#politics in command

[beguines]

[C]lass is not an essence but a social classification made by social scientists to explain reality; it is not some inherent nature possessed by the people who are hypothetically divided up according to a scientific assessment of a social reality. In such a context, being conscious of one's membership in a social class, let alone embarking on class struggle, is produced by a mechanism that is based on developing the hypothesis of social classes, which is unified by the concept of class struggle: a revolutionary party. Marx and Engels maintained that the point of a communist party was to organize workers as a class because they understood that the hypothesization of class was in fact a scientific intervention upon the social in much the same way that the hypothesis of the double helix model of genetics, as mentioned above, is an imposition upon crude biological existence.

There are popular strains of first world Marxism (autonomism, communization theories, "left communism") that argue against the above interpretation of class and are thus opposed to the notion that the ultimate meaning of class and class struggle is the business of a party project. My contention, however, is that such an interpretation of class and class struggle, even when it opposes orthodox categories, remains thoroughly economistic because of a reliance on a workerist spontaneity . . .

My position is that class comes into being through a political intervention that declares the meaning of class struggle and intends to impose this meaning upon a conflicted social plane. Such an imposition was also responsible for grasping the foundation of class structure, as analyses such as Marx's Capital demonstrate, but it is not enough to assume that class structure functions abstractly without a lived formation/composition or a political project to determine its conscious articulation as a class for-itself. These class categories are always conflicted, compromised by the detritus of history. To assume that there is a natural unity amongst the entire working class in all social contexts is a grave mistake. Social classes, as we have discussed, are often divided according to interior antagonisms. The point is to accept the fact of this division and locate the most conscious elements of these classes to understand: i) the enemy that is conscious of itself as the ruling class; ii) those who have nothing left to lose but their chains who are also conscious of themselves as a class. Class is thus realized in the crucible of a party project because, whether it be a bourgeois or proletarian party, such projects stamp their cadre with class partisanship.

Thus, class is defined by structure, formation, and consciousness. It is a structure insofar as a mode of production would have no meaning if it did not possess sites of structural occupation that would give it a definition, just as a factory requires pre-existing structural rules that would allow it to function as a factory. It is a formation insofar as the empty structural sites of class are composed of assemblages of real people; the composition is the result of a historical process of formation, the assemblage of multiple identities that are stamped with meaning based on the social context inhabited by the class structure (e.g., a white supremacist society will be a society where the class structure is designed to promote a racist formation). But class is also defined by consciousness, by the awareness of those who inhabit the class structure of their position within this structure, and this consciousness is consummated in a party project. Moreover, since the concept of class is overall a categorical judgment made by social scientists, and since such a judgement is always partisan, it is political inasmuch as it is an economic theory. In this sense the party of a particular class and the ideologues of such a party, call class consciousness into being for-itself. That is, the bourgeois or proletarian subject recognizes themselves as a partisan subject because the meaning of their class consciousness is declared by an organized political faction that provides a line of march. The bourgeois organization or party takes a position on the class structure and proposes a conscious meaning to class formation; the proletarian organization or party expresses a different political line and generates a different conscious meaning.

J. Moufawad-Paul, Politics in Command: A Taxonomy of Economism

[columboposting]

OK not to Foxpost on main but as much as I appreciate the trope of the coruscant guard being like woefully underfunded and undersupported by the senate because they’re “not front line troops” and therefore “don’t need things like bacta or rations etc” and like I get where you’re coming from, but like…. they may not be on the front line but they are the most significant and final line of defense for the capital of the republic and more specifically the senate, who — and I cannot stress this enough — are the people who decide whether or not the coruscant guard gets money. The corries do the work of cops AND the secret service, and maybe throw in the national guard — imagine if the united states defunded the cops (seriously, imagine…), specifically all the cops that work in DC, AND the secret service because oh they’re purely concerned with domestic affairs and the security of the most essential elements of our republic, they don’t need resources. You’re talking about fucking upside down banana world and certainly not about the political priorities of a fading republic succumbing to nationalism, militarism, and fascism.

If I were a late era galactic senator, I would have funding the coruscant guard as my top fucking priority. I’d be signing off on building fucking cop city overtop of coruscant’s last nature reserve, i’d be giving them experimental bazookas and tanks and shit up the wazoo. Twelve types of alien police dog and two models from Space Boston Dynamics. Horses. Fox keeps trying to find a weapon they won’t finance for him and it’s not working, at this point he’s considering asking for a lightsaber just to see what happens. I’m not saying the coruscant guard should live in the lap of luxury or anything but they should probably have ample if not excessive access to the military resources they need to do their jobs — medical supplies, armaments, armor, etc. Because if politicians are one thing, that thing is interested above all in their own security, and the coruscant guard is literally their personal protective army, why would they not want their personal protective army to be well funded. “I’m chancellor palpatine and I’m going to deprive my slave gestapo of medical supplies so that their limbs fall off when they try to murder my enemies” come on man be serious.

[ominouspuff]

The Promise

Cody had no identification card, and he certainly didn’t have a citizenship. He had a receipt of purchase, designating him by code and bio-signature as a particularly complex, high-functioning blob of programmed bio-material, but officially CC-2224 was considered only part of a whole. The GAR was a body, complete with organs and tools, and Cody might flatter himself with a comparison to being a finger at best — whichever one pulled the trigger.

“You wish.” Fox said flatly, overcorrecting for the slur that had crept in sometime during their second shared bottle, his bucket firmly resealed again. “You’re a damned eye.”

Cody thought about that for a moment; thought about watching battles from overhead, giving and receiving reports and knowing too many odds too well. He nodded slowly, flexing his hands. 

“If I’m an eye, you’re the teeth.” He said, and it was a bit cruel but it always had been; they’d learned how to swallow it better together. Teeth, Cody considered, and knew he was as right as he was angry — teeth, the smile of the GAR, pretty and presentable and favorable to the public eye, nestled at the heart of the Republic. The Coruscant Guard. 

Fox shrugged so slowly it was more just shoulders hunching, which meant — something. Something Cody might have cared to track, if he was sober.  “Sure. I’ll be the teeth.” He said.

[srnileforme]

JACK & JOKER (2024) | EPISODE 3

[izzystizzys]

“ - but have you ever considered, I don’t know, not sucking all the time? Just a thought.”

It takes the combined grips of Nuisance and Hound to keep the wriggling, snarling body beneath Fox from throwing him off its back. With three years’ practice of having to fix his own rickety desk chair over and over again, the movement merely ruffles the proverbial fringe on his helmet.

“And I don’t mean that as an insult, necessarily. Well, I do a little bit. But also I have some amount of empathy for the no doubt immense amounts of trauma that had to go into the creation of something so dysfunctional as you, on a very personal level, so have you considered going to the root of that in a way that’s like… useful? Instead of wasting it all on kriffing Kenobi, I mean. Look at the guy. All he does all day is drink tea and commit warcrimes. I bet he knits for fun. Bit of an embarrassing nemesis, don’t you think?”

“I”, says Kenobi, then pauses. The space between his eyebrows is creased with uncertainty, and he looks deeply torn between continuing rocking the shaking Duchess of Mandalore against his chest from his corner of the throne room and re-activating his lightsaber to continue losing his fight against the Darksider Fox is currently sitting on. “I feel like I should object to some part of that, but I’m not entirely clear on what. Or how this happened, again. Isn’t Mandalore a few star systems from your purview, Commander?”

“Probably the warcrimes”, mutters Nuisance underneath his strained breath.

“About as far from my supposed assignment as yours, General”, says Fox a little louder.

Kenobi twitches. Fox cannot claim to know which of them does it. Both, maybe. Probably.

“I will - taste - your - flesh!”, heaves out Darth Maul, snarling and hissing.

“Oooh, kinky!”, calls Grids, from the corner where she’s got her stun-setting aimed at the other Zabrak, currently passed out cold. Fox sighs deeply. He knew he shouldn’t have taken those three - any combination of Grids, Hound and Nuisance in a room together usually spelled chaos.

Unfortunately, it also spelled competence. The Basic alphabet can be funny that way.

The point being: as of some months into the war, one of Fox’s assigned tasks is the surveillance of all GAR-wide communication. All command-class staff theoretically got that memo, but no one seems to have read the fine print where that includes both professional and personal communication, as well as any and all comm devices registered or suspected to be registered to that person. Especially not one Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala.

The point further being, if that sounds both immensely impractical and sort of terrifying in a democratic supposedly non-surveillance state, you’d be bang on the credits, and to Fox’ eternal chagrin the singular person in this whole useless army who’s spent the second of thinking necessary for that conclusion.

The final point being, when one frantic General’s mad dash across the Galaxy to rescue his teenage sweetheart from the spectre of his supposedly dead nemesis crosses his desk on its way to the Chancellor’s inbox, it doesn’t take much time for him to block any and all trace of it across the digital space of the GAR commboard and take matters into his own hands.

“ - which is why I told Thorn to suck it up and be in charge for a few days, and also why you’re still alive, your Highness, very welcome, was no trouble at all”, he concludes, drily. The Duchess stares the wide-eyed look of someone attempting to reconcile clones with ‘sentience’ or perhaps ‘personality��� in her head, but won’t say it outright.

Or the look of someone who’s just been violently overthrown and nearly murdered, perhaps, Fox allows.

“Um -“, Kenobi hedges, blinking rapidly.

“And the reason you’re still alive, probably. You’re welcome for that too, by the way”, Grids calls from the back of the throne room, cheekily.

“Alright”, says Kenobi, loudly. There’s color back in his deathly-pale cheeks, Fox notes, even if that color is a lot of red. It doesn’t fade very gracefully into his beard. “Opinions on whether or not I had everything under control notwithstanding -“

“You really didn’t”, Hound supplies helpfully.

“ - opinions notwithstanding, I am admittedly still lost on why you’re now sitting on Darth Maul and attempting to, to - jeer at him, Marshall Commander!”

“We’re not jeering, we’re trying to create a safe space and lay the groundwork for more open communication”, Fox says, primly.

Maul screams into the ground, attempting for the umpteenth time to rear up and visit great violence upon Fox, which admittedly has him rattling in his crosslegged seat atop his back.

Kenobi raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Safe space?”

“He’s restrained and not stabbing anyone, I personally feel much safer than before”, Grids muses. “Watch the teeth though, Hound. Little biter.”

Indeed. Fox’s right greave will have to be replaced posthaste.

“And anyways, the point isn’t to jeer at him, it’s to make clear that he’s focusing his energy in the wrong places and could be doing much better things with his admittedly not-great life”, Fox adds, shifting to cast a pointed look down at Maul. The Sith is panting open-mouthed into the durasteel floor, sharp teeth gnashing wildly as his piercing yellow eyes shine with barely restrained rage. “I’m just saying - aim higher. You aren’t seeing the forest for the Kenobis, Maul. Can I call you Maul?”

“I will feed you your own entrails”, yowls Maul.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Right now, I’m an easy target to focus all that built-up rage on, but is killing me really going to help you achieve any of your goals? No! Think about it - when it all comes down to it, who sent you on that mission to Naboo in the first place? Who made sure the Jedi and, by extension, Kenobi would be there to kill you? Who used you as a dejarik piece and then cast you aside the second you outlived your usefulness?”

Beneath him, Maul slowly stills in his struggle, still panting heavily. Hound and Nuisance don’t let it deter them in their vigilance, because they’re damn good vod’e and possess an ounce of common sense.

“And, look, I get it. I could spend the rest of my life punching every civilian who spits on me in the streets and it would even be satisfying. I could hit back the Senators who think of clones as easy targets. Or - I can aim my sights at who’s on top. And I think you know who I mean, because you know as well as I do the same damn man has ruined both our lives.”

Kenobi makes an alarmed noise, and Maul an interested one - not that Fox is going to let him walk out of this place awake. Still, he tilts his head in a way he hopes conveys his helmeted grin successfully to non-vod, as well as the bloodlust behind it. “You’re also welcome for the fact that the Chancellor won’t have heard of your spontaneous resurrection yet, by the way. You’ll retain your element of surprise instead of gambling it away on petty revenge on Kenobi.”

“He cut me in half!”

“He killed my master!”

Fox waves their protests away.

“Also, that’s treason!”, Kenobi adds, sputtering. Fox grins. Kenobi purses his lips, and continues. petulantly, “…do you have any proof?”

“So. Much. Proof”, says Nuisance, dreamily. “Like, do you want it alphabetically or by date?”

Which is when the Duchess, of all people, bursts out into barking, crazed laughter.

“You - you’ve certainly given yourself an edge in that fight, Marshall Commander”, she wheezes, brushing tears from her eyes. Fox raises his eyebrows at her, which she somehow seems to be able to tell, because she gestures at the clunky handle dangling from his belt.

“What, this old thing?” He unclasps the black rectangle from its hook, holding it up in the air. Maul stills strangely beneath him, and Kenobi goes ghostly pale again. Fox is starting to get a bad feeling.

“I took it off Viszla and beat him over the head with it. I figured he’d taken it off a Jedi cadet or something. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

[opal-owl-flight]

So theres an arc I have where 4 becomes the new captain while 3s down after the Biggest Run, right. The Cap4 arc focuses on 4s efforts to investigate the strange changes happening to the salmonid migration patterns via infiltrating Grizzco.

Epic the musical’s songs are one HELL of a way to tell the tale, even if its not one to one!! Since the Wisdom saga releases in 3 days Im going to be drawing up one scene per song and how it would play out in the Cap4 arc :)

[varpusvaras]

Breha wanted to have a soulmate.

Her parents were soulmates. They both had a mark of the Hand of Skies, the constellation visible during the winters of Aldera, on their left shoulders. Her mother had originally had the right hand of the constellation, while her father had had the left hand, and the mark had completed itself for both of them after they had met each other for the first time. It had been an early match, and her parents had grown up together since they had been ten years old. For as long as Breha remembered, she had looked at their love and connection, and indulged herself in the warmth and familiarity they shared with each other, dreaming of having the same for herself.

Her parents hoped for her to have a soulmate, too.

"Being a Queen is an important task", her mother always said. "Sometimes, it can be very lonely, too. I have gotten over so many moments of doubt with your father on my side."

She didn't talk about the other reason to her, but Breha knew about it anyway. She knew enough other Royals, other Nobles, of people born into influental families all across the Galaxy.

She knew what happened to those who didn't have a soulmate.

A soulmate was a part of you. A soulmate was someone who no one would ever take away from you. A soulmate was someone who would stay at your side.

A soulmate meant protection.

Breha didn't fully believe that her parents would make her marry someone she did not truly want to, but the fear was still there, and it gnawed on her, stronger and stronger, with every passing year. Alderaan was an affluent world, after all. Old, rich, and located in the Core. Many would be vying for the hand of the future Queen, if it was free for the taking.

Her parents had both gotten their marks at nine years old. Most people on Alderaan got their marks before their tenth birthday.

Breha's twelfth birthday had come and gone, and her thirteenth was fastly approaching, and there was nothing.

She didn't dare to speak about her growing nervousness to her parents. It felt like she would be insulting them, by insinuating that she thought that they would force her into something she did not want. She couldn't just keep it all inside, either, as it continued to bother her more and more.

In the end, she went to her grandmother.

"Sometimes it just takes time", her grandmother said, stroking Breha's back as Breha sniffled against her collar. "Sometimes the Galaxy and the Force has to look at things a little deeper, and to take a lot of things to consideration, things that you and me, or no one else, for that matter, has no idea about. It has to look at so many options before making the decision, so that the decision is the right one."

It did make Breha feel a little better. Maybe she had hope. Maybe she or whoever it was, at the other side, was just a little difficult to match with. Breha didn't think of herself as particularly difficult or complex, but maybe the Force knew something tha she didn't.

So she kept her hopes up, and she waited.

--- ---

She got her mark a week before her birthday.

She had noticed it immediately after waking up, and she had jumped out of her bed and ran to her parents to show it, without even bothering to change out of her nightgown before going.

Not that they cared, as they were just as happy as Breha herself.

The mark was a small flower, on the inside of her left wrist, with seven rounded petals that turned to sharp points at the last second. Breha thought it looked a lot like a star, if one had been turned into a flower.

Her grandmother agreed when Breha showed the mark to her.

"It's a forest star", she told her, "they grow in very deep forests, where sunlight comes through the trees only in small dots, and all the colors are dark and the ground is always glistening with water."

She turned Breha's hand a little to see the mark better, as it was sitting off center, on the right side of Breha's forearm. She was quiet for a moment as she looked at it, clearly contemplating her next words.

"What is most notable of them", she said, finally, "is that they always grow in group of threes."

She ran her fingers over the mark once more, and then gave Breha's hand a little pat.

"It's a beautiful mark", she told Breha, smiling. "With a mark like that, you're going to have a wonderful soulmate, I already know it."

Breha believed her. She had been right about the mark. She would be right about her soulmate as well.

--- ---

Breha met Bail Prestor when she was just shy of seventeen, after she had finally gotten her feet properly back under herself. She noticed him immediately, and joined him and his father to a debate between few other noblemen of Alderaan, that had been invited to the Palace.

She took his side against one of them, and when Bail turned to look at her and smiled, a little unsure but genuine still, Breha felt like something had bloomed underneath her skin.

When she looked down, there was another flower on her arm, on the opposite side of her original one.

She lifted her eyes back to Bail, to see him looking at her now with surprise in his eyes and equal amount of surprise in the smile he still had on his face.

Breha smiled back at him, brightly, with joy and relief.

--- ---

"I will do my best", Bail promised her that night, "no matter what, I will be the soulmate you deserve."

Breha believed him.

"Thank you", she said. "I will do so as well, for you."

She was there for Bail just as much as Bail was for her, after all.

--- ---

"I must admit", Bail said one day, when they were walking through the gardens on a late afternoon. "I am still a little surprised about the mark."

"How so?" Breha asked. She had the feeling that Bail wasn't talking about being the soulmate of the Princess.

"My mother looked up the flower when I got my mark", he said. "She told me that they grow in threes. I expected you two have two flowers, or something similar, I think."

That was right. Breha glanced at their hands. They had both received each other's mark, so they had fullfilled the mark for each other, but the flowers sat apart from each other on their skins, leaving a gap between them.

A gap, just wide enough, that a third flower could fit in between, linking their flowers to each other.

"That would've made sense", Breha admitted. "My grandmother told me the same. We have fullfilled each other's marks, though. I think that is the most important thing."

"It is", Bail said. "It just makes me think..."

He looked down on their hands, and then up at the sky, right past the mountaintops.

"If there is someone out there, with a single flower on their hand", he murmured, reaching for Breha's hand as he spoke.

Breha laced their fingers together, and thought.

All marks had a meaning. A point of connection. Like her parents, with each one side of a whole constellation, two hands made of stars, always meant to be holding each other.

Wouldn't it mean something, too, for her and Bail to have flowers that always grew in threes?

Breha looked up at the sky as well, and she wondered.

--- ---

Years went by. Breha married Bail. She became the Queen.

There were two flowers on each of their arms, apart from each other, with just enough space for a third one in between them.

--- ---

Being a Queen was sometimes lonely work.

What her father had not told her, was that being a Senator was sometimes just as lonely.

During the longest days, Breha would look down on her hand, to the two flowers on her skin, her own and Bail's, and she would draw strength from seeing the proof of the connection she and Bail had, even when the void of space was in between them.

She knew Bail did the same, and Breha was happy that she had been able to give him that connection, that lasted over time and distance.

She looked at her mark for a long time, when the word of the war starting reached Alderaan.

--- ---

Bail was calling her in the middle of her Court.

Usually, when he had something to tell her during their work hours, Bail would send her a message and ask her to call him, or call Visaiya, if it was something more urgent. It wasn't like him to call her like this, without sending a word out first.

She looked up at her Ministers, and gave a signal.

"My deepest apologies", she said, standing up. "I am afraid that I have to take an incoming call right away from the Viceroy."

There were no objections. The war had forced them to raise their means of security on both Alderaan and Coruscant, especially since Bail had not confined himself to only inside the Senate and the House. Anything sudden regarding him was treated with utmost gravity.

She stepped outside the Courtroom into the foyer to answer.

"Are you alright?" She asked, instantly, when the call connected and Bail's image appeared. "What's going on?"

Bail didn't look injured or even angry or crestfallen or anything of the sort that she had kind of expected.

Instead, he looked almost flustered when he looked at her, his eyes wide open, like something entirely unexpected had happened.

"I am alright", Bail answered, and then drew in a deep breath. "Something has happened, and I needed to tell you about it right away."

Before Breha could ask more, Bail pulled up his sleeve, and turned his hand around to show her.

There, on the inside of his arm, right at his left wrist, were three flowers.

It was just like Breha had imagined it. The third flower, right in the middle of the other two, interlocked its petals precisely with the flowers on both sides of it, and so linked them all together, with no space left between them anymore.

Breha lifted her eyes to Bail, who was looking at her, like he was just waiting for her to say something.

Breha had just one thing to say to him.

"Who?" She asked.

"I don't know", Bail answered.

It was not what she had expected him to say at all.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"I was just returning to my office", Bail said. "I had to wait a little since there had been some sort of incident, and the troopers needed a little more time to clear things up, and then I just felt it. And there it is, now."

Breha looked at the mark again.

Three flowers, right next to each other, interlocked.

There was a rule in giving and receiving another part of the mark, and fullfilling it.

There needed to be a point of connection in order for it to happen. It wouldn't happen simply for being in the same space with the other. There needed to be a moment of true attention, intentionally given and received, for the connection to happen.

That meant that Breha had more to ask.

"Who did you talk to?" She asked. "When it happened?"

She hadn't even needed to ask. Bail had already arrived back to the point himself.

"Oh", he said, then thought for a moment. "I think I need to have a word with the Commander of the Guard."

Breha knew from the moment Bail said those words, that many things were about to change irrevocably.

She looked Bail in the eyes, and she knew that he knew it too.

[howtocastspells]

No Power⚡️

Today our the power grid in the town that our biggest LGS is located decided to fail, a typical sight in Puerto Rico. The state/colonial government has destroyed our infrastructure. This November 5th I hope we, as an island , select the governor that will start doing real work to start our separation from The United States, and work for a future where Puertoricans don’t depend on another country for its goods, and most importantly, Food. Puerto Rico needs to stand on its own to start healing from the damage our over 500 years of colonialism has done to our country and our people.

We need to heal from plunder and genocide brought by the Spaniards. We need to heal from the experiments done in our women from scientists in the name of the health of the mainland. We need to heal in the name of our people who have died in the wars of another country. We need to heal from the settler colonialism and the dreams of the Puerto Rico without Puertoricans the pro-statehood party believes in. We need to heal to stand tall and do business with other countries without the intervention of a third party. We need to heal so no one call us an island of garbage. We need to heal so our future generations have a place to live. We need to heal because we want the diaspora to return to their rightful home, the home of Puertoricans.

We play Magic: The Gathering to heal our soul during these trying times.

[beguines]

The answer that is usually given to all questions about the unionized working classes' refusal to become revolutionary is that the Cold War ideology of anti-communism, and the complexities in consciousness it produces, is what is to blame. Not the development of a labour aristocracy. According to this explanation, the only thing holding this sector of the working class back from revolutionary consciousness is the fact that capitalist ideology has succeeded in making communism unpalatable. The fall of the Soviet Union, the spectre of Stalin, and the discourse of "totalitarianism" are the only thing, then, standing in the way of proletarian revolution. The union radical must work double-time to convince the rank-and-file that this ideological complex is a lie and steer the working class at the centres of capitalism back to its historic destiny.

The problem with this alternate account is that it is not materialist. Rather than attempting to locate opportunism in a concrete analysis of a concrete situation, it simply assumes that the problem results from a war of ideas. If those devoted to this alternate account were rigorous and honest, then they would have to ask why such Cold War ideology was so easily accepted in the first place. That is, why do members of the unionized working class in the most powerful capitalist social formations want to accept that communism is not a viable alternative? There are prior material relations at work and we really must ask why the unionized working class at the centres of global capitalism are more willing to accept the ideological constellation of Cold War capitalism than their counterparts in the global peripheries. Social being determines social consciousness: those who have learned to be materially invested in the ideology of a particular mode of production will accept the "common sense" of the ruling class.

J. Moufawad-Paul, Politics in Command: A Taxonomy of Economism

[commandertartarsmoocher]

I'm lining up to kiss the phone. Mwah

A lucrative business scheme...!

[jhonny]

"stop talking like that boy you're ruining my tboy swag" - yami bakura, probably

or, when both bakuras are trans but only one of them has perfected the trans voice.

+ bonus thief king (as a treat)

[geezerwench]

[manhwamuneca]

He's cute but........ "What if we do it just once" ****Spoiler*****

Manhwa: Turning (Nah man. Wait 200 chapters for a kiss, and like it)

[jcalexandrewrites]

"The real reason that we can’t have the Ten Commandments in a courthouse: You cannot post “Thou shalt not steal,” “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and “Thou shalt not lie” in a building full of lawyers, judges, and politicians. It creates a hostile work environment."

— George Carlin

Image by Jondolar Schnurr from Pixabay

Read my fantasy novel, The Light Prince: Grail, available on Amazon in paperback and e-book.

[jangillman]

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[this-acuteneurosis]

The Cost of Caring

A lot of no good, very bad days continue. As they must.