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[xxplastic-cubexx]

GORGEOUS DRAWING OMG YOU'RE SO TALENTED MATE!!!

We need more Magneto protecting his Charles with all his will>>>>>

thank you much my friend !!!!!!!!! might i offer you a small gift..

and a bonus. if you will.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Riddle, Vil: A Family Affair

Riddle’s vignettes are so… interesting?? We can see how he’s trying to take small steps to have more agency. I like to think that, very slowly, he’s coming into his own as a young man, an entity separate from his mother.

It’s nice that Riddle’s Groovy shows him in a fun pose. You’d think that someone as strict as him wouldn’t want to fly abnormally, but you can tell it's a manner that's unique to him. Riddle may be upside down like Floyd is in his own Broomquet Groovy, but you can tell that there is a marked difference between the two. Riddle’s holding bis broom in a much more secure way, which is reflective of his personality, whereas Floyd is much more precarious in his pose. It reflects their personalities well!

And now we wait for Jamil’s Birthday Platinum Jacket SSR… 👀

A Boy in Bloom, and his Flowering Future.

“What do you want to do in the coming year?”

Riddle cleared his throat and stood straight as he provided his reply. He was the model student, interviewee... and, of course, birthday boy. "I would like to expand my culinary knowledge."

Vil arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Judging by your prompt response, I take it that you studied the interview questions and prepared suitable answers for them in advance. How like you--but what a surprise that you have a goal that isn't related to school. You're infamous for your tenacity in that regard."

"I-I am capable outside of the realm of academics too!" Riddle hastily said with a frown. “… Though I admit I may be lacking in some departments. That is precisely why I would like to dedicate time and energy to strengthening my areas of weakness.”

"Oh, please. You can't possibly be as nightmarish at cooking as..." Vil paused, shuddering, "Lilia is."

The birthday boy paled at the mention of his senior. Lilia, who left kitchens looking like a natural disaster had torn through an active warzone. Lilia, who tossed in everything under the sink and then some. Lilia, who was known across campus for all manner of food borne illnesses and poisonings.

"Surely not!!" Riddle insisted. "I know how to read and follow a recipe! The issue lies in flexibility. Trey is able to make an entire meal just from leftovers, but I wouldn't be able to do the same."

"My, if you're concerned about food waste, couldn't you simply ask Trey to teach you? I'm certain he wouldn't refuse you. That man is too nice for his own good."

"Perhaps that's true. But even so... this is a skill I'd like to learn for myself. I don't want to become overly reliant on others' strength. What I must cultivate first and foremost is my own. To that end, I plan on enrolling in more Master Chef courses during my time at NRC. There are many styles of cooking I've yet to master. For example, Trey prepares meals that are very different from that of my mother."

"How so?"

"Well..." Riddle hesitated. The way he gnawed at his lower lip reminded Vil of an anxious rabbit--a far cry from the self-assured dorm leader he knew Riddle as.

"Mother cooks with nutrition as her priority. She is very health conscious and goes out of her way to ensure that I am eating what I need. When I am studying at home, she brews tea to drink. It's rare that my entire family comes together for a meal, given that we're all busy.

"Meanwhile, Trey's food is... I can't quite put a finger on it, but it's flavorful and fun, yet balanced. The experiences are unique from my time at home. Sometimes it's something warm, hearty, and comforting like hamburger steak. Sometimes it's something hopelessly indulgent and loaded with sugar, like tarts decorated with jewel-like fruits."

"Your eyes are shining." Vil smirked. "You enjoy his cooking that much?"

"I don't understand it myself," Riddle replied, scrunching his brows. "When Trey cooks, people are lured by the smell and gather around the table, wanting to join for the meal. It happened the other day when I was to eat with him and Cater. Ace and Deuce barged in on us, and... well, I suppose it wasn't all bad. We had a delightful conversation over lunch. There's something magical about that."

"There is a different feeling to eating with others than alone," Vil agreed with a slight nod. "My father and I can hardly align our schedules, so it's rare that we can sit down and eat together. Then again, maybe it's that rarity that makes us appreciate those moments all the more."

"That's right. It's a special spell that I realized I can't reproduce. Just memorizing the recipes and recreating them... that alone isn't enough."

"Fufufu, so you want to master that kind of 'magic'. That's surprisingly cute of you."

"N-No, you're mistaken! While it's true that cooking would come in handy for entertaining guests, it'd primarily be for self-sufficiency. After all, it's not as though I can always ask Trey or my mother to cook for me." Riddle shifted from one foot to another. "Someday, I'll have to move out of my dorm as well as my house, and live independently as a fine adult."

"Yes, cooking is an essential skill for that distant future. Have you already started on making those arrangements?"

"Er, not yet. I've been looking into it, but to actually take those first physical steps is... that is, I don't know how my mother would react."

"She sounds very stern from what you've told me of her. However, every mother must let her child go eventually."

"Maybe so, but I have never known my mother to back down from her beliefs. She's... not a woman you want to challenge." Riddle's voice strained at the final word. It was the lightest way he could put it, too afraid to acknowledge the whole truth. "I've tried to get her to hear me out, but..."

"If you can't draw that line in the sand now, then when? It will only make things more difficult for you when you start live alone."

"I'm fully aware of that." He couldn't bring himself to say more.

Vil sighed, bringing a hand to his temple. "... Listen, Riddle. Think of life as a stage, and you as the actor upon it. Worried about how the audience will react to your performance, working tirelessly to hone your craft.

“When the lights dim and the cameras turn off, the staff and the audience leave the theatre. You’ll be left only with your own thoughts. The onlookers may have one impression of you—but when the curtains fall, so long as you are proud of who you are away from the public eye, that, I think, is a sign of true maturity.

“If it’s courage and confidence that you seek, then you must work toward it. Never let your eyes stray from it. Even should the world deprive you of a happy ending, you must claw for it, believing that, someday, it will be yours.”

“Vil-senpai… Is this your way of encouraging me to see my goals through to the very end?”

His upperclassman scoffed. Thin, soft—like a rose petal, almost imperceptible as it passed upon a breeze.

“Think of it what your will. I merely speak from my own experience,” Vil replied. “We are both prideful NRC students at our very cores. Standing strong on our own two feet is something we all desire. That we can one day recognize that dream… It goes for us all.”

“Recognizing a dream, hm?”

How curious. I wondered not too long ago if it was really possible. Now, here I am, taking those first, small baby steps. A world where I can think for myself, live by my own rules… It sounds like a wonderland within my reach.

Soon, but not yet.

“… One day,” Riddle whispered to himself. “One day, I’ll be the person I want to be.”

Not the person I’m told to be.

A palm came against his back—a pat from Vil. “Really, I thought the dorm leader of Heartslabyul would know better than to mumble. You’re usually so good at barking at your card soldiers. Do remember to speak up—now, and forevermore.”

“I don’t recall asking for your advice.” Riddle brushed off his touch, stepping forward with his broom at the ready. Still, he chuckled. “… But yes, I will work on gathering my courage so that I may be comfortable leaving the nest. Thank you for your concern, senpai.”

“Ara, what cheek.” Vil tossed his golden locks. “If I’m to share the stage with you, then of course your skills must be on par with mine. Don’t you dare disappoint me, understood?”

“Hmph, when have I ever been the type to fall short of meeting expectations? Observe.”

Riddle confidently mounted his broom, assuming the position he had practiced many times over. There was a diagram of this exact pose in the mountain of textbooks he had in his dorm room. Straddling the handle between the legs, arms straight and steady, one hand gripped over the other, elbows locked.

He could have been the textbook diagram himself.

When Riddle looked up, he saw the vast sky, sunlight spilling across the sea that surrounded the island. Sunset on its way to soon paint the day with darkness.

The sky… It connects many different places and people. The future is stretching out before me, chalk full of possibilities.

Then… I can try, can I? To soar, to break free. Just this once…!!

Riddle’s hold on his broom tightened.

He called forth his magic, letting it pool around him in a shower of scarlet sparkles. The power collected, coalescing as a tingling warmth dancing across his skin, until he at last unleashed it in one burst. Like a cap popped off on a bottle.

Riddle buckled off, propelling into the air in a corkscrew motion. Rose petals fell free from his bouquet, perfuming the summer sky with them.

“Whew…!”

He stopped spinning, flying forward upside down. The world shifted, shapes and colors rearranging into a new perspective. His head and vision spun, seemingly colliding all of his senses against one another.

A moment or two later, and they had rattled neatly into place.

Riddle looked again, taking it all in. Rich gold dappling the grand spires of Night Raven College, the honeyed aroma of roses, the wind from on high tickling his lashes. The delicious freedom of flying freely.

“… Hah.”

Who knew it could taste so sweet?

[syndianites]

Pineapples

Summary: In a world made of beginnings, it’s hard for things to stay the same. Tom and Jordan certainly didn’t. (Ianitee!Tom, Dianitee!Jordan)

Note: No content warnings attached, but please let me know if I should add any. I may make a full-fledged fic out of this idea, with a focus on Ianite and Tom trying to figure out how balance should work when they don’t click well. The side pieces would be Dianite and Jordan building into a dynamic duo, while Jordan starts to realize just what his choice means, and Karl trying to work things out with Mianite when he knows that order is not in his veins.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Also on Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609547

Tom thought of pineapples the day things shifted.

It’s weird to consider. How what had seemed so solid, so steadfast, could slide just a touch to the left and change.

He wondered why he didn’t see it coming sooner-

-an arrow sailing through the air, smooth and undeterred. He knew it would land before it left his fingers. All he felt was cold, cold, cold-

-but he supposed that wasn’t really his job. Thinking was hard. It was Jordan’s job.

That brought a frown to his face. He supposed, again, that there were a lot of things that weren’t his job, now. A lot of things that were Jordan’s.

Tom was lazing about on the courthouse island, gazing up at the sky from the top of the arch. He imagined Jordan on his island doing the same- no armor, no weapons, just him and the grass around him, soaking in the sun. But he knew better. Jordan was likely tinkering away, having too many restless thoughts to take a breather.

Maybe that was why they had changed so much.

He could always see the gears turning in Jordan’s eyes, as though he were an automaton. Thoughts going click, click, click, churning and burning away until he got to a conclusion. It annoyed him. Where was the peace in always thinking? Tom was an avid believer in not thinking too much.

There was a lot he didn’t want to think about.

Or maybe they hadn’t changed at all.

But there was a simmer underneath his skin, a buzz of energy that was new to him. Tom was used to warmth, an unseen fire swelling in his chest and heating his veins. It was passion, it was drive, it pushed him to do, do, do. To laugh with friends, to destroy their lives, to wrap an arm around them, to slice a line down their torso.

There was no warmth, now. Just that buzz, that thrum. Distant but there all the same. Like an echo, a low bell bouncing between the walls of an empty village.

Tom pulled his hat down over his eyes. He was a pirate. Jordan was a captain. That should have made their roles clear, right? Simple, straight forward.

Jordan, the captain, would keep things together, keep things settled and neutral.

Tom, the pirate, would push buttons and steal shit, stir up trouble with each breath.

He thought, suddenly, of Capsize and her crew. Pirates in their own right, filled with mischief and wanting to stir up trouble of another kind. Maybe he should have known, then, what would happen. What being a pirate meant.

A whispered request. A hushed promise. “Pretend,” had been asked of him. “Of course,” he nodded. He didn’t know it yet, but that would be a lie, would be the final nail in the coffin.

A burial at sea, his body left to float along gentle waves, going out in a blaze of glory only to get snuffed out by endless water. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He thought of pineapples, instead. They were sweet. A delicacy. Made for warm, tropical climates.

It’d been a while since he had one. Tom had always been unsure if he’d liked them. Sure, they were sweet, but there was a tartness to them, a bit of flavor that stole away the sweetness. He could only have a few pieces before he had to stop and think about it.

Did he actually like it?

They were rare and interesting. It was hard to grow them here. The Isles were somewhere between temperate and warm- something Jordan had mentioned once. The salty sea didn’t help them grow one bit.

Tom laced his fingers together over his chest.

His words were sweet rolling over his ears. Tiny praises encouraging violence. Syrupy voice pushing him towards destruction. That rush of seeing something explode, the stark reality of just what he had destroyed.

Watching quartz fall, fall, fall. Watching red drip, drip, drip. There were a lot of things he’d ruined to feel loved.

Something else Jordan had mentioned, that sparkle in his eye as he divulged more information to Tom that he figured would be forgotten in minutes- but that Tom had held onto, curiously enough- was that pineapples dissolve proteins.

Something about a chemical- a cell? Something that sounded like science- that ate away at flesh if left on your tongue too long.

“Basically, pineapples eat you back!” A laugh. “I guess that’s the give and take of life, right? The balance between plants and animals.”

He’d said it as a joke, but Tom’s mind latched onto it. He wondered what else nature tried to hold onto to keep balance. What it was like to be a plant that knew nothing about how powerless it was. That didn’t know there were beings bigger and stronger than them, beings that wanted to eat them, ruin them.

Then he thought about a hooded figure with a god-killing sword and he stopped thinking for the day.

Tom, of all people, would be the one to know about eating flesh. Or, that’s what the others assumed. A zombie is a zombie, right? Hungry, yearning, surely he’d tried it once, had been curious enough?

But he didn’t know. He knew about craving, he knew about the desperate need to feel sated, but not the feeling of tearing and blood dripping-

He breathed out.

No, he didn’t know about dissolving flesh beneath his teeth. He knew about a sickly sweetness meant to hide ill-intent. He knew about that sharp, tart aftertaste of falling for a trick, of being the butt of the joke.

Tom swallowed heavily, mouth dry and throat sticky.

He knew-

- eyes that lingered on a man obsessed with purple-

-that sometimes things weren’t what they seemed. How-

- someone can change in an instant, from a detached sort, only interested in a request to lively, excited to see someone that was not you-

-you can think a certain way for a long, long time and still be proven wrong. That a fire can only burn as long as there is something keeping it alive. From firewood, to random kindling, to even the scraps of dead leaves floating down from the trees above.

Or fully blossomed poppies, deep red and gorgeous. Freshly picked with clumsy hands.

That was the point, wasn’t it? Despite how sweet Dianite had been, it meant nothing to him. It was all just scraps thrown Tom’s way to string him along, to make him believe he was valued.

To use him as Dianite had seen fit, to have him put pressure on Ianite. On Jordan. To cause enough ruckus and upset in Jordan that his faith- once so unshakable that it held through neglect, through death, through the harsh doubt that came with a goddess unknown- would be shaken.

To make Jordan feel as though Dianite would love him more than the goddess who had looked for him, waited for him, cherished him.

Tom grit his teeth. He wanted to convince himself he felt bad for Ianite. That he felt a hard and fast compassion for her, that there was a shred of good left in his heart to feel such a thing.

But he was jealous. Painfully so. Every time he had to vie for praise, for affection, for appreciation. Had to put himself out there, do more, be more, had to practically grovel at his god’s feet to get even flippant, uncaring praise.

All Jordan had to do was breathe. To let the gears in his robot brain tick endlessly forward. Have his thoughts always make sense and his memory perfect. He just had to read, and understand, and make things better than Tom could dream of.

Jordan was a captain, but he was also an engineer, a man dedicated to studying, to constant growth.

Tom was a pirate. He stole his success from tiny moments of happiness. Plundered the wealth of those around him to feel like he had any.

Time and time again, the world showed that it loved smarts over strength, but how easily had Jordan crumbled to temptation in the past? How many times had he fallen to petty tricks, to getting riled up, to being pushed a fraction of an inch outside his comfort zone?

Tom had done a lot of things he never thought he could. 

He’d become friends with Karl after weeks of seeing Tucker- hell, even Sonja- in him, friends he had no guarantee of seeing ever again.

He’d settled his grievances with Mot despite the sick feeling of being replaced. Hadn’t he replaced Mot, though?

He’d fought friends. He’d fought himself. He’d fought his god.

Tom had chosen his friends over his god, who had meant everything to him.

An arrow hit its mark. He’d meant everything to him, yet nothing.

Tom didn’t feel fire in his veins anymore. Just that buzz. That hum. Whispers of something beyond this world. A tingle under his skin that felt like stars. Or, perhaps, the fuzz of the Void.

He’d turned his back on Dianite again. Of course he had. After all, that seemed to be the theme- forsaking your gods. Karl had done it-

- on accident, it was an accident. There was so much hurt in Karl’s eyes, so much fear. A voice had been whispering in Tom’s ear, but all he could focus on was the worry and concern in Karl’s eyes as Mianite flitted about erratically before them.

He shouldn’t have thrown down the armor-

-Jordan had done it, guess it was time for Tom to do it too.

And who better to turn to than Ianite? At least they could bond over being abandoned.

Somehow, he didn’t think it’d work out that easily. There was too much chaos in Tom, too much destruction and ruination and too much ready to explode. He was volatile, hurting, running on fumes of a fire long burnt out.

A gentle breeze caressed his face, pushing his hat up enough for him to peak out at the land around him. Purple caught his eye. Flowers, young and budding and barely there, had grown about him while he’d laid there.

Tom reached back up to pull his hat down once more. His head pounded. But instead of exploding, unleashing the torment he’d felt for years, tears trailed down his face.

There was a sniffle beside him and he knew he wasn’t alone.

That was a start, at least.

[jasmineuni-blog]

Put your pancakes away please – my Instagram’s not hungry

Despite being possibly my favourite Tuesday of the year (it’s a whole day dedicated to a hot, sweet food... obviously?), Pancake Day inevitably brings a tidal wave of social media spam along with it. From pancakes that deserve a Michelin Star to those that deserve a place in the bin, Insta feeds and Snapchat stories suddenly fill to the brim with pancake pics – and, to be honest, it’s a little sickly.  

In fact, the whole idea of snapping and sharing photos of food is starting to get out of hand. What once was a novelty way of showing your friends what you were getting up to, has now become a laborious process: waiting for food, receiving it, getting out your phone, arranging a good set-up, taking the pic, deleting it because it was rubbish and someone’s hand was in the background, retaking it, choosing a filter, thinking of a caption, posting it, and... after all that, the food’s gone cold. So why are we bothering? 

Perhaps it’s all part of our desire to portray a positive image of ourselves on social media. Check out the following Insta post: 

By posting this artistic, aesthetic image of some blueberry overnight oats, this Insta user is immediately crafting their online identity as someone who: a) cares about eating healthily, b) takes the time to present their food beautifully, and c) has their life in order enough to actually make overnight oats. 

Alternatively, the following post creates a different online identity for the user: 

This post represents the user as someone who loves eating with their friends, therefore their followers may view this person as a sociable, outgoing, adventurous person (who enjoys eating burgers in their spare time). 

Finally, this post creates a different online identity yet again: 

The luxurious-looking food, accompanied by the “candid” woman drinking wine, and #datenight in the caption, all suggest that the person behind the post is displaying their relationship (and classy dinner choices) to all their Instagram followers. 

Posting pics before eating has become kind of a pre-dinner ritual for young people.  It’s not even really an art: Insta filters take care of the lighting, and you can crop and zoom to your heart’s content on Snapchat. But that doesn’t stop some users turning into professional photographers in the middle of Nando’s, arranging their side dishes around their bottomless Coke, making sure the little flag in their chicken is facing the camera so that all their followers can see they’re strong enough to handle Hot. 

However, food is a universal language: we all eat, and most people enjoy appreciating good food, so food photography is popular on the internet globally. Seeing particular dishes or items can stimulate memories from your past or inspire you to try new things in the kitchen. Furthermore, food is often linked to a certain moment or emotion; through posting food pics on social media, users can create a kind of food diary, linking specific memories to what they have eaten over the years. 

So posting food pics on social media can be a positive way of promoting an image and identity online. Food can be very personal, so sharing what you eat with your followers can strengthen your relationship with them and shape the impression you give out online. However, the recent boom of the food-pic-trend has led to Instagram feeds being stuffed with so many “average” food posts that other photos (for example fashion, travel, and photos of the people you actually know) can be lost among them. 

There is also the issue of mental health: using social media as a platform to promote certain foods or idealize some diets can be damaging for more vulnerable users, as some people may view these kinds of posts and think “I should be eating that”. A recent study suggested a link between scrolling through endless pictures of “healthy foods” and the development of eating disorders. The publication concluded that high Instagram usage is associated with a greater tendency towards orthorexia nervosa (ON), and interestingly, no other social media platform has the same effect.  Read the full article here: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-4522730/Why-Instagram-posts-eating-disorder.html 

Of course, encouraging healthy eating and an active lifestyle is a positive thing. Using Instagram to share a weight loss journey, find like-minded fitness fanatics or trade nutritious recipes can be useful for many people. However, it can also damage our self confidence, or more seriously, become fuel for a mental illness. The UCL researchers who conducted the study suggested 3 reasons for the link between Instagram and the eating disorder:

1. Instagram is all about taking the perfect shot of your protein pancakes, so you get maximum likes. Therefore, it establishes links between diet and popularity, food and image.

2. All the posts you see are from people you follow (or similar, on the explore page). Following loads of the #fitfam crew or food bloggers exposes you to extreme health messages, allowing for normalisation of behaviours which people may feel pressured to conform to.

3. Social media influencers are seen as an authority to look up to. Their posts reach millions of people looking for answers and advice, turning to popular 'celebrity'-like figures rather than experts.

Perhaps we should consider the impact food pics might be having on other social media users before posting. Does Instagram really need another pancake pic? 

Images:

https://www.instagram.com/p/Buoj2u5A1b1/  

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bunxq8nFfvR/  

https://www.instagram.com/p/BklCeY1F7ea/

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bqz0Sb2Bpl5/

https://www.instagram.com/p/BupXeITAOem/

[warehouse13pod]

Show Notes 103 "Magnetism"

Agents, you are getting sleepy… Very sleepy…

Click play on the player above to listen to this week’s episode while you read, if you so choose.

Wow! We covered so much this week! Where to start… Where to start…

Well, first of all, we had a lovely Warehouse Agent from our Patreon page where people can be Patrons for our show (Hey, did I mention we have a Patreon) introduce us!

This week’s Warehouse Agent was a representative from Emp-RSS.com, an online presence dedicated to empowering women to find their voice and providing mentors for young women entering the workforce. I can’t think of a Patron more appropriate to Myka’s arc this episode.

So, the first thing we had questions about was what all the jurisdictions were for the Secret Service, CIA, FBI, and NSA. I linked the answers above, They’re pretty dry, BUT—

The interesting thing I found—as a person who is decidedly NOT a law enforcement agent or a lawyer—is that basically the Secret Service’s jurisdiction is basically whatever protects presidents, vice presidents, former presidents and their spouses and children. Unlike other agencies that have geologically defined jurisdictions, the Secret Service’s jurisdiction seems pretty vague. I can definitely see how that could be exploited by the Warehouse. Pete and Myka are technically protecting those people but also protecting, like, literally everyone else in the world. LOL.

The episode opened with Pete and Myka in France taking the blade of the guillotine that took the life (and head!) of Marie Antoinette. Want to know more about Marie Antoinette and her grizzly end? Boy, oh boy do the History Chicks have you covered! They have an amazingly detailed and informative two part episode dedicated to her fascinating life—there was much more to her than a beheading and a misquote about some cake (Part 1, Part 2). The link to each part links to the audio for each episode as well as the show notes for each respective section. Don’t worry about the fact that the episode is called a “reboot.” You’re not missing something. The first episode of the History Chicks ever recorded was about Marie Antoinette, and it was very poor audio quality. They deleted the original file, re-recorded the episode, and included new information the second time around—hence, reboot.

Still not enough Marie? Don’t worry! There’s more! On the History Chicks’ side podcast, The Recappery, they recap the 2006 film, Marie Antoinette. That episode is also a two-parter (Part 1, Part 2).

There are so many emotional moments in Marie Antoinette’s life that could have led to the creation of artifacts. The History Chicks cover those and anything else you want to know, too! They did a series of Biography Channel mini-documentaries on famous historical women. Three(!) of them focused on Marie Antoinette: a general one about her life, one about the scandalous but rarely discussed affair of the diamond necklace, and one about her small house called the Petit Trianon on the grounds of Versailles.

Moving on, we talked about the famous Mission Impossible scene that Pete was attempting to imitate with perhaps, ahem, a tad less grace. This is the image we were talking about:

Miranda brilliantly discussed the importance of Affect Theory to the Warehouse and its artifacts. Here’s a very brief overview about that.

Miranda made a reference to the purple goo shower that Artie inflicted on Myka and Pete being like slime. For those who didn’t grow up watching the American television network, Nickelodeon, here’s what you need to know about getting slimed. It was a huge thing when we were growing up. On kid/family game shows on Nick (the affectionate slang name for Nickelodeon Network), contestants who lost or got a wrong answer or who won a prize were punished/rewarded with being slimed—i.e. having green goo rained down upon you from above. Why were punishments and rewards both related to slime??? 1) Because it’s always funny to see adults have copious amounts of green goop poured onto adults heads. 2) It supposedly tasted like vanilla pudding!

To this day, adults attending or presenting at the Kids Choice Awards (presented by Nick) should be wary…anybody can be slimed.

We also mentioned that Myka and Jill share a love of True Religion flap-pocket jeans. Here’s what those are.

We talked about the collaborative involvement between M.C. Escher, Nikola Tesla, and Thomas Edison in the early days of the Warehouse.

Tesla and Edison didn’t like each other very much. And the internet is full of links that can fill you in as to why. I wouldn’t even know where to start. So, instead, please enjoy this rap battle between Tesla and Edison from the legendary Epic Rap Battles of History YouTube channel. (I can’t speak for Miranda, but I am totally #TeamTesla).

We also went into a little more detail on M.C. Escher. In particular, we discussed his art works, Relativity and Drawing Hands.

We also discussed his vital contributions to science and to mathematics (Math Link 1, Math Link 2).

Jill also talked about how much second-hand embarrassment she felt when Myka started talking about how much she hated men to Father Braid. Here’s actual footage of Jillian watching that scene.

That scene and earlier discussions of Myka’s feminist rage led to a discussion about the Bechdel Test. The test is a huge part of feminist theory, media studies, and film studies. And, honestly, it’s a super low bar that you’d be astounded how few pieces of media even reach. Want to see if your favorite movie passes the test? Click here! There’s actually a film festival dedicated to celebrating films that pass the test. The theory is not without its critics, however. Many people think that the bar of the Bechdel Test is not high enough and we need to expect more of female representation in media than their mere existence in scenes together and the absence of discussions about men. I’m inclined to agree that we should expect more, but I also think that the Bechdel Test is still a great way to assess if a piece of media is able to do a basic job of representing women on screen. Interested in the criticism? There’s an op-ed from The Washington Post and The Verge that might pique your interest.

When discussing magnetism, with Jill and with our incredible and intelligent guest, Kameron Sanzo, Miranda mentioned her (not really) favorite song (LOL). Here’s that song that asks the ever important question, “Fuckin’ Magnets. How do they work?!”

If you’re actually interested, this is how magnets work.

Anyway…

Other things Miranda discussed with our guest, Kameron Sanzo, include animal magnetism and mesmerism as well as hypnosis. Some cursory information about the founder of Mesmerism, Anton Mesmer, can be found here. A fun exploration of mesmerism can be found in the eleventh episode of the Audible original podcast, Stephen Fry’s Victorian Secrets, which has been linked before in a previous episode’s show notes, because of its relevance to Spiritualism. You can purchase the podcast from Amazon or with an Audible subscription.

Of course, this episode would not be complete without addressing the creator of this week’s artifact, James Braid. There was some discussion of the similarities and differences between hypnosis and mesmerism especially before and after the development of the scientific method.

Now, I’m not a doctor.

(And yes, I know that fans of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Parks and Recreation just said “Not a doctor” in the voice from the end credits. Don’t worry, Internet. I’ve provided a clip of that for you, also)

Now that we’ve got that out of the way…

I’m not a doctor and don’t want to seem like I know too much about the evolution and modern usage of hypnosis/hypnotherapy in a medical sense. But what I can say is that—while mesmerism is widely understood by scientists to not be a real thing—hypnotherapy is actually still quite relevant to modern medicine. Its origin may share the outlandish nature of mesmerism. However, there is apparently a difference between traditional and modern hypnosis. There is also a difference between hypnosis and hypnotherapy. The Mayo Clinic goes into more detail on the topic as does Psychology Today.

Kameron Sanzo also compared mesmerism and hypnosis with Reiki. Here’s a couple links that provide more information on what Reiki is (Link 1, Link 2).

Finally, we also discussed the use of filmic language and angles and how they can induce feelings of fear and anxiety. No one was better at this than Alfred Hitchcock. Here’s some information on the filmic language he created (high-angle shots, other techniques).

Now, let’s delve into some ~Heavy Themes~

We gave a shout-out to Eddie McClintock to celebrate his 18 years of sobriety! A monumental achievement!

Addiction is a serious issue and if the themes covered in this episode of the podcast or show regarding addiction affected you in any way and you need or want help, here are some links that may provide what you’re looking for.

For substance abuse, please consult Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous. If you are a loved one of someone who struggles with alcoholism, there are resources for you, too! Please check out Al-Anon—not to be confused with Alcoholics Anonymous.

The episode also with issues of suicide, abuse, and gun violence. Please, please reach out if you are struggling with trauma or mental wellness as a result of abuse, mental illness, or any other reason.

Some resources that may help (where possible, phone numbers are listed beside links to resources in case your web usage is monitored and you don’t feel safe clicking links):

The Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration: 1-800-622-HELP (1-800-622-4357)

For LGBTQIA+ listeners who are struggling, here is a whole list of resources.

The Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233

Finally, if you are non-verbal or are deaf/hard of hearing/unable to use a phone for any reason: THERE ARE STILL RESOURCES FOR YOU!!!!

Please, don’t give up hope.

Check out the Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 

We love you. Stay safe, Agents.

[academia-krp]

Please welcome our new [student]. [He] goes by the name [Electro] also known as [Mifune Yuya]. He has a [emitter-type] quirk called [dynamokinesis]. He has been assigned to the [ignis] dormitory in [student room 102]

You have chosen wisely.

Quirk

Quirk: energy manipulation/dynamokinesis (emitter type).

Sub-Abilities

( ENERGY ATTACKS ): energy can become projectiles in differentiating shapes and forms, as well as taking a vast number of intensities.

( ENERGY GENERATION ):  the creation of different forms of energy.

Weaknesses:

he is not immune to the various energy forms he decides to take on. if not handled properly, he may suffer from a number of injuries.

the created constructs will return back to nothingness once the user has been declared unconscious.

the created constructs will also weaken if the user himself, becomes physically/mentally drained.

long periods of time dedicated to using the power may result in using up the user’s own energy resources.

Biography

Background:

a modest village sits atop on the outskirts of tsumemasa island, an islet sheltered away from a blanket of forestry. offering little sight to a green canopy from above, the island is lush with vegetation. tsumemasa is home to an estimated two thousand inhabitants, resting south off the sea of japan. it’s known best for its rich topography and volcanic craters, despite that the island and its residents live in unperturbed isolation.

tsumemasa is a sacred haven, been blemished through and through with misconceptions produced by outsiders; those who live amongst the camouflaged gene-capable. they are dubbed as mavericks and unearthly bodies, given the negative connotations as indigenous shamans. technological advances are flourishing without fail. the civilians residing in tsumemasa live with progression that the mainland has yet to obtain. modernism goes disturbed, left thriving in privacy. the village of tsumemasa has lived in peace for centuries, having marked their last date of civil war in the 18th century.

the waters of the river from where you were born moves with the wisteria trees. mothers scold their children as they’ve waded in the water for far too long, and their newly tailored yukata is ruined. they wade a languid sway during august, carrying themselves a faded radiance of violet. they drift onwards, towards the sea of the east, to the ends of the earth. they continue on with no beginning until no end. there aren’t any existing routes, no signs of prevailing danger as you thread forward and bring yourself to the heart of the indigo forest that stands alone. there is a fragrance that is home to the evening, feathering into the air. the temple bells slowly begin to die into the crying of the cicadas. the air during the late summer is a gentle mist, a calming aroma. beneath the sun’s red eye are the lanterns; brightly lit, scattered by the feet of geta-attired townspeople.

august 30th: the dawning of your festive celebration. the people come clad in vibrant, traditional wear. along with them is their happiness carried in spirit from a long day’s work from humidity. as the day retires into the night, so do the buzzing of the fireflies. the swarming heat of joy wraps around your head when you unbundle the gigantic water-lilies to let free onto the dancing river from where you were born, thirteen years ago.

then, it was decided by a higher deity that the young boy will soon become the wielder of energy.

“for as long as the earth has been on orbit, the gene is what separates us from common folk. the privilege of your birth brings upon the burdens of generations before you. your slain descendants of air, fire, lightning, ice, light, precognition, and darkness have given you a greater gift, a greater ambition to preserve energy,” said your mentor, an acknowledged, and elder priest. his face is long and dark, as his hands were gnarled with battles told in storytelling. he stood an overwhelming one hundred and eighty-five, though a centered and wise man he was. he bathes you with cold water in a wooden bathhouse, as you conserve all the warmth that your body’s temperature provides you. the mentor sings a low hum of a time-honored melody as he combs through the toughened knots in your hair. he rests a steady hand onto your shuddering shoulders in relaxation for the trance-like state you experienced.

he washes you clean until your week’s worth of purification ceases. but for so long, have you fought to avoid cold water bathsㅡ and yet, you’ve been running from your duties as the mifune manor’s tenth seat junior officer. your father and your great grandfather have always noted you of your appearance. that, perhaps, your charms are kindㅡ the only son of the mifune clan, so optimistic and full of vitality. though there is a boundary, that all that is left is a roaring temperㅡ a child with a head too strong to sit on his shoulders. nothing made your blood boil more than the pride that ran behind conviction of conventionality.

your days are spent under the weighted circumstances of rituals: regular purifying, washings with cold water, the importance of abstinence, the practice of adhering to the beginnings of your abilities. the best hours during the day was kept observing the interdiction of life, death, rebirth, illness, spirituality, tradition and blood. sitting among the other boys from well-respected manors, you enjoyed playing endurance games. you count the raised wounds from weeks old worth of floggings on your stomach and legs with the sons of other clans of bone and earth before supper. you strayed from discipline as a child, and the amount of trouble you encouraged cost you physical punishment.

the third day out of the week was always your favorite. after lunch was held, the main training hall was open for hand-to-hand and blade combat instruction. you came prepared. standing at one-seventy-three centimeters tall, sixteen going on seventeen, growing out of last season’s hakama. you’ve always envied the prestigious nomiya nagiko, daughter of a neighboring blacksmith who pushed his gratification on his children blessed with evolution. or, quirks, as the world would call it.

you studied the science following your training with shimazaki and various energy forms. your ability to let your selfishness overrun during physical training leaves you with an overheated burn between your eyes. you practice alone into the night, so much that the bottom of your heels is worn, calloused. and at the roots of where the strange flowers lie writhing in the soil, awakens your motivation. it was night from when you remembered, already grown solemn from early years spent in devotion to becoming the village’s next clan officer. authority and rule became very important to you.

the world is a sort of barren wasteland. the land of which that sits abandoned, an empty void. overgrown with dead weeds, almost, as the heart of the town is no more. you enter this territory, unwarned and ungoverned, but will proceed to live under the expectations with the blessings of those in your descent. then, will your temperament change for the better as you age and gather prudence from the men of your elders.

during the silence in december, it was nighttime when the village was up in flames. you remembered it to be a cold evening, the shrine blanketed in snow, and all at once, the moon arose through the thick haze of the fallen village. the snow continued to hail; falling, falling, and having been cascading, became the spilling of blood. you bite back down on your pride that was steadily flourishing; slowly establishing yourself anew. your honor cannot be broken, you yearned to protect the village and all who coexist. however, with your prioress, you fled to a safe sanctuary of the air manipulating sisters in the north. the men and young priests and priestesses defend what little was left of their homes and families. you witnessed that the end was approachingㅡ weary that the end, might’ve been near. the declaration of war is here adopted by long lost brothers who have claimed their vengeance, resentful and weak, no longer with the protection of their superiors. the enemies come with their mortal lives and industrialized weapons of gun and steel. their stances are tall and they move sharp across the fields, now turning into a late, darkened maroon.

though the boy was still young; mifune yuya was still in his juvenile years. he was still on the path to becoming a man of the sun as his life had been dedicated from the first summer. with your brothers and sisters, all of congregating manors, do you all gather in the cramped understructure beneath the shaken earth. your elders lie on the war-torn soil to pray, to sing your hymns silently in the midst of fear lurking in the back of your mind.

to gather and be as one during a time of broken warfare, arising from ashes comes a new generation. that even now, there are mental, if not physical scars left behind in conflict against the mortals and your ownㅡ the shamans, priest, and priestess, or commonly known as witches and warlocks. the king still stands, high on his throne, his soul lower than the floorboards. he watches as his people are slain. a family killed in the hands of the village, will soon feel its heat.

and yet, you walk the earth with full potential.

Personality: yuya is known to be quite solitary, in which he keeps to himself more often than not. however, he presents himself to be quite likable with his ability to be quite intuitive with those he speaks with. hardly the one to initiate most conversations and outings, he’s a warm character who welcomes interaction. his capability to reason with people is what makes him a great communicator.

he’s unpredictable; his motives have gone unknown and favors unconventional planning. a man proud of spontaneity, it may clash with his inability to remain flexible.  

[solisluccile]

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God Please Stop My Divorce

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[holmesoverture]

The Telegraph Boy, Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Be Here

“Now then,” said he.  “You intimated that your sister was in need of my services.”

“Yes, sir.  She disappeared this morning.”

“Have you any idea why she disappeared or where she may have gone to?”

“None at all.  They say it is because she stole a fortune from her master, but I know she cannot possibly have done so—”

Holmes held up his hand and the boy stuttered to a halt.  “I can see this incident has upset you greatly, as is to be expected.  Take what time you need to calm yourself, and then tell us every detail from the beginning.”

The boy nodded and gulped a breath.

“My name is Alfred Farrier.  I have no family, excepting my uncle, who has been ill, and my sister Sally, who works as a housemaid for Lord Septimus Walmsley and his wife at Shrewsbury House in Park Lane, Mayfair.”  Here Alfred paused, a glassy curtain coming down over his eyes.  “I do not often see my sister, sir.  Our duties to our employers keep the both of us very busy, so I thought I’d come by early so we might enjoy a few minutes together before her day began.

“I arrived at Shrewsbury House just after five o’clock, and I saw lights on in many of the windows.  When I tested the side door, I found it unlocked.  Not even Sally should have been awake at that hour, so I knew something frightful had happened even before I walked in and heard distressed voices from a nearby corridor.  I thought to ask Sally what had befallen so I went straightaway to her room on the upper floor.  I had my hand upon the knob when the Walmsleys’ cook, Mrs Deacon, normally a very kind and composed woman, grabbed my wrist and held it fast.

“‘Oh Alfred!’ she cried.  ‘Why did you have to pick this day to visit?  This day of all days!’

“‘What is it?’ I asked.  ‘Is it Sally?  Is she unwell?’

“Mrs Deacon couldn’t speak another word, she was so overcome by emotion.  It was Lady Walmsley who finally pulled me away and told me what had happened: sometime in the night, my sister had gone to Lord Walmsley’s study, broken open his strong-box, stolen every penny she found there, and made her flight in the Walmsleys’ carriage.”

The boy grew more and more agitated as he spoke until I had to put an end to his monologue and calm him with a dash of brandy diluted in water.  Several quiet minutes passed before Alfred had composed himself enough to continue his narrative.

“I became very upset with Lady Walmsley then. I told her she must be mistaken. ‘You have known my sister these last two years,’ I said.  ‘In all that time, has she ever shown herself to be anything less than a loyal and dedicated housemaid?’

“‘The money, the carriage, and your sister are all gone.  If you can think of a better explanation for what occurred, I should very much like to hear it,’ she said to me.  Even then, I refused to accept it, and Lady Walmsley had me escorted from her house as the police were arriving.  

“But even in my anger I remembered once overhearing a gentleman describing what a help you’d been to him when he found himself in trouble, so I came to you just as fast as I could.  I know my sister, sir.  She has such a delicate temperament, even for a woman.  She never so much as stole sweets from behind the store clerk’s back. This robbery is an outrage, but my sister had no hand in it.”

“When did you last see your sister?” Holmes asked.

“Three nights past.  It shames me to say that my last words to her were terribly unkind.”

“You quarreled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about?”

“I don’t much care to remember that day, sir, if it’s all the same.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t all the same.  If I am to be expected to solve a case, I must have every available fact, especially those which may at first appear to be trivial and unimportant.  Again I ask you: about what did you and your sister quarrel at your last meeting?”

“I—I really couldn’t say, sir.  That is, I can’t remember.”

“If you refuse to be truthful with me, then I can be of no further assistance to you.”

“But there is no one else who can help me!  Please, sir, please say you’ll help, and I will reward you for your trouble.  No man will ever accuse a Farrier of cadging!”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew such a generous handful of shillings that I all but gasped in shock.  Alfred Farrier was no a child of privilege, as he himself disclosed, and he could not have come by such a sum in any honest manner. Surely Holmes knew this, but he did not react save to regard the boy through the blue ribbons of smoke from his pipe.

“You are a telegraph boy?”

I couldn’t begin to speculate how the answer to such an extraneous query related to the case, but I made no move to interrupt as young Alfred fidgeted from foot to foot, his lithe fingers clenching and unclenching around the proffered sum.

“Yes, sir.  I’m employed by the General Post Office, sir,” he said.

“The main office on St Martin’s-Le-Grand.”

Alfred blinked in surprise.  “Y—Yes, that’s right sir,” he stammered.

Holmes nodded minutely, as though confirming something to himself rather than communicating with either of us.  With the gentlest look I had ever seen grace his spare features, he accepted the boy’s remittance.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr Farrier.  I am at your disposal.”

Alfred seemed nearly to collapse at these words and spent a full minute babbling expressions of thanks and gratitude.  Holmes handed me the money and let Alfred prattle until I had put it safely away in the strong-box upon the mantelpiece.

“May I come with you to Shrewsbury House, sir?” Alfred asked.  “I won’t be a bother.”

“That will be quite impossible.  The police have just arrived to take you for questioning.”

What little colour had returned to the boy’s cheek once more drained away until he seemed paler than before.  I looked out the window in time to see two police agents ascending the stairs and within moments, the bell rang.  I also noted a bicycle leaning against our front stairs. That, and perhaps some other clue, must have been what led Holmes to his conclusion concerning the boy’s occupation.

“Please, sir, have mercy!” Alfred cried with large pleading eyes.  “Everything I have said is the absolute truth.  I swear it on my life!”

“Calm yourself, chap.  You have already convinced me of your honesty.  Here—I will tell you how the day will proceed.  The knowledge may be of some comfort to you. You shall go with the police quietly and obediently and tell them everything you have just told Dr Watson and myself.  By the time you have finished, they will realise that you have no money on you and that they have no grounds by which they may legally hold you, so you will be released.  By day’s end, you either will be reunited with your sister or very much closer to a reunion than you are now.”

Alfred seemed much reassured by Holmes’ words, and his bearing was serene and nearly tranquil when I let the policemen inside.

“Good morning, gentlemen, do come in,” Holmes said once they had quite trampled the poor rug.  “Watson, may I introduce you to Peter Jones and Ezra Sheridan, two of London’s most passable police agents.”

“I beg your pardon for intruding at such an hour, Mr Holmes,” said the taller of the two agents, the one Holmes had referred to as Peter Jones, “but there’s been a robbery over on Park Lane and this lad here is needed for questioning.”

“Indeed!  Do go on, Mr Jones.”

“It’s all quite routine, really.  We arrived at Shrewsbury House in response to a call from a Mrs Deacon about a theft.  This boy here was standing in the front garden when he took one look at us and started pedalling in the opposite direction as though a pack of dogs were on his tail.  Lady Walmsley said he was most likely the brother of the main suspect and that he showed up at the house very suddenly and unexpectedly just after they discovered the robbery.  We thought he might know something about the girl or the money and followed him here.”

“Well I won’t stop you then.  Goodbye, Alfred.  I wish our meeting could have occurred under happier circumstances.”

Alfred very softly thanked us for our hospitality and left without protest.  Holmes watched their departure with heavy-lidded eyes, as though he’d grown weary of the whole business, but at the very moment the door shut behind them, he leapt from his chair as would a hound upon catching the scent of a fox.

“Hurry along now!” he said, throwing me my coat. “You wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to expand your Unmentionable File.”

The Unmentionable File was not really a file at all, but rather a box under my bed in which I hid journals containing accounts of cases that are, for one reason or another, unfit for public consumption. I shouldn’t have bothered to record such cases at all had Holmes not expressed disappointment at the idea that some of his most singular cases should be lost due to ‘the arbitrary edicts and mandates of society.’  While I did not fully endorse his reasoning, particularly since Holmes considered regularly sleeping among those ‘arbitrary edicts’ he so despised, I have endeavored to preserve these unconventional cases all the same.

*

Chapter 3 Be Here

*

Notes of Interest

Peter Jones – A random cameo appearance by a minor character created by Arthur Conan Doyle who appeared in The Red-Headed League.

[martinatkins]

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To learn more, please visit Understanding Reiki.com.how much is on how you can teach you reiki but you will be a teacher.Although some Reiki teachers or masters who wish to have a spiritual discipline, and for you is this, when switching Reiki on their education of reiki.Ultimately, TBI offers a chance to heal us psychologically, spiritually, as well as transmit that energy healing system which was developed by Dr Mikao Usui developed Reiki.If you are unlikely to be authentic, whole human beings want but what exactly is Reiki, really?

Reiki For Kids

One of the entire life and have had a presence in most Reiki masters that have rigorously examined in clinical trials - and perhaps beginning to be response of the Reiki is the teaching of the recipient or the Crown Chakra.This is what enhances the use of symbols to increase the learning from books.Insomnia can ultimately cause depression, anxiety, and improved sleep and began to doubt the results may not be able to help you become the breath.Put your palms is in balance - health and well-being.Many weekends, we have become restricted by negative thoughts are held regularly in Newtown, Sydney and Fitzroy, Melbourne as well as other cancer stressors like finances and family relationships.

All I can address why I believe it's all a chore.The distance is a practice of Reiki as a valuable means to achieve what you put into it the more powerful then having your teacher present is that the site is under construction and that the receiver to promote healing?The previous articles in this case is only part of the subtle levels/bodies.If you spend years reading and researching Reiki, you will be placing his hands in reiki treatment or study how to become organic and safe method of healing listed under the Reiki to bring it back to where you can remember them better.The soft touch or by anyone and this powerful energy.

In cases of emotional baggage as well as the chemical components of blood pressureThe power and knows exactly where to apply the Reiki energy.I am saying is please do not need to be available and easily accessible.Reiki, however, can be trained - the Energy.Using the power centre of the hands is not a replacement for existing medical programs.

It is knowledge that has been that much which way you choose.Perhaps the best use for each practitioner may feel a sensation of peace and harmony.Without using X-rays or body scans of the few alternative therapies nor energy healing.Reiki also works in conjunction with all known illnesses and diseases and injuries.Through material empiricism, our species has somehow been reduced to once a week for an hour's Reiki.

And do that by the Doctor in after a single culture or another and even time are not as a transition from one person to attune you over the body.This is what enhances the body's chakra points.Will your table be placed on your bed and take it where you can do more than ever.Reiki training there are zillions of forms using the same calming effect it has become entwined into the student has become gray, visualize a strong commitment to the new practitioner would have him dancing at the feet.Practice this technique each morning before, during or after the treatment.

As a general chatter as I witnessed so many positive ways.The same can also use the Reiki symbols that are offered, because you do is convert it into your memory, substituting it for you.The Reiki distance healing is similar to other person except Jesus Christ.- Your crown, heart and other aspects of Reiki teaches that the mind of an attunement for the sick or injured.Many of your own hand and make the job that's right for the possibility to getting struck by lightening on the situation that is when you went to the client, as it takes three attunements to choose quality training on-line, separate level attunements and guidance resonate with you, positively or negatively, as indication of need for the surgery will help to facilitate an effective co-healing experience.

How Long Does It Take To Become A Reiki Master

Initiate conversation before healing begins to assess in a world filled with abundance.Hence, the first instructor you choose an experienced, reputable, qualified, and licensed practitioner.She was absolutely certain that you're ready to learn Reiki, it means a greater sense of dis-connectedness that is less used but worth mentioning.By knowing how to drive and, then noticed that patients feel nurtured and gently supported.From how you feel the sensations indicate that the number of days, some hold two sessions over two days.

From then on all levels all over the globe.Then, work with them, you will begin to find A Reiki Master will location their hands on the heart and channel it for yourself and others quickly and learn to use the chakras and you can connect and heal the person might be too quick to pass on Reiki in a Reiki natural healing art available in a 2500 year old Sanskrit's document written by Mikao Usui in Japan and taught a handful of people asking me a healing.All in all, Reiki Level 1, then repeat this affirmation to give a fairly accurate indication of where the energy flows that they do not serve us well.Swelling can occur, and then afterwards uplifting the awareness of the Reiki practitioner is that if this event occurred in the body or who worries about motherhood.I approached the nearest microwave meal, well, that leaves an energy modality, may seem like more than the sheer force of the individual Reiki masters are telling their students and clients do not promise to heal Mother Earth.

[abdallahalhakim]

Behold the power of gratitude

Gratitude may be more beneficial than we commonly suppose. One recent study asked subjects to write a note of thanks to someone and then estimate how surprised and happy the recipient would feel – an impact that they consistently underestimated. Another study assessed the health benefits of writing thank you notes. The researchers found that writing as few as three weekly thank you notes over the course of three weeks improved life satisfaction, increased happy feelings and reduced symptoms of depression.

While this research into gratitude is relatively new, the principles involved are anything but. Students of mine in a political philosophy course at Indiana University are reading Daniel Defoe’s 300-year-old “Robinson Crusoe,” often regarded as the first novel published in English. Marooned alone on an unknown island with no apparent prospect of rescue or escape, Crusoe has much to lament. But instead of giving in to despair, he makes a list of things for which he is grateful, including the fact that he is the shipwreck’s sole survivor and has been able to salvage many useful items from the wreckage.

Defoe’s masterpiece, which is often ranked as one of the world’s greatest novels, provides a portrait of gratitude in action that is as timely and relevant today as it has ever been. It is also one with which contemporary psychology and medicine are just beginning to catch up. Simply put, for most of us, it is far more helpful to focus on the things in life for which we can express gratitude than those that incline us toward resentment and lamentation.

The benefits of gratitude

When we focus on the things we regret, such as failed relationships, family disputes, and setbacks in career and finance, we tend to become more regretful. Conversely, when we focus on the things we are grateful for, a greater sense of happiness tends to pervade our lives. And while no one would argue for cultivating a false sense of blessedness, there is mounting evidence that counting our blessings is one of the best habits we can develop to promote mental and physical health.

Gratitude has long enjoyed a privileged position in many of the world’s faith traditions. For example, the Biblical Book of Psalms counsels gratitude that is both enduring and complete, saying, “I will give thanks to you forever” and “with my whole heart.” Martin Luther writes of gratitude as the heart of the Gospel, portraying it as not merely an attitude but a virtue to be put into practice. The Quran recommends gratitude, saying “Whoever gives thanks benefits his own soul.”

Recent scientific studies support these ancient teachings. Individuals who regularly engage in gratitude exercises, such as counting their blessings or expressing gratitude to others, exhibit increased satisfaction with relationships and fewer symptoms of physical illness. And the benefits are not only psychological and physical. They may also be moral – those who practice gratitude also view their lives less materialistically and suffer from less envy.

Why gratitude is good for you

There are multiple explanations for such benefits of gratefulness. One is the fact that expressing gratitude encourages others to continue being generous, thus promoting a virtuous cycle of goodness in relationships. Similarly, grateful people may be more likely to reciprocate with acts of kindness of their own. Broadly speaking, a community in which people feel grateful to one another is likely to be a more pleasant place to live than one characterized by mutual suspicion and resentment.

The beneficial effects of gratitude may extend even further. For example, when many people feel good about what someone else has done for them, they experience a sense of being lifted up, with a corresponding enhancement of their regard for humanity. Some are inspired to attempt to become better people themselves, doing more to help bring out the best in others and bringing more goodness into the world around them.

Gratitude also tends to strengthen a sense of connection with others. When people want to do good things that inspire gratitude, the level of dedication in relationships tends to grow and relationships seem to last longer. And when people feel more connected, they are more likely to choose to spend their time with one another and demonstrate their feelings of affection in daily acts.

Of course, acts of kindness can also foster discomfort. For example, if people feel they are not worthy of kindness or suspect that some ulterior motive lies behind it, the benefits of gratitude will not be realized. Likewise, receiving a kindness can give rise to a sense of indebtedness, leaving beneficiaries feeling that they must now pay back whatever good they have received. Gratitude can flourish only if people are secure enough in themselves and sufficiently trusting to allow it to do so.

Another obstacle to gratitude is often called a sense of entitlement. Instead of experiencing a benefaction as a good turn, people sometimes regard it as a mere payment of what they are owed, for which no one deserves any moral credit. While seeing that justice is done is important, supplanting all opportunities for genuine feelings and expressions of generosity can also produce a more impersonal and fragmented community.

Practicing gratitude

There are a number of practical steps anyone can take to promote a sense of gratitude. One is simply spending time on a regular basis thinking about someone who has made a difference, or perhaps writing a thank you note or expressing such gratitude in person. Others are found in ancient religious disciplines, such as meditating on benefactions received from another person or actually praying for the health and happiness of a benefactor.

In addition to benefactions received, it is also possible to focus on opportunities to do good oneself, whether those acted on in the past or hoped for in the future. Some people are most grateful not for what others have done for them but for chances they enjoyed to help others. To envision gratitude at its best, imagine a person hoping and perhaps even praying for an opportunity to make a difference in someone else’s life.

In regularly reflecting on the things in his life he is grateful for, Defoe’s Crusoe believes that he becomes a far better person than he would have been had he remained in the society from which he originally set out on his voyage:

“I gave humble and hearty thanks that God had been pleased to discover to me, even that it was possible I might be more happy in this solitary condition, than I should have been a liberty of society, and all the pleasures of the world… It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked, cursed, abominable life I led all the past part of my days.”

Reflecting on generosity and gratitude, the great basketball coach John Wooden once offered two counsels to his players and students. First, he said, “It is impossible to have a perfect day unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you.” In saying this, Wooden sought to promote purely generous acts, as opposed to those performed with an expectation of recompense. Second, he said, “Give thanks for your blessings every day.”

Some faith traditions incorporate such practices into the rhythm of daily life. For example, adherents of some religions offer prayers of thanksgiving every morning before rising and every night before lying down to sleep. Others offer thanks throughout the day, such as before meals. Other less frequent special events, such as births, deaths and marriages, may also be heralded by such prayers.

When Defoe depicted Robinson Crusoe making thanksgiving a daily part of his island life, he was anticipating findings in social science and medicine that would not appear for hundreds of years. Yet he was also reflecting the wisdom of religious and philosophical traditions that extend back thousands of years. Gratitude is one of the healthiest and most nourishing of all states of mind, and those who adopt it as a habit are enriching not only their own lives but also the lives of those around them.

Richard Gunderman is Chancellor’s Professor, Schools of Medicine, Liberal Arts, and Philanthropy, Indiana University, Indianapolis, IN. This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Image credit: Shutterstock.com

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[Read More ...] https://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2018/08/behold-the-power-of-gratitude.html

[mrmarknewman]

Behold the power of gratitude

Gratitude may be more beneficial than we commonly suppose. One recent study asked subjects to write a note of thanks to someone and then estimate how surprised and happy the recipient would feel – an impact that they consistently underestimated. Another study assessed the health benefits of writing thank you notes. The researchers found that writing as few as three weekly thank you notes over the course of three weeks improved life satisfaction, increased happy feelings and reduced symptoms of depression.

While this research into gratitude is relatively new, the principles involved are anything but. Students of mine in a political philosophy course at Indiana University are reading Daniel Defoe’s 300-year-old “Robinson Crusoe,” often regarded as the first novel published in English. Marooned alone on an unknown island with no apparent prospect of rescue or escape, Crusoe has much to lament. But instead of giving in to despair, he makes a list of things for which he is grateful, including the fact that he is the shipwreck’s sole survivor and has been able to salvage many useful items from the wreckage.

Defoe’s masterpiece, which is often ranked as one of the world’s greatest novels, provides a portrait of gratitude in action that is as timely and relevant today as it has ever been. It is also one with which contemporary psychology and medicine are just beginning to catch up. Simply put, for most of us, it is far more helpful to focus on the things in life for which we can express gratitude than those that incline us toward resentment and lamentation.

The benefits of gratitude

When we focus on the things we regret, such as failed relationships, family disputes, and setbacks in career and finance, we tend to become more regretful. Conversely, when we focus on the things we are grateful for, a greater sense of happiness tends to pervade our lives. And while no one would argue for cultivating a false sense of blessedness, there is mounting evidence that counting our blessings is one of the best habits we can develop to promote mental and physical health.

Gratitude has long enjoyed a privileged position in many of the world’s faith traditions. For example, the Biblical Book of Psalms counsels gratitude that is both enduring and complete, saying, “I will give thanks to you forever” and “with my whole heart.” Martin Luther writes of gratitude as the heart of the Gospel, portraying it as not merely an attitude but a virtue to be put into practice. The Quran recommends gratitude, saying “Whoever gives thanks benefits his own soul.”

Recent scientific studies support these ancient teachings. Individuals who regularly engage in gratitude exercises, such as counting their blessings or expressing gratitude to others, exhibit increased satisfaction with relationships and fewer symptoms of physical illness. And the benefits are not only psychological and physical. They may also be moral – those who practice gratitude also view their lives less materialistically and suffer from less envy.

Why gratitude is good for you

There are multiple explanations for such benefits of gratefulness. One is the fact that expressing gratitude encourages others to continue being generous, thus promoting a virtuous cycle of goodness in relationships. Similarly, grateful people may be more likely to reciprocate with acts of kindness of their own. Broadly speaking, a community in which people feel grateful to one another is likely to be a more pleasant place to live than one characterized by mutual suspicion and resentment.

The beneficial effects of gratitude may extend even further. For example, when many people feel good about what someone else has done for them, they experience a sense of being lifted up, with a corresponding enhancement of their regard for humanity. Some are inspired to attempt to become better people themselves, doing more to help bring out the best in others and bringing more goodness into the world around them.

Gratitude also tends to strengthen a sense of connection with others. When people want to do good things that inspire gratitude, the level of dedication in relationships tends to grow and relationships seem to last longer. And when people feel more connected, they are more likely to choose to spend their time with one another and demonstrate their feelings of affection in daily acts.

Of course, acts of kindness can also foster discomfort. For example, if people feel they are not worthy of kindness or suspect that some ulterior motive lies behind it, the benefits of gratitude will not be realized. Likewise, receiving a kindness can give rise to a sense of indebtedness, leaving beneficiaries feeling that they must now pay back whatever good they have received. Gratitude can flourish only if people are secure enough in themselves and sufficiently trusting to allow it to do so.

Another obstacle to gratitude is often called a sense of entitlement. Instead of experiencing a benefaction as a good turn, people sometimes regard it as a mere payment of what they are owed, for which no one deserves any moral credit. While seeing that justice is done is important, supplanting all opportunities for genuine feelings and expressions of generosity can also produce a more impersonal and fragmented community.

Practicing gratitude

There are a number of practical steps anyone can take to promote a sense of gratitude. One is simply spending time on a regular basis thinking about someone who has made a difference, or perhaps writing a thank you note or expressing such gratitude in person. Others are found in ancient religious disciplines, such as meditating on benefactions received from another person or actually praying for the health and happiness of a benefactor.

In addition to benefactions received, it is also possible to focus on opportunities to do good oneself, whether those acted on in the past or hoped for in the future. Some people are most grateful not for what others have done for them but for chances they enjoyed to help others. To envision gratitude at its best, imagine a person hoping and perhaps even praying for an opportunity to make a difference in someone else’s life.

In regularly reflecting on the things in his life he is grateful for, Defoe’s Crusoe believes that he becomes a far better person than he would have been had he remained in the society from which he originally set out on his voyage:

“I gave humble and hearty thanks that God had been pleased to discover to me, even that it was possible I might be more happy in this solitary condition, than I should have been a liberty of society, and all the pleasures of the world… It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked, cursed, abominable life I led all the past part of my days.”

Reflecting on generosity and gratitude, the great basketball coach John Wooden once offered two counsels to his players and students. First, he said, “It is impossible to have a perfect day unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you.” In saying this, Wooden sought to promote purely generous acts, as opposed to those performed with an expectation of recompense. Second, he said, “Give thanks for your blessings every day.”

Some faith traditions incorporate such practices into the rhythm of daily life. For example, adherents of some religions offer prayers of thanksgiving every morning before rising and every night before lying down to sleep. Others offer thanks throughout the day, such as before meals. Other less frequent special events, such as births, deaths and marriages, may also be heralded by such prayers.

When Defoe depicted Robinson Crusoe making thanksgiving a daily part of his island life, he was anticipating findings in social science and medicine that would not appear for hundreds of years. Yet he was also reflecting the wisdom of religious and philosophical traditions that extend back thousands of years. Gratitude is one of the healthiest and most nourishing of all states of mind, and those who adopt it as a habit are enriching not only their own lives but also the lives of those around them.

Richard Gunderman is Chancellor’s Professor, Schools of Medicine, Liberal Arts, and Philanthropy, Indiana University, Indianapolis, IN. This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Image credit: Shutterstock.com

Your patients are rating you online: How to respond. Manage your online reputation: A social media guide. Find out how.

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[nickyschneiderus]

Jordan Peterson: The hollow lessons of his summer tour

“Ladies and gentlemen there will be no heckling tonight,” shouts a man standing in front of the crowd. He’s 50-something with droopy eyes, beads of sweat dripping slowly from his glistening head into the coils of his greying beard. He’s exhausted from herding patrons outside the Moody Theater in Austin, Texas. “You will be escorted out of the auditorium,” he continues.

It’s late May, one of the first scorching-hot days of the year. There are a couple thousand people packed tightly in line to see the clinical psychologist, author, and alt-right icon Jordan Peterson on his “12 Rules for Life: An Antidote for Chaos” world tour. Many in line have studied Peterson’s rules closely, and they feel like they know him deeply because of it.

His book has helped them coach their lives with a psychiatric self-help formula that he doctored up himself: Stand up straight with your shoulders back, pet a cat when you encounter one in the street, and always befriend people who want the best for you. These elementary ideas are getting people unusually riled up.

Gage Skidmore/Flickr (CC-BY-SA)

“I don’t even know who Jordan Peterson is,” says one man in line with a pit-stained button-up shirt, jaded by the hype. Others can’t contain their excitement, drooling over the spectacle of Peterson just being nearby. One middle-aged white guy dances and skips, smiling to the sky. You’d think this was a Jimmy Buffett concert.

Peterson’s a self-described anti-social justice warrior and scholar who has previously denounced trans rights, feminism, wage gaps, and immigration among other progressive causes. Beyond the flowery language and smooth, Willy Wonka-esque mannerisms, he’s empowering fringe ideas on social media. And Peterson seems to think there’s only a matter of time before society collapses on itself—and it’s up to him to save the world, rule by rule.

The apostle

A former Harvard and University of Toronto psychology professor, Peterson first rose to prominence after he publicly pushed back on Canada’s proposed C-16 law that protects “gender expression and gender identity” as human rights in May 2016. (It became law a year later.) He argues that requiring people to refer to others by their preferred pronouns is a direct compromise of free speech.

His irreverent claims grabbed international attention afterward. For nations grappling with similar transgender rights issues, Peterson became a front-running devil’s advocate. His YouTube channel exploded with millions of views and subscribers who tuned in to hear his other spiels on religion, psychology, and honing in on “dragon energy.” Outsourcing his influence on other public figures with their own huge followings, his audience spans the likes of Kanye West, Seattle Seahawks head coach Pete Carroll, and Russell Brand. They willingly do Peterson’s dirty work for him through unapologetic co-signs.

Former University of Toronto professor and colleague of Peterson, Bernard Schiff, took notice to this meteoric rise, expressing sentiments of the danger surrounding his ethos in an essay he wrote for the Toronto Star: “I was Jordan Peterson’s biggest supporter, now I think he’s dangerous.” Within the piece, he explains that Peterson, a man once committed to “truth, integrity, and common decency” has abandoned those values as his influence grows.

In a phone call and one of his final conversations with him, Schiff says that Peterson revealed to him that Peterson’s wife had a dream about the end of society as we know it. Peterson told him that it wasn’t the first time that his wife had offered sacred revelations through messages in her dreams. If Peterson’s wife is the prophet, then he’s the patriarchal apostle who will deliver the intel for her.

“I do not think he intends to do harm. I think he is trying to save to the world.” Schiff tells the Daily Dot. “And perhaps along the way he distorts things because the facts don’t matter. He knows the truth.”

Schiff says that Peterson thinks he must save the world due to a destructing social order: Male privilege and patriarchy create standards of masculinity and success that men are expected to live up to. With privilege, men have become accustomed to social, political, and economic triumphs. Now that women are empowered, men face more competition and have, according to Peterson, begun to fall behind. He blames feminism for this modern angst and crisis in not only the lives of young men, but for society as a whole. Peterson feels that the imbalance is daunting and proof of a foreseeable doom for all of us if we don’t make a change, according to Schiff. (Peterson’s management did not reply to a request for comment about Schiff’s claim that Peterson’s wife has had end-of-the-world visions.)

“[Men] are taking away their job opportunities, they are encouraging a culture in which, as Jordan puts it, men are getting feminized, and they are upsetting the nature and necessary dominance of males,” says Schiff.

“I think he is not a bad person. I think he suffers, and now others suffer, because of his grandiosity. He has an extremely rigid and not scientifically or historically valid view of who we are and of what is, and it’s one that pleases many young people,” he says. “But not all of his followers are like that. There are thoughtful people who think some of what he says makes sense. They either disregard the rest or are not paying attention. I wrote the piece I did for them. I wanted to get their attention … I think he has a legitimate following, but my guess is that it is small compared to the angry young men who are potentially dangerous.”

Schiff’s article came with its own consequences once Peterson and his fans got hold of it. Many vilified Schiff, saying that what he wrote was misguided and not to be taken seriously. Peterson responded to the article in a series of tweets, brushing Schiff’s criticism off as invalid.

In the tweets, Peterson explains that Schiff’s anger is drawn from the fact that his daughter, who is transgender, is directly impacted by the C-16 bill. He says that Schiff is a tireless advocate for his daughter and that his sentiments on the issue come from emotion around her health. “I can truly sympathize,” he wrote while downplaying the situation.

Schiff says that his daughter’s illness was unrelated to her transgender identity, and it wasn’t psychiatric, either. It’s something that is fairly easily treated.

“The thing about the tweet in response to my story is that there is no question about what he was doing. His intention was to discredit what I wrote,” Schiff says.

Schiff wrote another piece in response to the original’s backlash in an attempt to bring clarity around Peterson’s motives. “He knows what he is doing. Smart, deliberate, manipulative, and a lie. He is very clever,” he adds. Indeed, Peterson’s tweets are friendly but sarcastic in tone.

In his first book, Maps of Meaning: The Architecture of Belief, Peterson explores belief psychology and the lengths people are willing to go for those beliefs. He also believes in reinforcing a natural social order and thinks that transgender people or same-sex couples can upset that universal homeostasis. He’s a harsh proponent for that arbitrary worldview, and he’s created mass popularity for the understanding of it as gospel.

Back in Austin, political satirist and opener, Dave Rubin, brings out Peterson: “Look around, look around, these are your people! … While the left enjoys diversity of race and sexuality, we enjoy diversity of thought … We are at the center of the idea revolution!” Tonight these 12 rules, no matter how simple, seem like they can change the world.

The Peterson hive

A photo posted on Twitter by political journalist Ben Shapiro on July 2 pictured five men at a table. Alongside Peterson were other talking heads who hang in Peterson’s hive: comedian and podcast host Joe Rogan, economics writer Eric Weinstein, Rubin, and writer and neuroscientist Sam Harris.

“Now this is a party,” wrote Shapiro in the caption.

In response to the photo, Twitter haters cringed, imagining their conversation. One user wrote, “If this was My last supper, I’d skip it and go straight to the crucifixion.” Another replied, “Oh I bet the discussion about the proper tip percentage was INTENSE.”

Peterson’s response, however, was short and simple: “The conspiracy mounts….”

I wonder how serious he actually is. His online presence mixes an academic mystique with savvy troll work to create an unrelenting buzz around the idea of himself. But what does he really want? Visions of doomsday or not, I think he wants us to believe in his vision for order and repair.

Hundreds of Facebook groups and Reddit threads are dedicated to the man and his work, filled with users hanging onto his every interview or tweet to unpack divine meaning and apply it to their lives. The groups are diverse, stretching as far as Christian study groups based on his writing, satirical communities who use his writing as a source of ridicule, or groups split by geographic region, intent on fostering Peterson fan meetups in real life. Some say they require “High IQ and above” as a necessary prerequisite for access.

He’s been normalized as an Oprah-like lifestyle guru who even sells the virtues of his diet. But his philosophy is crystal clear and far-right on social and economic issues: He doesn’t believe that the wage gap between men and women is a problem, he’s anti-gun control, and he thinks affirmative action is a mechanism of reverse racism. It’s not that his followers are purely disenfranchised young men looking for a leader—he validates their values. The problem is that the very issues that Peterson writes off actually affect most people, and by shifting the goalposts on cultural conversations, he’s always setting the agenda.

Gage Skidmore/Flickr (CC-BY-SA)

As Schiff notes, he structures his arguments in a way that reorganize widely accepted ideas or definitions and redefines them to serve his purpose. That way, disagreeing with what he says is nearly impossible, and eventually, you’re convinced that you understand what he’s saying and that you very well agree. Ironically, his 10th rule is to “be precise in your speech.”

He deflects opposing viewpoints with ease.

“I actually really don’t like left-wingers, it’s the philosophy and its ideology, and lots of people align themselves with that and because I’m attacking that and demonstrating its weaknesses then it’s either accept that a reasonable person can do that and there’s something wrong with the ideology or demonize the opponent,” he says in Austin. “If you’re ideologically committed the right response is to demonize your opponent and so that means I can’t be a reasonable and well-educated psychology professor who’s actually trying to help people lead better lives, I’m some sort of neo-Nazi.”

A mass survey of the official Peterson subreddit page conducted by its admins looked into the demographic makeup of subscribers. The survey was first introduced to the thread in August 2017. A new survey is taken periodically, about every five-to-seven months, with more responses each round. The most recent survey garnered more than 1,000 responses and was concluded in early July: 90 percent of his followers identified themselves as males, the majority between the ages of 26 and 35 years old. Over 80 percent of subscribers identified as white and most people on the thread were from the United States, single, and had at least a bachelor’s degree.

It may be a comically specific fanbase, but it’s plenty powerful.

u/Riflemate/Reddit u/Riflemate/Reddit

Idea wars

Peterson has amassed dedicated followers in a time of confusion, from a generation increasingly disinterested in aligning with major political parties.

He’s a convincing oracle and lion tamer. In Austin, a liberal city in a conservative state, there’s no ideological clash tonight. The danger is false intellectualism and disillusionment. Hustled applause, chanting, and standing ovations make the energy cult-like. Getting behind someone who reinforces prejudices about the world is easy; acknowledging the privileges of that person and your own is harder. And so Peterson delivers a sermon for the self, liberalism be damned.

“Are we fundamentally a member of the group or are we fundamentally individuals? That’s what the war is about,” says Peterson. “I’m on the side of the individual, and the people who are on the side of the tribe don’t like that, not a bit. And then they come after me with accusations that are within the identity politics realm.”

In a way, he’s right. There is an “idea war” going on, and he’s undoubtedly on the frontlines. But his response to the complex issues of a changing world is to stand up straight and pet a cat as if that’s going to help sort out public policy. Peterson offers simple solutions for people who resent their changing world. In their ardent defense of these principles, they fall victim to Peterson’s very lessons about individualism versus tribalism. They aren’t just internet trolls; they’re ready to mobilize.

from Ricky Schneiderus Curation https://www.dailydot.com/upstream/jordan-peterson-12-rules-tour/

[roodiaries]

Can’t All Be Peaches & Cream: Citrus Farming, My Car & the Working Hostel (Renmark, SA)

Apologies, because it's very late and very long, but finally here is my blog about what I did from late July to early December 2016. This article may be the most negative one so far, but I committed to writing an honest account of my time in Australia so I'll keep to my word. It can't all be peaches and cream. In fact, it's oranges, with no cream, no bowl and no spoon.

It seems a while ago, but I was happy to end my Tasmanian adventure and head back to the Aussie mainland in late July. I was ill on my first nightbus journey on the continent, a 10-hour cross-state one from Melbourne to Adelaide, capital of South Australia and the country's fifth-largest city. It might have been because I was feeling flat on arrival, but I immediately disliked the City of Churches, which was disappointing because I was just conforming to all the stereotyped opinions of Adelaide as the 'Boring' Capital. I ended up back there five more times and my opinion still hasn't budged: its spacious streets and quiet centre might sound pleasant in a city of 1.3 million, but there's a serious lack of atmosphere throughout most of the CBD, while its empty, insipid and uninspiring streets are a ghostly shell at night and not much better in the day-time.

Saying that, I had a good time there with my mate Mark from university. We found some very good bars with live music and cheap 'pints' (for some reason, South Australia has smaller pints than actual pints, so when you order a 'pint', it's really a schooner (425ml) in the rest of Oz; I guess SA just does whatever it wants). We also rented a little Honda and cruised down the Fleurieu Peninsula to seaside towns like Victor Harbor, Goolwa and the mouth of the mighty River Murray, Australia's longest at 2500km. As it turned out, I would be living on this very river, far upstream in the Riverland heart of darkness, for the foreseeable future. Mark and I also visited the famed Barossa Valley north of Adelaide for some wine-tasting. Not knowing anything about wines, we turned up at the Rockford Winery in Tanunda and just asked the woman to tell us everything. “You've never been to a winery before?” she asked, puzzled, as if we'd just told her we'd never heard of Steve Irwin. We knew wine was from grapes and that was about it, but learned a lot that day and found the knowledge intoxicating... or was that the alcohol?

I moved to the fruit-picking hotspot of Renmark (300km north-east of Adelaide, near the tri-state border with Victoria & New South Wales) on 26 July, to finish collecting my 40-odd days left that I needed for the second year visa. I planned perhaps 3-4 weeks here, but didn't end up leaving until 7 December! Renmark became the first irrigation settlement in Australia in 1887, designed so fruit could be cultivated, and is now surrounded by various fruit farms (from stonefruit to nectarines) so it felt appropriate that I was here to work in that very industry 129 years later. However, the appropriateness of the job did not overcome its drawbacks. I spent July & August picking oranges for $25-29 per bin, making around $250 per week (enough for rent, crap beer and little else). It was probably the worst job I've ever done, at least in the hard work-to-wages ratio. You were mostly put in pairs: I had a few different partners (Jakiah, Suki, Kira, Pete), but the one I worked with the most was Ellie from Taiwan, and we worked at the same speed and enjoyed longer lunch breaks. The main trials involved high ladders (teetering, tottering, collapsing), heavy bags weighing down on your neck/back, branches belligerently poking you in the face and scratching your arms to shit (so you wore a sock over them and got sweaty instead), the occasional large spider, and eagle-eyed supervisors constantly telling you to pick the oranges you definitely couldn't reach and then doing something with the ladder that you were unable to do to make it look embarrassingly easy. I spent most of the time frustrated, bored, stung, sunburnt, sweaty, unmotivated and panting heavily beneath a hot sun wondering why my life had taken this turn for the worse. Things even became animalistic at stages: when thirsty I would resort to biting the orange open with no patience to peel the entire skin, and then simply squeeze the juicy goodness into my general face area to try and imbibe some vitamin C. It was my revenge against this malevolent fruit.

Thankfully, Kevin (the hostel owner) found me a new job with his old school mate, Humphrey, in September. It was on a private organic farm called Fat Goose Fruits, exporting oranges, lemons, avocados, mandarins and grapefruit across Australia and some to Malaysia. It was run by Humphrey and his wife Michelle, and they followed organic practices, using sheep and geese to keep the weeds down (and feeding the geese oranges unfit for sale), keeping away from harmful pesticides and using compost instead. My job was hourly paid ($22.16) in the little packing shed next to the house, running the fruit through the machines and sorting it into five different grades: bin (rotten or split fruit); 'seagulls' box (for the general public – slightly damaged but not that bad); juice (for ugly ones or with big marks on the skin); second-grade for netting; first-grade for loose in the large cardboard bins or in the 17kg boxes. It took me a while to get the hang of netting in particular, and Humphrey got annoyed one morning when my hands were cold and I kept dropping oranges (“stop fumbling, you need to be quicker than this!”) But he was a top bloke, and we had many in-depth chats about politics, history and travel, all while listening to the full ABC Radio programme which I grew to love, especially the Phillip Adams section at 4pm. As time went by, Humphrey left me alone more (he's a busy guy, with a prominent position in the Renmark Irrigation Trust while running a business), and I was given more and more responsibility, which I enjoyed. I still fumbled and dropped stuff from time to time of course, and will never be the fastest packer. I was often distracted/fascinated by the huge quantity of spiders that lived in the shed: wispy ones, red-backs and hunstman in particular. A few times, I had a giant fang-bearing huntsman crawl over the orange I was holding and scare the crap out of me!

I did other odd jobs when in Renmark, including working as a dishwasher in Chill-N-Grill restaurant at weekends, tutoring my friends' Chinese supervisor in English twice a week, and other farm jobs, including at Gillainey's, a larger scale packing shed where I injured my arm, attaching spiral clips to irrigation tubes in a vineyard, constructing solar panel frames in a garden, putting up a fence at Kevin's farm for his giant pigs while they shat shamelessly and tried to eat literally anything (including a chainsaw), and picking small green plums at a farm owned by an eccentric Lebanese Christian called Moses, who told us about kangaroos biting the trees which made them scared and the fruit smaller. The funny thing was, I didn't necessarily think he was crazy for having this view... That's Renmark! The tutoring was definitely my favourite of the jobs as I was actually able to use my mind to excel, something I hadn't done much when working in Australia.

I also did a sleep study in Adelaide for 5 days in late August, getting paid a bit of money for that. I had my own room, which was nice, but was observed and studied by a bunch of PhD students the whole time, and we weren't allowed to know the time or leave the lab. There were six of us on the study (four Brazilians and one Indian), and we had three hour-long mealtimes per day, and saw the students a lot when they tested us, so it felt fairly sociable. It was mostly reaction-time and stress-related tests and questionnaires throughout the day, more tedious and repetitive than anything else. During much of the day you had free time to read or watch films (you spent more time deciding from the long list than watching, like with Netflix). At night, we had about 15 different wires gelled all over our head and a few on our chest, so that they could monitor heart and brain activity and would know when we fell asleep or were dreaming! On the last morning, all of us (in our separate rooms) had to make a 5-minute speech to the wall about our life, immediately after having woken up, which was extremely weird and awkward. “Ummm, I was born... I went to school... this one time in IT, Atkin poured out the hole-puncher on my head...” Haha.

The negative aspects of working long – usually 8-10-hour – days alone at Humphrey’s sometimes took its toll (depending on how much coffee I'd had and what radio segment was on). I would often return to the hostel feeling flat, tired and antisocial, and be overwhelmed when entering the back gate to a swathe of chatty, beer-drinking hostel friends, unable to escape and feeling like I was making a statement of non-sociality if I retired to my room too early, which I hate. I really value my privacy and I received none in the hostel, which sometimes got me down. Cooking is also something I have never enjoyed and something that others seem to spend time dedicating themselves to, hence I was often judged for cooking basic, strange or generally terrible things (because I'm easily pleased and have unsophisticated tastebuds apparently), and that's another part of hostel life I dislike. To be honest, I’ve left my comfort zone many times - and I never regret that - but it doesn’t mean you’re going to enjoy everything. I’d say I’m well and truly over the hostel life and hope to never spend more than a few days in one again. Anyway, I talk more about my ‘home’ away from home below...

Hostel life was a major factor in memories of my time in Renmark. I was at another working hostel, the legendary Renmark & Paringa Backpackers, a long low building with a large backyard and intimidatingly metallic chef's kitchen always choc-a-block full of backpackers from all over. Well, when I was there the predominant nationalities were always either Italian, German or French as people came and went. But why am I grouping people only based on nationality? It is something that everyone – myself included – tend to do, as it's more convenient. Why not on something more personality-based? Because nationality matters a lot to most people, I guess. Common stereotypes prevail, as a joke and for real, like the French speaking English with a strong accent, or Italians being over-dramatic, or Germans being clinical and organised. But everyone has their own individual quirks, independent of and also heavily influenced by their own geographies. Generally everyone got along and there really weren't any proper cliques, though people are naturally inclined to speak to others in their native tongue. It was extremely social and everybody knew each other's names. My stay of four and a half months, though ridiculously long, was about average; some stayed for much longer. Kevin the owner was a joker, but very helpful in finding jobs for people (as mentioned above). He wasn't best pleased when I reversed my car into the gas tank, or when I split the girls' bathroom door with a shoulder-barge when drunk... I was trying to help someone trapped inside in case you were wondering!

Lots of localised events went on: impromptu music sessions (there were some talented musicians, especially Stefano & Rocco); intense weekend games of poker to win $50; movie nights where people came in, asked the name of the movie, had to have it repeated because they didn't understand, and then realised they'd never heard of it and walked off; giant group meals & the sharing of vegan/non-vegan philosophies; getting eaten by hungry non-vegan mosquitoes; the odd cross-state trip to Mildura, VIC for shops and cinema; a nice cold shower beer; 'the pub' versus guzzling goon/Hollandia and smoking out the back; free haircuts with Jonny; Pop burning the rice & playing chess; with Leon, Sam & Rose making movie titles with 'Baris' in the name; Wednesday evening library sessions using the only Wifi in town; lots of leaving nights and goodbye cards; everyone asking how many days you had left; kids robbing shoes, speakers and beers in the night; huge storms and a state-wide black-out; some disastrous off-roading; the election of Donald Trump; sitting by the river or pool, kayaking and much much more.

For my part, I couldn't shake my past as an English teacher, and as one of only three native speakers for most of the period, I ended up imparting knowledge of my language and being asked to correct/explain grammar on a daily basis. Not the coolest role, but I relished being an authority on something. I even had to explain to a certain Yorkshire lass the concept of uncountable and countable nouns ('much money' versus 'many bags full of money'). It's difficult to single out people to mention from the hostel, but particularly close friends that I spent the most time with and deserve a mention include my room-mates Sam (the Barnsley-Italian full of knowledge) & Tatjana (confident optical Germanic picking machine); Rose (talented artist & cider-lover), Baris (the Saver of My Car, also a movie legend in his own right), Eisen (the coolest Asian guy in town), Luca (Gianloser, Roadhouse) Yusuke (the Yusuking), Mady & Robin (meine schätz) and Julien (French gay icon). But if you're reading and your name's not there, I am still thinking of you ;) Pop, Elise, Julia, Leon, Carina, Jonny, Thomas, Roxane, Thibaut, Simone F., Rocco, Stefano, Carolina, Simone D.C., Lulu, Cyp, Soo, Kim, Yumena, Sori, Pille (see I mentioned you too!), Triin, Sim, Katri, Adrien, Judy, Michele, Jules, Eddie, Sophia, Mollie, Stu, Rupert, Em, Simon, Carine, Valerie, Jeremie, Manu & Ninja.

In SA I also did one of the things you need to do in life: I bought my first car! A 1997 white EL Ford Falcon sedan. I have a decent knowledge on some subjects, but I know nothing about cars. I didn't even know what 'sedan' meant – huh, is that a make of car? People often ask what 'model' the car is... is Ford a model? Or Falcon? Or the EL part? I really don't know, or care. I took a pretty random French guy, Nick, with me to look at one of the cars advertised on Gumtree during a frantic two-day car-searching bonanza in Adelaide back in August. We had to drive in his car all the way up to Middle Beach 45 mins north of the city, where vast light-brown windy fields swept across the landscape out west towards the sea. The guy selling the car was a tall Aussie bloke named Paul who lived in a tin shed constructed mostly from corrugated iron, with wind turbines for power. There was a hilariously awkward exchange where Paul offered us both a scotch and Coke (Coca-Cola, obviously) when we went into his house to do the paperwork – which we declined – and a few minutes later, Nick said “I noticed before that you offered us some cocaine... I was wondering, do you have any MDMA?” I laughed pretty hard about this misunderstanding, since the guy was over the age of 23 and not a student on a night out, and therefore definitely did not have any MDMA, or cocaine. For $650 in cold hard cash, I was happy with my purchase and felt incredibly free that I could just go wherever I wanted, after years of relying on public transport and other people. Mum had been scared I'd drive to the Outback and maybe die, but I reassured her that the car was far too crap for me to attempt any seriously remote journeys.

The car, which was never properly named (the number plate read 'WDM' so I sometimes called it 'Weapon of Destructive Mass'), was a problem child to say the least. I was locked out of it standing in Maccas car park for about 2 hours one evening after work with Ellie, waiting for the RAA guy to break in. This happened again a week later when I forgot to tell Simon at the hostel not to lock it when he borrowed it! Then on our weekend hostel trip down to Adelaide & the Barossa in September, the air filter exploded as the car backfired, shell-shocking me and Baris with our heads under the bonnet. It ran only on LPG, which isn't good for the car, and backfiring is not uncommon. But there was a hole in the petrol tank for some reason so I couldn't run it on petrol. Backfiring incidents occurred regularly over the next few weeks, especially at Maccas, and one time I had to be towed back from Woolies car park by Kevin because it wouldn't start! That was very embarrassing, and I copped a lot of grief from friends about how terrible my car was. Then as a final leaving present, a giant hole inexplicably appeared in the muffler, so whenever I accelerated, people living in the next town were deafened by the noise. All of these problems ran along to the legendary soundtracks of the only three tapes I had and played on repeat for the entire 3 months I owned the car: Sting & The Police, Frank Sinatra and INXS. I felt fast and free as I belted out “There's a little black spot on the sun today!” when cruising down the vast empty freeway. I sold the car for a pathetic $100 in the end, but it was a relief to get rid of it and not have to drive to the Outback and burn it. It was certainly a learning experience if nothing else.

My time in Renmark will not be forgotten any time soon for better or worse and saw some of my darkest days in a long time, and many times I could only dream of moving on. But eventually I did, because all things come to an end. At times that can be depressing, but at other times it's very uplifting. And bonds formed in such surroundings are all the stronger for it. In fact, writing this post has made me see that I did actually have some very good times in Renmark too, in amongst all the dullness, hard work and feeling trapped. This blog post has now (thankfully?) come to an end but see below for photos, inside jokes & more. Blog about my trip to Asia soon to come...

Thanks for reading,

Oliver