remember how these features were once considered a blessing. And he'd been robbed of it. Reviled for it. When really, it... To me at least, showed that he was, arguably, for lack of any better words(and because I'm a Morgott simp) divine... Beautiful.

And, imo, same with Mohg... 🥺🥺

TYSM FOR POINTING THIS OUT I DIDNT EVEN CONSIDER THE CRUCIBLE KNIGHTS!!! that’s actually so smart, there is definitely a connection between the omens and the crucible, i’ll go read the armor lore when i’m done writing

so i actually thought about the wings recently, and my friend billie and me talked about how it’s very likely Morgott clipped his own wings, which is :( my man needs a break

also you’re 100% right, i think how i phrased his horns (and tail) being excised as a blessing wasn’t the right description, it definitely was a removal of what made him divine (and what looks good on him). the erdtree/greater will isn’t a merciful god, they wouldn’t give Morgott the ability to hear from Godfrey one last time if they aren’t going to take something away from him

[kendrixtermina]

(hours of saturn)

The time was now 10 p.m., the fourth hour of Saturn on the day of Saturn, the hour most suitable for experiments of hatred, enmity and discord.

These are the dark hours,

the wretched hours,

the pocket hells that won’t tick by

First hour:

It takes a village to make a monster

It takes knives, and serpents, and bat-wings shrouding skulls,

long, sharp-nailed hag’s fingers picking at the last of the flesh.

It takes long lineages of misshapen creatures breeding,

until finally, some critical mass of insect-parts

accumulates inside the genes,

and all flow into one soul as the river reach the seas.

It takes one lilly-white halo-crowned promise

under whose divine sheets throbs the residue of blood.

It takes the sin of the entire populace,

put on the horns of one goat.

It takes a night-dark path made of nothing but knotted dark trees,

the densest old-growth of the soul

It takes sharp hooks and rusty nails,

and gray, engulfing slabs of concrete, closing where once was a path.

It takes whatever it does take to count one’s blessings,

and figure that one’s best bet is to walk straight into the darkness,

and never come back out.

It takes a box with contents so repulsive,

that even man’s ape-like desperation for the bonding

cannot keep me from rejecting its like,

what had been put in here with me.

What pressed against my flesh:

I will not miss you at all.

I would not miss any one of them,

taking turns in their laughter,

mocking, rending endlessly,

picking at the soul with a thousand daily cuts.

Of course they came for me:

I know first from day one I was branded monster

Second hour:

You have caught the attention of something truly evil.

And this is truly where it all began,

but it is only comprehensible in hindsight.

Here lies the space that one always returns to.

Here lies, of my innocence, its grave.

I am no Zeus;

I will not escape him who comes to devour me.

I have no such hope or pretense.

Grand his careless hands do pull at me,

bestially he earts of my gore.

I am in a sense covering my eyes,

so I do not see him chewing at my bits,

no I do not think too hard about the parts forever swallowed,

searing in awareness.

Pain and humiliation.

And fear,

and the truth of insects,

man’s hollow carapace nature

how easily I splattered,

and

the fakeness of all love,

as awful a thing as any,

if this is what he names it.

Therein hangs the unicorm flayed,

inside the butchery,

from broken horn excised the ivory

best not to grow it again,

lest future elephants be yet more targeted for their tusks

best to die easily,

than to endure chained torment still living,

still caught writhing to keep fresh,

to treasure the bits to remove them as will,

after all no one loves cattle more than burger king.

All my existence but for your amusement.

Eternal state of hell, pressed tight on me,

when I was most malleable,

and now I’m hardened and crumbling -!

All the times that I wished I could break through the roof of that house,

leaving it all scattered to rubble in make.

And all the very rot,

that becknows you closer in the coziest of setting,

with the storybook in hand,

the very face of death.

Third hour:

Yet it was still possible to survive in such a place,

just as he proudly proclaimed it.

Living under the shadow of the stone monument of index finger.

To crawln forth malformed under a sun forever eclipsed

to flutter, in your entirety,

into some nondescript silhouette of organs and ornaments,

articulations of a missasembled doll haunting the dark,

void of the light that would have allowed for

any proper orientation of the parts.

Discarded the bits,

heaped the gore up at the bottom of the grand machine

flesh shapen as cut city trees,

as carefully curated bonsais,

pruned and clipped into shape.

It is possible for an insufficient growth to come out an orb rather than a fetus,

with no senses to take in and no limbs with which to act,

It is possible to grasp the pretty porcellain,

even if the heirloom cups have come wrapped in barbed wire.

it is possible to wallpaper over a wide space filled with lamb guts,

and livers,

just enough that it doesn’t spill to total madness.

Or not yet.

It is possible to mold a body into rudiments sticking out

from nothing other than a portal-maw of pain.

It is possible to offer the heart,

excised upon a cushion,

to be spared what would have happened with the rest of the mummy.

The flesh orb lives,

the umbilical cord still attached.

And yes, it’s very grateful for its goddamn iron lung.

Fourth Hour:

I was left a scrambled doll with its clothes ripped and its head plucked off

I was left a trail of blood coming from the cracked skull

of a corpse reduced to bones,

all its juice absorbed into the gilded cage of a luxuriant room.

I was left an assortment of blades poking out of my body;

I was left with a soul made of thorns and sharp spikes.

I was left, undefeated,

as a mutilated corpse pinned on pikes and trees,

tortured to the utmost for what its seared lips refused to confess.

I was left the equivalent of a barren, poisined landscape,

the cracked dry earth,

the oil-slicks and black air,

and worst of all the memory of a paradise that could have been.

I was left with deep red marks,

of where the fetters dug into my flesh,

my back still stooped, though I long have lived in freedom.

Perfectly functional eyes kept blind,

because there was no light in my earliest days of seeing.

A one-time face reduced

to a bloody mass of bandage,

but for the mouth pulled open by means of industrial torment.

The factory of death

I was left wondering,

just how anyone finds closeness when violence is so near to it

Wrath is the desire to repay what you have suffered.

What could be more natural?

What mercy am I to have?

To prove I’ll do it when he won’t?

All things considered,

that sounds alltogether convenient for him.

I think not.

To him, any offense to me was a nothing,

not worth remembering.

I will not do that to myself on top of his own scorn.

I did not betray myself.

This, at least, I keep.

Oh, thank you hatred!

I love you, hatred!

Let me suck its dick or clit

and get me pregnant with its baby

let it give me stretch marks and diabetes

Just imagine, if I did not hate the source of this;

Imagine if I didn’t rage

at the memory of being humiliated and degraded

I imagine if I did not grieve what was done to me.

I could imagine nothing worse.

Thank god for hatred,

and if it’s not god’s work,

then thank Satan!

[nycannabistimes]

#Repost @nysmallfarma ・・・ Happy Presidents Day NY, I know we are preaching to the choir but just in case there is anyone out there who has not found their hymnal just yet.... Potency has somewhat to do with THC but it is far from the whole story. The terpenes present, which ones, in what amount, and in what ratio has a whole lot to do with it as well. There are over 400 chemicals in a cannabis plant and more than 100 are cannabinoids. THC is 1 of them. One. One. THC is a snapshot of what is present in cannabis from a chemical perspective. THC percentage has nothing to do with the quality of your weed, and is also a poor indicator of potency. If that were not problematic enough, the current potency tax is based on weight. WEIGHT! There are no regulations when it comes to testing THC in labs and results can vary widely. Most importantly it continues to perpetuate lies about this plant. To focus solely on THC content not only does not guarantee a better high, but it robs the consumer of the full, well-rounded experience that different types of cannabis can offer. Allowing this tax to stand will kill the industry, mislead the consumer, and continue propaganda about this divine plant. Senator Cooney's bill S4831 fixes this wrong. It removes potency tax and utilizes a more realistic excise tax to support the Cannabis Reinvestment Fund. Go to the link in our bio and click Aye in support of this bill and better yet, call your local Senator and Assemblymember and tell them to support it as well! Thank you Senator Cooney. #shinebrightasyou #bethesunshine #sungrownregenerativecannabis #nysungrownregenerative #itsallabouttheterps (at Washington Heights) https://www.instagram.com/p/Co47pvbOEHT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[hawkepockets]

delicious treats below the cut again.

i’m once more pasting from discord so apologies for the rambling nature.

TIL satyrs have elf lifespans so terpsichore is older than she looks. i’d say like. nowhere near halsin or astarion’s age, she hasn’t reached the point of accepting other races’ mortality or being content with living slowly but she’s lived like half a century

& her last mission for the enclave was to enter into a fake (legally real) marriage with a baldurian patriar who was suspected of shar worship, gain his trust, find prove he was sharran, assassinate him if she could or tip off the selûnites if his EVIL POWER was too strong or he had a lot of sharran allies right

except she fell in love. t4t obv i feel like i dont even need to say it at this point. and yes he was guilty of shar worship but he had no ambitions of becoming a dark justiciar, no interest in CAUSING loss or spreading suffering. he had a liberal take on shar’s teachings that was all about the stages of grief and the sacredness of loss and how to differentiate between painful memories that cause u to learn, and those that can only fester and are better off excised. studying the house of grief’s methods but also regular medicine. like. a devout sharran and a good man and not in a contradictory way

she kept delaying her return to the selûnites with various excuses but when *years* passed it strained belief, and the enclave began to send acolytes to make sure she was ok, and then to pressure her with divine magic. she got outed as a selûnite spy to her husband who was sickened by the realization—not bc he was particularly intolerant, but bc of the danger to his community she represented & the foundational lie of their relationship. they fought, but then ultimately agreed that the only thing to be done was for him to consentually erase her memories of the shar worship & the location of other sharrans so they could separate & she could return to her enclave without betraying him further by bringing that info back to his sworn enemies. and she’d be able to honestly report that there was nothing suspicious & she’d just gotten attached to the marriage and didnt want to go back to the vocation

except. he used sharran magic. and as illustrated by isobel & shadowheart’s reactions to each other, selûnite & sharran clerics can “smell” each other’s spells on others. so as soon as a cleric gets a whiff of that magic on her they assume her husband is a sharran who abducted and mindwiped her. and the selûnites burn down his house. meanwhile a healer from the enclave works on removing the block on terpsichore’s memories. just in time for her to remember what rly happened, and find his home. HER home. and their life together. in sacred flames. suffice 2 say she dropped the enclave after that and struck out on her own as an entertainer/thief using the skills they’d taught her

it took a face to face encounter with selûne herself to bring her back to the faith. a goddess can’t really be held responsible for the mistakes of all her faithful right. and she’s sooo radiant and kind. and she says if ter completes this mission for her, she will give her the power to remake the baldur’s gate enclave in a better image, with herself as high priestess, and of course selûne will forgive her dalliance with the sharran because after all, she still loves her own evil sister (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡

ter takes the job & agrees to the removal of any memories that might interfere with her purpose. again :-) and naturally that includes the crisis of faith & years of wandering off the moonlit path

and maybe there was a child she wanted to raise independent of the selûnites but forgot when she accepted the mission………… shadowheart has to remember her parents & terpsichore has to remember her child??? foils? foils

OOH. i think i know what happened to terpsichore 😈😈

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Confronting our antisemitism during Holy Week

“Jesus of Nazareth, charged by the Roman authorities with sedition, dies on a Roman cross. But Jews ― the collective, all Jews ― become known as "Christ-killers." Still haunting, the legacy of that charge becomes acute during Holy Week, when pastors and priests who speak about the death of Jesus have to talk about "the Jews." Every year, the same difficulty surfaces: how can a gospel of love be proclaimed, if that same gospel is heard to promote hatred of Jesus's own people?”

- Professor Amy-Jill Levine

___________________________

Holy Week is here, so I thought I’d remind myself and other Christians that it is imperative to resist antisemitic interpretations of Jesus’s Passion.

Holy Week has long been a dangerous time of the year for Jewish persons (See this article for the history of antisemitic hate crimes on Good Friday in medieval Europe, for instance). And the scriptures that we choose to read in our churches during this time fuels that antisemitism not only this week, but the whole year round. 

When our Gospels’ various versions of the Passion narrative are full of inflammatory language about “The Jews” shouting “Crucify him!,” about the disciples (despite being Jewish themselves!) hiding away “for fear of the Jews,” it’s no wonder that we absorb an antisemitic message when we read those scriptures every year -- especially when we aren’t given any guidance on the context as to why these texts were written this way or what to do about it.

So. How can we acknowledge and combat the antisemitism that has too long been entrenched in our communities?

________________

RESOURCES

First, let’s get educated on the basic facts about antisemitism in Holy Week’s typical scriptures, and alternatives to concluding that “the Jews killed Jesus”:

Article: “Who are ‘The Jews’ in John?” .

See this article from My Jewish Learning - “Who Killed Jesus?” .

You might like my sermon from last Palm Sunday that discusses antisemitism in the “triumphal entry” narrative and connects it to the perennial search for someone to blame when we feel afraid or helpless, including parallels to anti-Asian sentiments in this pandemic .

See also Jon M. Sweeney’s book: Jesus Wasn’t Killed by the Jews: Reflections for Christians in Lent

Next, let’s reimagine the stories we read during Holy Week in ways that don’t do harm to our Jewish neighbors! Replace the bad with good!

I most highly recommend Jewish scholar Amy-Jill Levine’s book Entering the Passion of Jesus: A Beginner’s Guide to Holy Week. .

Get a summary of and link to a pdf of her chapter on Palm Sunday and the “cleansing of the temple” (Jesus flipping tables) here .

And if reading a whole book isn’t your thing, Levine also has a video series where she talks about the Passion story -- here’s the first video, just 9 minutes long

This quote from Levine in this article sums up the purpose of her scholarship as a whole:

“A number of Christian commentators feel the need to make Judaism look bad in order to make Jesus look good. Instead of portraying Jesus as a Jew talking to other Jews, he becomes in their views the first Christian, the one who invented divine grace, mercy, and love, and all that other good stuff. Such views neglect the presence of these same virtues within Jesus’ own Jewish context. There should be no reason this Jewish Jesus is used to promote anti-Judaism.”

Finally, if you only have time for one resource, make it this article:

“Holy Week and the hatred of the Jews: How to avoid anti-Judaism this Easter,” also written by Amy-Jill Levine.

In this article, Levine describes how the anti-Jewish language got into the Gospels to begin with; how interfaith conversations today help stem the tide of antisemitism; and explores and ranks the 6 strategies Levine has seen people use when trying to resolve these problems with the New Testament. .

From least useful to most useful, she names these strategies as excision (just removing the problematic stuff and pretending it was never there); retranslation (changing up the way we translate problematic texts, such as changing “the Jews” to “Judeans”); romanticizing (this includes Christians holding their own Passover seders -- read this part of the article to see why we should Not Do That); allegorizing; historicizing; and, best of all, just admitting the problem:

“We come finally to our sixth option: admit to the problem and deal with it. There are many ways congregations can address the difficult texts. Put a note in service bulletins to explain the harm the texts have caused. Read the problematic texts silently, or in a whisper. Have Jews today give testimony about how they have been hurt by the texts.

Those who proclaim the problematic verses from the pulpit might imagine a Jewish child sitting in the front pew and take heed: don’t say anything that would hurt this child, and don’t say anything that would cause a member of the congregation to hurt this child. Better still: educate the next generation, so that when they hear the problematic words proclaimed, they have multiple contexts - theological, historical, ethical - by which to understand them.

Christians, hearing the Gospels during Holy Week, should no more hear a message of hatred of Jews than Jews, reading the Book of Esther on Purim, should hate Persians, or celebrating the seder and reliving the time when “we were slaves in Egypt,” should hate Egyptians.

We choose how to read. After two thousand years of enmity, Jews and Christians today can recover and even celebrate our common past, locate Jesus and his earliest followers within rather than over and against Judaism, and live into the time when, as both synagogue and church proclaim, we can love G-d and our neighbour.��

___________

What do you think? 

Do you have more questions you’re wrestling with? more ideas on how to actually deal with our antisemitism, in Holy Week and beyond? more resources on this topic you’d like to share?

[thegreenwolf]

Today's reading is with my Pocket Osteomancy set!

Tooth: The Tooth in Spring suggests that now is a really good time to figure out how to separate the wheat from the chaff. If you're going to start a new cycle in your life (even if it's just a small change) you want to be able to shuck off anything that you don't need or that will be holding you back. Don't be chaotic about it, though; instead, be deliberate and mindful. Chase away thoughts of sentimentality for its own sake, but also don't excise things you enjoy just because you want to remove dead weight. You want to go for quality, not quantity.

Vertebra: Here in Summer, the Vertebra urges us to focus on growth and maintain what is strong and supportive. Hand-in hand with what the Tooth says, if something is working well, don't get rid of it! Be cautious about changing things that are already pretty functional, too. You don't want to upset the balance and lose a good resource. Instead, let any changes to what supports you be done in such a way that if a change doesn't work, you can just undo it and go back to the way things were before you try something else new.

Rib: This bone is also in Summer, with the Vertebra directly on top of it. As the other bones so far have suggested, it's best to let practicality take precedence over emotions right now. It's not that you aren't allowed to feel things, but don't let those feelings direct your decisions. Instead, find a safe space to work through your emotions and really examine how they motivate you so that they don't come up from underneath and sabotage your efforts by blinding you to the reality of things.

Long Bone: This bone is in Fall, just about to head into Winter. Your end goal in all this activity should be to prepare for hard times ahead, even if they aren't exactly on the horizon. The more streamlined your life is, the more agile you'll be and therefore the more able to adapt to changes as they happen. Sometimes that means having to weather difficulties; however, it also means being able to grab hold of new positive opportunities as they arise.

Overview: This reading is focused on preparing for the future, and making sure that you're able to respond to changes as they occur. By relieving yourself of the burden of things (physical and otherwise) you no longer need or, worse, weight you down, you're going to do yourself a huge favor on a lot of levels. Better yet, that opens up space for good new things to come into your life, or at the very least make you less cumbersome when you're responding to challenges. Just don't let your emotions panic you into tossing away good things or hanging onto unhealthy ones that you're too attached to. Be kind to yourself and your heart, but act practically.

You can order the Pocket Osteomancy divination set and book at http://thegreenwolf.com/books/pocket-osteomancy/ and you can get a Pocket Osteomancy reading at http://www.thegreenwolf.com/readings/– and yes, even if you don’t have a Paypal account you CAN use the Paypal option to pay with a debit or credit card!

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 2: To Morrowind

summary Fahjoth's prison sentence comes to an end and he is released mere weeks after the loss of his twin, Ribyna. But his liberation isn't unconditional — at the whim of the Emperor he finds himself loaded onto a boat, with his stressful departure from the Imperial City exacerbated by the strange dreams he has been suffering.

content warnings none explicit for this chapter

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

     —————————————————————————————

“Each Event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the Hero, there is no Event.” 

                                  - Zurin Arctus, the Underking

                                  ———————————————

“Fahjoth Vetharys?”

In the fog of exhaustion and sorrow that clouded his mind, Fahjoth hadn’t noticed the prison guards stopping outside his cell until they spoke his name. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re to come with us. Emperor’s orders.”

More orders from the Emperor himself...

Fahjoth should have been surprised, but these days he barely felt anything other than morose. Ever since Ribyna was taken away, Fahjoth had felt as if someone had ripped off one of his own arms. Lost and in mourning, it had been hard to eat and even harder to sleep. 

And the precious few hours of sleep he managed to attain were plagued with nightmares — of burning, ashen wastelands, of rising crescent moons, of walking corpses and of demonic figures with gleaming scarlet eyes. 

So it was without protest that Fahjoth got to his feet, allowed his wrists to be restrained, and walked willingly and in silence alongside the prison guards, who escorted him out of the prison and away from the Imperial City itself. 

The procession was odd, but Fahjoth couldn’t care enough to question it. Maybe they had decided he was guilty after all, and it was time for him to follow his twin to whichever gallows they deigned to hang him from. 

Fahjoth almost smiled at the thought. 

Perhaps that would be a relief. 

                                  ———————————————

The dark haze dissipated, revealing a barren land under siege from a storm of dust and ash. Vivid red clouds churned overhead, bathing the scene in a vibrant crimson glow. A voice, wispy and echoing, was clear even over the howling of the wind. 

                 They have taken you from the Imperial City’s prison, 

                        first by carriage and now by boat, to the east. 

                                             To Morrowind.

Blackened trees, their branches naked and as sharp as spears, swayed and whipped in the wind, while jagged rocks stood fast and unyielding against the storm. 

                                   Fear not, for I am watchful.

The red skies suddenly vanished, replaced by heavy blue storm clouds that flashed with blinding light as thunder cracked and roared overhead. 

                                    You have been chosen.

The rain was deafening, almost as loud as the thunder as it smashed the water’s glassy surface and distorted the reflection of the moon and stars overhead, scattering shards of light into the darkness.

“Wake up. We’re here. Why are you shaking? Are you okay? ... Wake up!” 

When Fahjoth opened his eyes, it took a few seconds before he was able to fully register his surroundings. He was below the decks of a wooden boat, the walls and floors of which creaked as it rocked steadily on whatever body of water it was currently stationed. As he tried to process the confusing blur of images and voices that had composed his dreams — were they his dreams, or something else entirely? — he flinched as he finally noticed that he wasn’t alone. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger apologised. Fahjoth merely blinked; the last thing he had been expecting to wake up and see was a blatantly shirtless and very well-muscled Dunmer, but before he could even think of a response, his travel mate had grabbed his arm and was hauling Fahjoth to his feet. “Stand up... there you go. You were dreaming, by the looks of it. You’ve been out cold since we left the mainland. What's your name?”

“Uh— Fahjoth,” Fahjoth answered, feeling very slow and stupid as his head spun. The ache in his temples wasn’t helping matters at all, but the other Mer didn’t seem to be judging him. 

“Jiub,” the Dunmer, Jiub, introduced himself. He began to brush a few strands of straw from Fahjoth’s back and shoulders as he talked. “Well, not even last night's storm could wake you. I heard them say we've reached Morrowind, I'm sure they'll let us go." 

“I don’t even remember—“ Fahjoth started, only to freeze and falter as Jiub’s words sank in. “Morrowind?” he repeated, feeling a spark of recollection. “That’s what— did you hear her too?”

Jiub raised a scarred brow, and so Fahjoth continued. “There was a woman, I think, I heard her, and she said— she said we were going to Morrowind. And... something else...” The harder he tried to remember, the worse his headache got and he rubbed his forehead with frustration. The memories were trickling away faster than water from a cupped hand. 

“You must‘ve dreamt it,” Jiub said. “Whatever you were dreaming about, it looked intense.” He cut himself off abruptly as the sound of footsteps reached them, gradually growing louder as whoever they belonged to approached. “Quiet, here comes the guard. Just do what they ask of you and you’ll be alright.”

Fahjoth opened his mouth to reply, to stutter another question, to ask if Jiub had any idea what was going on — but Jiub raised a finger to his lips, signalling for quiet, and Fahjoth’s voice died in his throat. Instead he was silent as the guard, decked out in extravagant Imperial-style armour, led him above decks and out into the open air. 

Blinking in the sudden harsh daylight, with a fine drizzle hitting his face from the moment he stepped outside, Fahjoth was momentarily stunned. Though he hadn’t set foot here in many years, this land was unmistakable, with the sounds and visuals stirring memories that Fahjoth had long since forgotten he even had. Jiub was right; they had arrived in Morrowind. Where in Morrowind they were, Fahjoth wasn’t exactly sure. It wasn’t anywhere he could put a name to, but the terrain was familiar to what he remembered seeing while growing up — a whole sixteen or so years ago, before he and Ribyna had left for Cyrodiil. 

An echoing cry suddenly rent the air, and Fahjoth felt his heart jolt as more memories came flooding back, one by one. Turning his head towards the sound, he gasped as he spotted the unmistakable silhouette of a silt strider, barely visible through the misty wall of rain. He almost smiled; the nostalgia was hitting him in waves, and for a moment he was so overwhelmed that he completely forgot about his current predicament. That was, until he felt the manacles removed from his wrists by the guard, who then gave Fahjoth his instructions for where to go, pointing down to a building sitting near the shoreline. 

With Jiub’s words in mind Fahjoth walked down to the building, where a guard opened the door to let him in. Fahjoth was burning with questions; why was he in Morrowind? Had he been deported? What was going to happen to him now? The anxieties that came with facing the unknown began to niggle at the back of his mind, and it was with hesitation that Fahjoth crossed into the warm, dimly-lit office. 

He barely had time to survey his surroundings before an elderly man called him forward. “Over here, please,” he said, his gaze fixed on Fahjoth as he approached. “Welcome to the Seyda Neen Census and Excise Office. Now, you’ll have to be recorded before you’re officially released, and I need to confirm your identity as well. Are you ready?”

Can someone just tell me what the fuck is going on?! Fahjoth wanted to cry, but when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was a meek “Yes sir.” 

“Very good. Now, you have come to us from the Imperial City Prison, yes?”

“Yessir.”

“And you are Vetharys?”

“Yessir.”

“Fahjoth Vetharys, yes?”

“Yessir.”

Fahjoth’s brows twitched in bemusement as the man let out a sigh of obvious relief. “Thank the divines for that,” he huffed. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble we’ve had getting you here. Confusion and incompetence everywhere... No matter, you’re here now. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Vetharys, my name is Socucius Ergalla.” He held his hand out towards Fahjoth, who gave it a tentative shake with his own. “Alright, if you could just sign your name on that parchment there, I’ll get these papers stamped and we can finish processing you.” 

Fahjoth turned to look at the table with dread, where sure enough, a scrap of parchment and a quill sat waiting. The last thing he wanted to admit was how much trouble he had with reading and writing, especially when there was so much else going on that he was uncertain of. He wandered over, picked up the quill loosely in one hand and lowered it to the parchment, grimacing as he produced an ugly blot of ink and a completely illegible scribble. Hoping that it would suffice anyway, he placed the quill back inside the inkpot and faced Ergalla again. 

“Sir? Mr Ergalla?” he started, wringing his hands nervously. “I... I really don’t know what’s going on, or what I’m doing here. Nobody’s told me nothing.”

“Not to worry,” Ergalla replied heartily. “You‘ll be receiving a letter that should explain everything. Right.” He held out the papers he had been writing on to Fahjoth, who did not feel reassured in the slightest as he took them. “Take these to Sellus Gravius, just down the hall and in the next room. You can’t miss him. He’ll handle the rest for you.” 

With a forced smile and murmur of thanks, Fahjoth dipped his head and followed Ergalla’s directions, feeling the knot of worry in his stomach tighten and weigh more heavily than ever. Sure enough an Imperial was waiting for him, his expression surly as he watched Fahjoth come through the doorway. 

“Your papers,” he said, his voice as stern as his face as he held out his hand expectantly. Fahjoth handed them over without question, waiting as the guard briefly read over them. Then, seemingly satisfied, he spoke again. “Thank you. Word of your arrival only reached me yesterday. I am Sellus Gravius. I'm here to welcome you to Morrowind."

Morrowind... Fahjoth nodded his thanks, but he couldn’t hold his questions any longer. “Thanks... I... I don’t suppose you know what I’m doing here, d’you? I don’t have a clue why I was brought here, nobody’s explained anything to me.” 

Gravius’ expression was grim. “I’m afraid I don't know why you're here. Or why you were released from prison and shipped here. But I can tell you that, according to my instructions, the authorisation for your release came directly from Emperor Uriel Septim VII himself.” 

Fahjoth had to force himself to focus on Gravius following this bombshell, his mind whirling once again. “When you leave this office, you’re a free man,” Gravius continued. “But before you go, I have instructions on your duties. Instructions from the Emperor. So pay careful attention."

It was all too much to process. So not only was he now a free man, after years spent wasting away in prison, his release had been authorised by the Emperor himself? What would the Emperor stand to gain by personally releasing a nobody like him — to Morrowind, of all places? 

“I— it’s a lot to take in,” Fahjoth said, apologetic for his dazed state. He could only be thankful — and somewhat surprised — that Gravius was being so patient. 

“I understand. It's all very mysterious. But that's the way the Empire works. Silence. Secrecy. Let not the left hand know what the right hand is doing. Anyway.” He peered at Fahjoth with scrutiny. “Are you ready for your instructions?”

Swallowing, Fahjoth nodded. “I suppose so.” 

“Excellent.” Gravius turned his back on Fahjoth for a moment, standing before a nearby table. When he turned back again, he was holding a package and a roll of parchment. "This package came with the news of your arrival. Well— it actually came a few weeks ago, with the prisoner who was accidentally brought here before you. What a mess that was...” Before Fahjoth could inquire, Gravius continued on. “Anyway, you’re to take it to Caius Cosades, in the town of Balmora. Go to the South Wall Cornerclub, and ask for Caius Cosades — they'll know where to find him. Serve him as you would serve the Emperor himself. I also have a letter for you, and a disbursal to your name."

“A letter...?” Fahjoth’s heart sank as his eyes fell on the rolled-up parchment, and his cheeks burned as he was finally forced to come clean. “I... I can’t really read properly. Not very well, anyway.” 

“I see.” If Gravius was judging him, he hid it well. He passed the package to Fahjoth, then once his hands were free he took the parchment, unfurled it and lay it down on the nearest surface. He gestured for Fahjoth to stand beside him, and once he complied Gravius began to read aloud, trailing his finger over the words so that Fahjoth could keep up. 

          “Fahjoth Vetharys,

        You have been given these directions and a package of documents. Do not show them to anyone. Do not attempt to read the documents in the package. The package has been sealed, and your tampering will be discovered and punished.

        Follow these directions.

        Proceed to the town of Balmora in Vvardenfell District. Report to a man named Caius Cosades. He will be your superior and patron; you will follow his orders. His residence is not known, but ask at the cornerclub called "South Wall". People there will know where to find Caius Cosades. When you report to Caius Cosades, deliver the package of documents to him, and wait for further orders.

        Remember. You owe your life and freedom to the Emperor. Serve him well, and you will be rewarded. Betray him, and you will suffer the fate of all traitors.

        I have the Honor to prepare this at the direction of his Most Sovereign Majesty the Emperor Uriel Septim,

        Glabrio Bellienus

        Personal Secretary to the Emperor.”

Fahjoth tried his hardest to commit the instructions to memory, focusing on the most important parts with as much mental energy as he could muster in his confused state. He then took the parchment, thanking Gravius with a polite smile as he was given directions for how to get to Balmora. It felt odd, having to ask how to find his way to his own childhood hometown, but after spending so many years away from it, Fahjoth wouldn’t have the faintest idea of which way to go to get there. It was then time to leave. 

He headed out through the office doors and stood for a moment to gather his bearings in the dreary Seyda Neen afternoon, frowning as his hair and clothes were damp within less than a minute. The constant, fine rain still hadn’t eased off from earlier, and it was with confusion and great apprehension that Fahjoth began to make his way along the path that would take him back to Balmora. Despite a quiet excitement that churned in his chest at the prospect of seeing it again, he bore a heavy heart as well, knowing that it wouldn’t be the same without Ribyna there alongside him.

[omgsquee2001]

Chapter 5: The Bishop’s Warning

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Current Read ———->

~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

The Speakers looked up as the door opened. Trevor walked through, followed by the Twins. Then, Sypha walked through. The Elder smiled. He stood and opened his arms. Sypha ran to him and hugged him. The Elder smiled at the three.

“Thank you.” He said. Meilė smiled. And nodded.

“Mm. You’re welcome.” She said. Sypha frowned.

“I failed to find the Sleeper. I'm sorry!” Sypha said. The Elder sighed and held her at arms thength.

“Oh, hush. Hush now, my angel.” The Elder said.

“I very much doubt there's anyone down there.” Trevor said. Ramybė nodded.

“Trevor’s right. It's probably a booby-trapped legend. There's someone wriggling with pleasure in his coffin right now thinking of people like your girl,” she placed her hand on Meilė’s shoulder, looking at her. “And my sister, walking into the cyclops he left down there.” She said. Trevor nodded, agreeing with what his best friend said. Sypha looked at the two.

“Or perhaps there is something down there so important that it must be guarded by monsters.” She said, raising her arm. Trevor frowned.

“Your Messiah isn't down there.” He said. Sypha walked up and got into his face.

“And what makes you so sure?” She asked. Ramybė faced away from the arguing people.

“You Speakers carry information down through the generations,” she said, causing all eyes to turn to her. “The Belmonts and we Gelbėtojais pass things down as well,” she turned to look at Sypha. “Do you remember what we saw down there? Metal veins pumping hot liquid? Torches that light by themselves that exactly fit descriptions written by mine and Meilė’s great-grandfather. Descriptions of the inside of Dracula's castle.” She said. Sypha’s eyes widened. Trevor looked at the Speakers.

“I don't know what's down there, but it's not a messiah,” he sighed and waved his arm. “We’ll leave you all to it.” He said. He and the twins headed towards the door.

“No, no... nonsense. Please, stay with us for as long as you like. I cannot begin to repay what I owe you.” The Elder said. Ramybė looked at the Elder.

“You're leaving tonight, remember? We made an agreement.” She said. The Elder nodded.

“Well, uh, yes. Until then.” He said. Trevor turned towards the door.

“Right. We'll come back later.” He said. “See if you can find some beer.” He said as he left. Ramybė followed. Meilė sighed and walked out as well. She really wanted to stay and help the people, but she also knew that helping got them involved in things Trevor and Ramybė would rather not get involved in. She snickered as she heard Sypha say something about peeing in a bucket and pretending it was beer. Meilė would love to see that.

As the three walked though the street, Meilė glared lightly behind her. She sensed that they were being followed. Ramybė glanced at her sister.

“Meilė, what is it?” She asked. Trevor glanced at the younger Twin.

“Be on your guard,” Meilė said to her sister and her best friend. “We’re being followed.” She said. At that moment, a blade came out and straight at Trevor’s eye. The blade stopped, causing Trevor to gasp and stop.

“Uh, careful. My knife hand's not too steady. I could slip and take your eye out.” The man said. Ramybė gently pushed Meilė behind her. It was the Priest from the alleyway. The one with the missing eye was there as well as other Priests. Trevor saw that knifes were aimed at his best friends as well. He growled slightly.

“The Bishop of Gresit requests you and your friend’s kind attendance at the church.” The priest said. Trevor raised his arms in surrender. Meilė and Ramybė did the same.

“I don't think we’re allowed into churches.” Trevor said.

“The bishop says he'll make an exception in your case.” The Priest said. Trevor chuckled, moving back to stand in front of Ramybė and Meilė.

“No. Seriously. I realize you're trying to menacingly abduct me and my friends, but we’re excommunicated.” Trevor said, hoping to get him and his best friends out of this.

“The bishop said to tell you that the terms of even major excommunication mean that you three are obliged to appear when summoned by the Church.” The Priest said. Trevor frowned and scoffed.

“Well, shit.” He said. The Priests surrounded the three and made them walk.

“Look, if we enter the church and catch fire or something, it's your fault.” Meilė said in a sing song voice. This earned a jab with the pummel of a knife in her side. Meilė groaned. Trevor glared back at the Priests.

“You better watch it.” He said. The Priests opened the doors of the church, leading the three in. The Priests left as the Bishop walked out. Meilė narrowed her eyes at the man. He had a look in his eyes that screamed insane.

“I am the Bishop of Gresit.” The Bishop introduced.

“You're not from around here.” Ramybė said. The Bishop nodded, closing his eyes and opening them again.

“No. I'm originally from Targoviste. I was an aide to the archbishop. How did you divine that, young lady?” The Bishop asked.

“Well, you're not running away screaming like the rest of the locals, for one thing.” Meilė said, placing her hand on her hip. The Bishop scoffed.

“From you three?” He asked.

“From the baby-eating freaks of nature who apparently raid Gresit every night.” Trevor said.

“I'm here to save Gresit.” The Bishop said. Trevor chuckled.

“And how do you intend to do that?” He asked. The Bishop walked away from his podium, starting at the three.

“I brought you here to answer some questions, not ask them.” The Bishop said, walking back to his podium. Meilė narrowed her eyes.

“Well, tough shit! Trevor asked you a question! How exactly do you intend to help these people by killing Speakers?” She asked. The Bishop looked at her.

“The Speakers brought these troubles upon themselves. One cannot live without God,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. He looked down, smiling. “A uite literally, in these days.” He said. Ramybė chuckled.

“You think the night hordes came because people weren't religious enough?” She asked. The Bishop looked at her.

“And you were at Targoviste?” Meilė asked. The Bishop nodded.

“The Archbishop had certain... interests that I believe compromised his ability to protect the city and the country.” He said. “I was sent away long before Dracula came to Targoviste.” He said. “We disagreed on matters of clerical discipline.”

“But you were there for the burning of Dracula's wife. We heard all about that.” Trevor said. The Bishop nodded.

“Oh, yes. I arranged it, in fact,” he said. Trevor, Ramybė and Meilė’s eyes widened. “The woman was a witch. And there can be no doubt now that she consorted with the devil.” The Bishop closed his eyes in disappointment. “She even married him.” He said. Meilė frowned. She did not like this Bishop. Burning an innocent woman just for falling in love.

“I see,” she said. She gestured to Ramybė and Trevor. “And we’re here to be disciplined?” She asked. The Bishop shook his head.

“Not as such. I have a gift for the three you. Your life, Belmont, as well as yours and your sister’s lives, Gelbėtojai,” he said, looking at Ramybė. “Take it and go. Tonight, the Speakers will be dealt with, and then Gresit will be secure.” The Bishop said, closing his eyes. He opened them, looking at the three. “I refuse, however, to toil so hard for the soul of this city with excommunicant heretics within its walls.” He glared harshly at the three. “You could undo everything by your very presence.” The Bishop said. Ramybė’s eyes widened.

“My God. You really believe it, don't you?” She asked. The Bishop looked at them.

“You three will leave Gresit by sundown, or you will not see the morning. Do I make myself clear?” He asked. “Despite the crimes you've committed against my aides, despite the crimes your families has committed against God, you will walk safely until sundown.” The Bishop said. Trevor growled.

“Our families committed no crime!” He shouted. He pointed his finger at the Bishop. “You people simply decided we were wrong to defend this land against the supernatural. And now...”

“You Belmonts and Gelbėtojais have never understood the power of the Word of God!” The Bishop shouted. Meilė gasped lightly. Ramybė quickly stepped in front of her sister to protect her if need be. The Bishop’s eyes shone with insanity and his hands shook. “The people of this city are mine and our Lord's now, and they'll do as I ask in His name,” the Bishop calmed down slightly. “By morning, no Speaker will defile these streets, and you three will either be gone or be dead.” He said. “Do you understand?” The Bishop asked. Trevor glared at the Bishop.

“Yes.” He hissed. The Bishop smiled.

“Do this thing for me, and the matter of your excision from the Church will be something we can discuss.” The Bishop said, turning away from the three. Trevor placed one hand on Ramybė’s shoulder and the other on the small of Meilė’s back, leading them out. He removed his hand from Ramybė’s shoulder, but kept his hand on Meilė’s back.

“No offense, but you are just a bishop. Excommunication came from a little higher up the ladder.” Meilė said as they walked out.

As they closed the door of the church, Meilė sighed.

“We have to warn Sypha and the Speakers.” She said. Trevor placed his hand on her shoulder, making her look up at him.

“We will, don’t worry.” He said.

~~~~~~

The Speakers looked up as the door opened. The three walked in. The Elder smiled.

“Trevor! Ramybė, Meilė! Join us.” He said. Meilė chuckled lightly as she saw Sypha frown when she saw Trevor.

“Sure. By the way, you're all going to die.” Trevor said. The Elder gasped.

“What?” He asked. Meilė sighed. She crossed her arms, closing her eyes. She leaned against the wall with Ramybė and Trevor by her side.

“The current bishop of this place is... Well, he's beyond insane. Over the top and into new lands of just snake-fuckingly crazy.” Meilė said. The wind started to pick up, corresponding with Meilė’s anger. Trevor placed his hand on Meilė’s shoulder, silently telling her to calm down. The wind settled.

“The Bishop is convinced that the salvation of Gresit lays in you people being torn to pieces by a mob.” Trevor said. The Elder sighed.

“When?” He asked. Ramybė looked at them.

“Before the sun goes down. By his logic, you have to die before the night creatures conduct their next raid.” She said.

“What happens if we stay and survive?” The Elder said.

“Well, then the night creatures will come anyway, and the church will blame you, and it'll start all over again.” Trevor said, moving his fingers in a circular motion. The Elder sighed.

“This feels wrong. To be driven out for a lie that will doom these people, it is not a Speaker thing.” The Elder said. Ramybė narrowed her eyes at the Elder.

“We had an agreement.” She said. The Elder looked at the three.

“I don't think it's a Belmont or a Gelbėtojai thing, either.” The Elder said. Meilė gasped slilently and looked down. The Elder had a good point. The Belmonts and the Gelbėtojais were Monster Hunters. They protected the people of Wallachia. But then the church started spreading lies about their families and the Belmonts and Gelbėtojais were excommunicated, chased out and killed. Trevor was the only living son of the Belmonts and Ramybė and Meilė were the only living daughters of the Gelbėtojais.

“I don't care. You need to leave, and leave now.” Trevor said. Sypha stood up.

“I don't think we can leave these people, not in their time of need!” She said. Trevor got up in her face.

“These people believe you're causing their time of need!” He shouted.

“Only because they are being misled by the Church.” The Elder said. “Does one run away when someone tells lies about them? What have the Church said about the Belmonts and the Gelbėtojais? That you have been corrupted by dealings with the supernatural, that you mock God, that you are threat to the common good and that evil follows wherever you go.” The Elder said. He looked right at Trevor and Ramybė. “And what did you three do in the face of that?” He asked. Trevor sighed.

“We didn’t run away.” He said. The Elder cocked an eyebrow up.

“Really. So, what are you running to?” The Elder asked. “Did you have a destination in mind?” He asked. Ramybė narrowed her eyes.

“Are you calling us cowards?” She asked. Meilė shook her head.

“No, Sister. He’s calling us defeated. You, me and Trevor. We fought our battle and you decided we lost.” Meilė said. Ramybė looked at her sister.

“Meilė, you know we didn't have a choice.” She said. Meilė nodded.

“Perhaps.” She gestured to the Speakers. “But they do.” She said. Sypha nodded.

“Meilė’s right. We carry with us the accumulated wisdom of this great country. We will use that to fight our battle.” She said.

“You’ll lose.” Trevor said. The Elder nodded.

“We might well lose. But, if nothing else, we might show someone that, although battles are won and lost, there is a larger war at stake.” The Elder said. Ramybė frowned.

“With Dracula's armies?” She asked. The Elder shook his head.

“No. A war for the soul of our people.” The rest of the Speakers stood. “Because if we truly are the sort of people who will kill one another at the behest of a madman's fantasies, then perhaps it is right and proper that things from Hell should rise up to wipe us out.” The Elder said.

“It's time for those of us who fight that war to stand up and be responsible, Trevor Belmont, Ramybė Gelbėtojai.” Sypha said. She glared at the two. “You should leave now.” She said. Meilė looked at her best friend.

“Trevor?” She asked gently. Trevor sighed and turned around. He then grippped the hilt of his dagger.

“No.” He turned around and faced the Speakers. “You're leaving right now.” He looked at Meilė. “As are you. You are going to join them.” Meilė frowned.

“What? No! I want to help you and Ramybė fight!” She insisted. Trevor gently cupped the sides of her face.

“Meilė, listen to me. I almost lost you today. I’m not going to risk that again. Promise me that you’ll go with the Speakers.” He said. Meilė sighed and looked down.

“Fine,” she said. Trevor nodded.

“Good girl.” He said. He released her and was about to lead the Speakers to a safe place, when Meilė called out to him.

“Trevor!” He turned around. Meilė stood on her tip-toes and kissed the edge of his mouth. “Come back to me.” She said quietly. She turned to her sister. “You as well, sister. Come back to me.” She said. Ramybė smiled.

“I will.” She said.

~~~~~~~~~~

//Here is Chapter 5. Chapter 6 will be coming soon.//

[a-queer-seminarian]

Working through antisemitism in Holy Week, post 2

cw: violent antisemitism in history

The article below is the most helpful I’ve found so far in my search for information on how to confront the antisemitism of Holy Week. It’s by Amy-Jill Levine, who is Jewish herself and is the Professor of New Testament Studies and Judaism Studies at Vanderbilt University Divinity School. 

The article’s simple list of “options” we have for how we approach all the anti-Jewish sentiment that permeates the New Testament is much appreciated, because I’ve felt directionless! I’ve felt like there are “no options,” that this whole thing is too overwhelming, too complex for anyone to get a handle on -- now there are options, and some of them are actually good options!

I’m pasting most of the article below -- “Holy Week and the Hatred of the Jews: Avoiding Anti-Judaism at Easter”

_______

‘ Jesus of Nazareth, charged by the Roman authorities with sedition, dies on a Roman cross. But Jews - the collective, all Jews - become known as “Christ-killers."

Still haunting, the legacy of that charge becomes acute during Holy Week, when pastors and priests who speak about the death of Jesus have to talk about "the Jews."

Every year, the same difficulty surfaces: how can a gospel of love be proclaimed, if that same gospel is heard to promote hatred of Jesus's own people?

The charge against "the Jews" permeates the pages of the New Testament.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Pilate literally washes his hands while "all the people" - all the Jewish people - clamour for Jesus's death: "Let him be crucified ... His blood be on us and on our children!" (Matthew 27:23, 27).

John's Gospel identifies the Jews as "from your father the devil" (John 8:44) and blames them for backing Pilate into a corner and forcing him to kill an innocent man.

In the Acts of the Apostles, Peter charges "the entire house of Israel" (Acts 2:36) with crucifying Jesus and so having "killed the Author of life" (Acts 3:14-15). Paul then bluntly refers to "the Jews, who killed the Lord Jesus" (1 Thessalonians 2:14-15).

Perhaps this vilification was inevitable. Jesus's followers could not understand how the vast majority of Jews could not accept their belief in him as the Messiah.

The majority of Jews, in turn, saw no sign of the Messianic age having dawned: no general resurrection of the dead; no ingathering of the exiles to Zion; no end to death, war, disease, or poverty. What was self-evident to one group was incomprehensible to other. Incomprehension turned to mistrust, and mistrust, on both sides, turned to vilification.

Today, interfaith conversation, in which Jews and Christians learn to appreciate their common roots and better understand the reasons for the gradual and often painful separation, can reverse the process. Official (and unofficial) church statements facilitate healing as well:  Nostra Aetate , the 1965 declaration of Vatican II, proclaimed that all Jews at all times should not be held responsible for Jesus's death, and Pope Benedict XVI, in the second volume of his Jesus of Nazareth , strongly reiterated the point. Christians from many (but not all) other branches of the tradition, generally agree.

But we still have to deal with our pasts, and with our Scriptures. Every time the Passion narratives are read, the threat of anti-Judaism reappears.

There is no catch-all for resolving the problems in the New Testament - or in Tanakh/the Old Testament, for that matter; we all have difficult texts in our canons. But there are strategies. Here are six, in order of usefulness.

Excision The first option is excision: take a pair of scissors to the offending passages - or, in today's parlance, hit the delete key. Howard Thurman recounts hearing from his grandmother how the plantation minister always preached, "Slaves, be obedient to your masters ..." and how she determined that if she ever learned to read, she would never read that part of the Bible. The story has morphed into the common sermon illustration that Thurman's grandmother, once both freed and literate, took a scissors to the text. Had I suffered what Thurman's grandmother suffered, I may well have taken the same approach. However, the destruction of a text considered sacred seems to me extreme. To erase offending texts is to erase memories of both the victims of those texts and those who struggled against them. Moreover, if we each design our own canons, we eliminate community. A variant on the excision approach is to claim that Paul or Jesus never made the problematic comment and therefore, we can ignore them. For example, scholars commonly argue that Paul did not write 1 Thessalonians 2:14b-16 - it is inconsistent with his positive comments about Jews (such as, "They are Israelites, and to them belong the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises ... as regards election they are beloved ... for the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable" [Romans 9:4-5; 11:28b-29]). The offensive passage can also be removed from the letter without harming the rhetorical flow. Similarly, many scholars argue that Jesus's invectives in the Gospels stem not from the man from Nazareth, but from the later church in competition with local synagogues. Comforting as such arguments may be, they are based on hypothesis, not fact. Paul may well have changed his mind; Jesus would not be the first Jew critical of fellow Jews. Moreover, Christian proclamation is not based on some scholarly construct of an original text or a "historical Jesus" apart from the Gospels. It is based in the words of the Bible as interpreted by the faithful community. Therefore, Christians must deal with those words.

Retranslate The second option is to retranslate - or, bowdlerize. For example, some "progressive" translations read John's Gospel as condemning not "Jews" but "Judeans" or "Jewish leaders" or "religious leaders" or simply "leaders." Such translations are well-meaning, and at least "Judean" is legitimate translation of the Greek term Ioudaioi. But to replace the New Testament's "Jews" by other terms is to have a judenrein text, a text "purified" of Jews. Such bowdlerizing obscures part of the reason why Jews have been persecuted over 2,000 years, divorces Jews not only from Jesus and his earliest followers, and even serves to de-legitimate the relationship of Jews today from the land of Israel. Hence, politically correct translations are not necessarily biblically faithful ones.

Romanticize The theological answer to the question ‘Who killed Jesus?’ is not ‘the Jews’ but humanity. This is an excellent place to begin. The problem, however, is that those who see themselves as ‘Jews’ on Good Friday then see themselves as redeemed "Christians" on Sunday morning. The Jews, by not accepting Jesus as Lord and Saviour, remain in their guilt. The same romantic approach today is best exemplified in the celebration of the Passover seder in churches, usually on Holy Thursday. ...Baptizing Jewish symbols in Christian terms is not a strong move in interfaith sensitivity. Nor do Christian seders remove the problem. To the contrary, the performance serves to absolve the congregation: how could they be anti-Jewish if they are doing something so Jewish as having a Passover seder?

Allegorize The fourth option is to allegorize: to say that the text really doesn't mean what it says. For example, we take Matthew's blood-cry (27:15) not as a self-curse, but as a plea for redemption: the people are ironically asking to be redeemed by Jesus's blood. While this approach redeems the verse theologically, it also suggests that the Jewish crowd wanted and needed this redemption, so that Judaism apart from the Christian message is ineffective. The move turns Jews into crypto-Christians.

Historicize The fifth approach, the darling of the academy, provides historical rationale and often justification, for the problematic statements. For example, we claim that Matthew is a Jew writing for a Jewish community; therefore his words cannot be anti-Jewish - as if Jews cannot be anti-Jewish, which is a silly idea. Also complicating this view: we know neither who wrote the Gospels, which were originally transmitted anonymously, nor the community to which they are addressed. It is a dirty little secret in biblical studies: we determine, based on the contents of the Gospels, both author and audience. Then we interpret the text on the basis of our reconstruction. This is a circular argument. Similarly, we note the historical unlikelihood of "all the people" saying, "his blood be on us and on our children" - that all of us Jews would say the same thing, ever, is a tad unlikely. Then, we see how Matthew understands the destruction of Jerusalem, witnessed by the "children," to be punishment for the Jews' refusal to acknowledge Jesus as Lord. Therefore, so the argument goes, since the people never said the line, we can ignore it. But the line remains in the text; ignoring it is not an option. Another variation on the historicizing approach is to claim that the anti-Jewish language is reactionary: invective would be quite natural from the pen of those excommunicated from the synagogue. The problem here is, first, that we have no evidence, other than John's attestation (John 9:22; 12:42; 16:2) of synagogues tossing people out. If some synagogues did expel Jesus's followers, we should ask why. Because they wanted to replace Torah with Jesus? Because they were seen as compromising monotheism? Because they told synagogue members that unless they worshiped Jesus they would go to hell? Because they put the community in danger, given Roman distrust of the new messianic movement? Because they cherished their own traditions, which they found completely fulfilling? Any of these would be quite good reasons, and would likely result in censoring in my synagogue today. Finally, if we define this polemic as reactionary, again we blame the Jews for the problem. Finding history behind the text can help. But we cannot be secure with the history we posit, and when all the historical work is said and done, we still have to address what the New Testament actually says.

Admit the problem We come finally to our sixth option: admit to the problem and deal with it. There are many ways congregations can address the difficult texts. Put a note in service bulletins to explain the harm the texts have caused. Read the problematic texts silently, or in a whisper. Have Jews today give testimony about how they have been hurt by the texts. Those who proclaim the problematic verses from the pulpit might imagine a Jewish child sitting in the front pew and take heed: don't say anything that would hurt this child, and don't say anything that would cause a member of the congregation to hurt this child. Better still: educate the next generation, so that when they hear the problematic words proclaimed, they have multiple contexts - theological, historical, ethical - by which to understand them. Christians, hearing the Gospels during Holy Week, should no more hear a message of hatred of Jews than Jews, reading the Book of Esther on Purim, should hate Persians, or celebrating the seder and reliving the time when "we were slaves in Egypt," should hate Egyptians. We choose how to read. After two thousand years of enmity, Jews and Christians today can recover and even celebrate our common past, locate Jesus and his earliest followers within rather than over and against Judaism, and live into the time when, as both synagogue and church proclaim, we can love G-d and our neighbour.’

[guardianofmemes]

Mojave Morality; or Why Some Factions are Mixed but Legion Bad and Can We Stop Denying it

When it comes to asking which faction is Good and Evil, you may first think the NCR are the clear good guys, or that Mr. House will lead to greater standard of living. But friends, we should take into account the futures of these factions and the potential social changes that would take place within them, Vegas or not!

The Republic is an imperialist, expansionist nation with economic disparity and a government controlled by the rich few. Still, it is possible for a social and political revolution to take place, as the people still can directly vote and there are few senate seats, and they are EXTREMELY sick of the right-wing policies that have occurred over the last two decades, which are a recent departure from the rest of the nation’s history, under Tandi and Aradesh. And it is still entirely possible the people could overthrow the government with some measure of ease. The nationalistic nature of the United States has not yet had chance to fully take root in the Republic, most people consider themselves citizens of the Boneyard or Hub before being citizens of the Republic, members of the military included. The draft isn’t popular. And while their war crimes are less than America’s, they exist.

Independent Vegas, well this one isn’t really detached from the big factions, its entirely dependent on you choosing that path for that specific territory. But from cut content we can see that the Strip was barely being held together under Mr. House as it is, and it all goes straight to chaos as soon as you come to power. Still, the actual villages and towns of the Mojave are rather well-off and prosper under their own rule, as independent settlements under no central authority. With this comes a lack of centralized ability to project force and protect the lone  communities, so they are left to their own defense as well. Tiny micro-nations.

Mr. House has always been more machine than man, even before he got hooked up on life support gone wrong. He lacks empathy, does not consider other people to actually be people, just pieces to move around on the game board, a game he is playing against reality. He wants to spit in the eye of the mystic, the divine, in the belief of human kindness and capacity for peaceful co-existence. This is just how the man is, a true Ayn Rand protagonist, the Great Man wrought to existence. And how would the Great Man rule exactly? Through force of arms, but not even with a slight veneer of self determination or free will. A board of directors to rule his new galactic megacorporation empire made manifest, yet it would be a board he could overturn at any moment on a whim. He alone, playing the entire human race like a video game, Civilization IV or Stellaris, just looking at the spreadsheet of numbers as little pixels move around, making decisions that simplify the equation, like wiping out the Brotherhood because they are a stray variable he cannot account for in his grand plans. He has the ability and intellect to rebuild the industrial sector, maybe even take us to space, but that’s the problem with the Rich isn’t it? They’d rather abandon this planet and just find an easier solution than get their hands dirty fixing this world. 

And we come upon him at last, the tyrant of tyrants, he who wishes to defy his fate even more desperately than Robert House himself. The plagiarist with a real severe case of hypocrisy and Brain Disease, its time for Caesar. Why do I say Caesar instead of Caesar’s Legion? Because he is the faction, he is the glue that binds the whole operation together. Its not at all a hot take, even in the game itself they acknowledge as soon as Caesar dies, the Legion will split among its squabbling generals and the territory will fall to chaos, because his men follow the man himself, not his ideals. As a fascist, he has no true ideals, the man shifts with whatever works best. Guns are normally forbidden to them, but a Centurion conquered an entire tribe of strong warriors with his minigun? Well now give him a suit of special commemorative armor and let him keep using it. No modern medicine yes, men must be stronger than such luxuries? But he will very openly tell you about the auto-doc he bestows upon those he favors, and has no problem with you removing his tumor. The man is weak of spirit and will, he seeks to make himself known in history, to last beyond his death. And so we come to his mid-life crisis, life under Caesar’s Empire. One could say yes, its safe to live in his territory, the regular patrols excise the tumor that are raider gangs and hostile wildlife. But is that a reason to excuse the tithes one must pay to his Legion? The young men taken to serve, the women taken for slave labor and much more horrible things? The public executions and mass torture over minor trespasses, such as possessing recreational drugs? A total lack of political freedom, zero social mobility; a world that even if you somehow view going back thousands of years in terms of social, technological, and political progress to the age of the tyrant as GOOD, will collapse as soon as he dies of his brain tumor, old age, tripping over a landmine, or assassination? If that is really what you see as the ideal world, or somehow a neutral society in terms of morality, I really don’t know what to tell you. I wish I knew what to say.

[arcticdementor]

My take on modern Star Trek compared to the old:

Star Trek very much embodied what liberal American white males of the 1980s and 1990s thought the future would (or should) look like: secular, sexually liberated, humanistic, meritocratic, equitable, and technological – a man’s world, basically. In this world, religion plays practically no role in public life. Problems are solved with diplomacy instead of violence. Money doesn’t exist, so there is no capitalism, greed, or want. People spend their lives bettering humanity and doing other such noble things like negotiating peace with aliens or exploring the universe in one of Starfleet’s advanced starships, each equipped with a plethora of miraculous technologies. In their leisure time, the crews of these starships visit a holographic room, the holodeck, which can conjure any fantasy into a photorealistic facsimile of the real thing.

Probably the only place in the Western world where this mentality can still be found is California’s Silicon Valley. As in the fictional world of Star Trek, men do most of the work; they advance through meritocracy; and there is something akin to a fraternal culture, irrespective of the prevailing progressive ideology. Silicon Valley is also still largely free of the odious diversity requirements imposed on the rest of society.

…

The high point of the franchise, The Next Generation, featured a mostly white liberal cast and various things white liberals liked at the time – sex appeal, food, pseudointellectualism (although handled capably by talented male writers), cutting edge tech, meritocracy, optimism, exploration, and the white man’s moralism.

Starfleet, the Federation’s military and scientific branch, was a rigorous meritocracy, just as Silicon Valley is today. Members were admitted only through a combination of senior officer recommendations, high scholastic achievement, and phenomenally high standardized test scores. Character was also paramount. Crew evaluations feature prominently in several episodes of TNG, and it was made clear to underperforming members that the starship Enterprise cuts a standard above the rest; perform or hit the road.

In the diverse world of Star Trek, the white writers imagined meritocracy would ensure whites like themselves would still have a position at the top of society (just as in Hollywood then and Silicon Valley now) despite soon becoming a minority in real life America. You’ll notice progressive humans are at the center of the Federation in Star Trek despite being a small minority in that fictional universe as well. That’s by design, conscious or not.

…

In the TNG episode The Drumhead, Picard faces down a witch hunting admiral — a woman, no less. The plot revolves around an incident that occurred on the starship Enterprise. Sabotage is suspected, and the situation is tense. The initial evidence points to a low ranking crewman who is later discovered to be of mixed race, one-quarter of the Federation’s most feared enemy. This all but convicts him in the eyes of the admiral’s tribunal. The admiral mercilessly presses her case, threatening to destroy anyone who gets in her way. She’s meant to be a caricature of conservative jingoists of the era – always scared of the Russians, racist against minorities, emotional. In Hollywood’s view of history, those were the people behind the McCarthy hearings, which this episode obviously pulls from.

…

Toward the end of the episode, Captain Picard confronts his antagonist and gives a fine speech about principle, temperament, and morality in the process. The admiral is defeated when a fellow admiral, a black male character, stands up and walks out in disgust at her actions.

This is one of the reasons why fans liked the character of Jean-Luc Picard: he was a decent, honorable man despite not being perfect himself. He had a code he lived by, and he led by example. Men like that sort of thing. Star Trek Picard, in contrast, portrays him as a bumbling moron who is always wrong and continually berated by female underlings. His view of the world is portrayed as naive or just wrong, requiring strong SJW women to take it to the enemy themselves, often employing violence – including rank murder and sadistic violence.

In another episode of TNG, white male commander Riker stands up to his white male superior — an admiral — who wishes to break the terms of a peace treaty to gain a military edge over a mortal enemy. Riker prevents him from doing so and exposes the dastardly plot. Moral of the story: principle trumps Machiavellianism.

Star Trek was very much a pre-Millennial liberal morality play whereby inspired characters (mostly white) would often stand up to authority figures (mostly white) in order to promote a general moral code — a greater authority — among fellow whites.

Consider some of the following things about Star Trek: The Next Generation and ask yourself if any of this would be allowed on television today without controversy.

…

The diverse new cast of Discovery and Picard mostly excludes white males. The only principle white men who did not appear in make-up during Discovery’s first season were either villains or openly gay. The show’s lead is a black woman who’s the best at everything, acts bizarrely hostile towards the crew and later berates the male commanding officer, captain Pike – introduced in season 2. There’s also an assortment of other female archetypes more typically seen in network television crime dramas – the dorky female comic relief, the bestest ever leader, the tech guru.

Star Trek: Picard’s white male actors, aside from TNG cameos, are mostly villains when they appear at all. Picard himself is a senile old man who contributes essentially nothing to the show. He is used as the butt of criticism from the cast. It’s clear the writers are using him as a canvas to paint their grievances with the real world. Picard — white male America — stands in the new boss’s empowered way. He lives in luxury as minority characters live in poverty. The (white) institutions he represents are all corrupt and racist. To rectify this injustice, the diverse cast must defy Star Trek convention – up to and including committing acts of cold-blooded murder (even villains don’t deserve that).

The new shows also – bizarrely — feature a dearth of straight black male actors. TNG had two; Voyager had one; DS9 had several, including a masculine male captain. The feminists who write this newer junk must feel threatened by their masculinity, a common phenomenon in modern Hollywood movies, comic books, and in network television: black men are usually removed (Star Trek), made gay (Marvel’s New Warriors), or turned into female servants (Samuel L. Jackson in Captain Marvel – a pet to Brie Larson). So, they’ve almost entirely been excised as primary leads in the new shows. The mostly unaccomplished female writers of Discovery even reported the more accomplished (read: threatening) black male writer, Walter Mosley, to Human Resources for uttering a racial epithet (in context with writing about racism), causing him to quit the show in disgust.

Author Walter Mosley Quits ‘Star Trek: Discovery’ After Using N-Word in Writers Room

Discovery and Picard are both written by a crowd that obviously hates the demographic they are writing for, so they pepper many of the episodes with things they know that demographic will take as insults – female characters insulting male characters, underhanded jokes about masculinity or mansplaining, obnoxious female leads, incompetent white male characters who need female instruction, excessive melodrama, denigration of lore. It’s patently obvious. They aren’t even being subtle about it.

…

Fundamentally, these new shows struggle because they are written by people wholly unlike the target audience, so they are not able to appeal to them (the same is true of other ruined male franchises like Star Wars – but I’ll save that for another time). These new shows aren’t for the old audience. The new — diverse — show runners have made that clear. Star Trek now serves as a vehicle for airing out racial and gender grievances against the perceived white male audience. It’s akin to planting your tribe’s flag on another tribe’s territory. The aggrieved gets a rush from being able to rub their enemy’s face in their loss. It’s intentional.

…

Regardless, the primary audience for a show like this is heterosexual men, disproportionately white … And when minority male characters appear, they’re not supposed to be losers upstaged by their sassy, disrespectful and arrogant female subordinates. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, the black male captain put his hothead female executive officer in her place more than once. In the new Treks, men are continually insulted, often for no good reason, by female crew members.

What do men like in Star Trek?

Men like technology. So, the writers of Picard introduced a magic wand to the newest iteration.

…

Men like adventure, not melodrama. So, obviously the female writers feature an inordinate number of episodes of characters crying.

…

Most of the adventure element prominent in previous shows is absent or poorly constructed in the newer ones … or ripped off from other properties, including video games. Paramount was being sued a while back for copyright infringement.

…

Men also like ship design, which was a major component of the old shows. They provided countless hours of free fan promotion across message boards and websites, they were cool locations for new episodes, and they inspired fan movies. So, obviously that had to be sidelined in the new shows. The ships, once iconic and profitable selling toy items, are now generic CGI models – totally uninspired trash hastily put together as an afterthought. The new shows can’t sell the merchandise, so the retailers have refused to license much of it.

Another thing men like? Group service – following rules, meritocracy, sacrifice for the tribe, defending territory (even the non-violent philosophical variety), that kind of thing. Well, that’s almost totally absent in Discovery and Picard. The once-honorable and meritocratic military-like Federation is portrayed as corrupt and unequal; the black female lead of Picard berates Jean-Luc in one episode for living “in his fine chateau” while she lived in poverty – again, a totally antithetical concept to the old shows.

…

The whole Federation is a dystopia with criminals and drugs and injustice all about.

Various Federation admirals in the new movies and television shows are belligerent, short-sighted, and rude; one is an outright war criminal. TNG featured at least two episodes with corrupt Federation admirals, but our show’s male heroes put them in their place by the end of the episode. Even the female captain Kathryn Janeway did this once in Voyager. Not true of these newer shows, though. Admirals berate the male characters, then go away – never to be redeemed or brought to justice.

Many of the characters in the new shows act entirely unprofessional towards each other. They are sometimes even cruel or sadistic. The female captain of one Discoveryshort Trek allowed a bumbling white male crewman (whom the female writers mocked the entire episode) to die horribly and then simply shrugged it off when asked about it, “he was an idiot” (implication: he deserved to die because he was annoying her).

…

The biggest supporters of these new incarnations, not surprisingly, are the show’s American writers – along with a few “critics”. These people lack any loyalty to a higher cause (other than themselves), are nihilistic, are sadistic, enjoy berating “the other” (men, whites, themselves even), and have practically no respect for anything they aren’t personally invested with. In other words, they are thoroughly Americanized losers.

There would be a college thesis in that observation if we lived in a better timeline. In this one, the world where the bad guys won, you are stuck reading it in a random internet comment.

I think that observation explains much of what is wrong with modern culture: the past, in many ways, was better than the present and probably will end up being better than the near future. That’s intolerable to a lot of political extremists, the very people who put us in this position in the first place. So, the past has to be destroyed; it serves as a foil to the current reigning madness. “Let the past die, kill it if you have to.” That’s why pop culture had to be denigrated. That’s why Star Trek is trash nowadays.

When conquering armies of the ancient world subdued an enemy, they often defaced the conquered tribe’s symbols – destroyed the statues, burned the temples, desecrated anything sacred; both Muslim and Christian conquerors were famous for this. Same thing here. The new regime is burning the cultural bridges so you can’t go back to the better world left behind, the one not ruled by them.

…

Although, in fairness to the ladies, it’s mostly men like Alex Kurtzman who have ruined the new shows. The guy once stated in an interview that he has a problem writing male characters. Hollywood: let’s hire that guy for Star Trek!

[violethowler]

Dea Ex Machina: Goddess from the Machine

As pointed out in @leakinghate’s Seek Truth in Darkness meta, there is a significant chunk of the last three episodes that was excised during the edits brought on by executive meddling: How the Paladins caught up to Honerva in the other reality. As noted, you can tell from looking at Keith’s expressions here (images brightened to better distinguish the expressions; Image comparison borrowed from Hate’s meta):

That the Paladins fail to make it through the portal to the next reality in time and are left outside reality. Hate’s meta has posited that this shot was removed because Lotor was pivotal to whatever they did to escape back into reality and catch up to Honerva, as many of the edits in the second half of the season were done to remove him from the story. I’d like to offer the suggestion that in addition to Lotor, their catching up to Honerva was aided by another character, one whose existence thus far was only hinted at: The Lion Goddess, first mentioned by the Arusians in Season 1.

For those who don’t know, here’s a brief tidbit of Voltron history:

The anime Beast King GoLion on which Voltron was based featured two brief appearances from a divine figure only referred to as The Goddess of the Universe, her first appearance being at the start of the series, in a scene set thousands of years before the main timeline, in which the robot GoLion (Voltron’s original incarnation) arrogantly challengers her to a battle, and she splits it apart into five lions and casts it down to Altea as punishment so that it might rise again as the legendary protector audiences are familiar with.

In 1984’s Voltron Defender of the Universe, the context of that scene is changed to Haggar impersonating a goddess and splitting Voltron into the five lions herself on Zaron’s behalf when it comes close.

Voltron: Legendary Defender first references her in season 1 with the Arusians mistaking Allura for their “Lion Goddess”. While played for laughs in Season 1, the use of the Lion Goddess for a single one-off gag raises several questions:

How would the Arusians have known the Castle had anything to do with lions? The only lion present for ten thousand years was Black, and the only way they would have known that was if they had gone inside, which would have woken Allura and Coran up much earlier than canon.

Despite Pidge referring to the Trans Reality Comets as a naturally occurring phenomenon, floating rocks with the exact same colors as the Daibzaal comet Voltron was made from are visible in the background during Lotor and Allura’s trip to Oriande in “White Lion” implying that the Lions of Voltron were modeled after the realm’s guardian.

After passing the trial of the White Lion, a disembodied female voice tells Allura “there is no need to kneel”, nearly the exact same words Allura used in Season 1 when the Arusians believed she was the Lion Goddess.

All of which point to the idea that the Lion Goddess is a real character who exists in the VLD universe and serves as Voltron’s divine patron. But if she does exist, why hasn’t she shown up to help before? 

Except the Lion Goddess has already been helping the Paladins all along. It’s wouldn’t be out of left field for her to magically transport Team Voltron to where they need to be because she’s already done it before, when she accelerated their return to Earth in “The Journey Within”.

On the surface, the visions the Paladins see are the result of either space madness or the gigantic creature that shows up out of nowhere, and the mysterious energy that disables the lions magically transports the Paladins to Earth’s solar system, conveniently arriving right as Sam Holt and the rest of the Garrison are preparing for their last stand. It honestly feels like a deus ex machina and is never elaborated on or explained…Or is it?

Let’s take a look at the visuals in this episode. Specifically, this image:

Now let’s take a look at this image from the 1984 cartoon, which depicts Voltron flying towards the Goddess of the Universe.

Other than the color schemes, the paladins being outside their lions and the physical image of the goddess, these images are pretty much the same.

So, the “hallucinations” start with a vision of bird-like creatures flying around in a formation that is deliberately evocative of a recognizable shot from the original 1984 series, showing us rather than telling us that these visions are not hallucinations, but rather, are the work of the Lion Goddess.

The narrative that the visions were caused by the nameless creature hunting the paladins doesn’t hold up, because why would it wait so long to try and eat them?

But if you look at the geometry of the space monster, there’s something familiar about this beast.

Don’t see it? Look again.

The geometry of this creature’s face is found directly on the front entrance of the Castle of Lions when the Paladins arrive on Arus in Season 1. The outline of the doorway even follows the general shape of the creature itself. Cleary whatever this monster is, it’s something associated with Altean history or folklore to such an extent that its design is prominently featured on the Castle of Lions.

(On a side note, the visual association between the space creature and the Castle of Lions presents a beautiful parallel: the Paladins symbolically enter the creature’s maw when they leave Earth and must literally escape the creature’s jaws in order to return to Earth).

Something else to make note of is that the winged creatures in this scene greatly resemble the Altean crest visible on the back of the Green Lion’s shield. 

We know that despite it being used as the banner of the old alliance of the original paladins, as stated by Lotor in S5E5, this is an Altean signal because both it and the the hilt of Lance’s Altean broadsword have the same distinctive Y-shape. 

And something else to remember is that in Season 1, the Arusians didn’t declare Allura as their goddess until she established the castle as hers. Right from the start the series equates the lion goddess with ownership of the Castle of Lions. Imagery associated with the Castle of Lions can therefore also be considered imagery associated with the Lion Goddess.

And though the energy surge that disables the lions and later magically transports everyone to Earth is never explained in Season 7, there is one thing in the VLD universe that has been established as powerful enough to disable the lions, can teleport beings, and is associated with the color white:

For a better comparison, this what the shot of the White Lion psychically attacking Clone Shiro in “Omega Shield” looks like:

And this is what the energy surge in “The Journey Within” looks like:

Note the ropy energy lines and the cloudy/nebula-like bits. 

Something else to note, it’s very convenient that despite being months, if not at least a year – from returning to Earth along their normal route, with the energy surge they manage to arrive just as the Garrison is preparing for humanity’s last stand against Sendak. Almost as if it was… Divine Intervention.

A lot of foreshadowing works on the basis of Microcosm to Macrocosm storytelling: a story element that plays out on a small scale within a single arc is later repeated on a larger scale later in the narrative. I can’t find the post for it but I think someone on TeamPurpleLion explained it by demonstrating how it played out in Harry Potter: “In the microcosm (The first book) Harry thinks Snape is working for Voldemort but Snape turns out to have been Dumbledore’s agent all along. Later on in the macrocosm (the overarching narrative of the series), Harry thinks Snape is working for Voldemort after Snape kills Dumbledore, but Snape turns out to have been a double agent for Dumbledore all along.”

As for how that plays out in VLD, in the microcosm of The Journey Within, We have the paladins lost in an unfamiliar location, cut off from everything and everyone but each other. They encounter imagery associated with the lion goddess, something that evokes comparisons to the guardian of Oriande, and are then transported to where they need to be at the right time to stop the Big Bad of the season.

And in the macrocosm of the last three episodes of Season 8, we have the paladins trapped in an unfamiliar location when Honerva’s port closes before they can make it through, cut off from everything and everyone but each other. Then they suddenly arrive where they need to be at the right time to stop the Big Bad of the season. But because of Lotor’s removal from the season, the important parts, the ones involving the Lion Goddess that explain how the Paladins caught up to Honerva in time to stop her from destroying all realities, were cut out, leaving one more plot hole in the final season.

[eqcentriceqclectic-blog]

Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because—ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.