#probably something about plato's cave in here
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you all post shit like this as if philosophers haven't been thinking about this for thousands of years now.
all time favorite quote
#basically at some point a collection of atoms no longer becomes the concept of rubber#and becomes steel#because fundamentally they are all just atoms#more about the different in material and non material form of something like rubber#the object of rubber and the concept of rubber effectively#think of the difference between a dog and a wolf#at some level they are both similar animals that are made of the same sort of things in a similar way (meat and bones I guess)#but they are still both animals and have animal like properties#or the difference between your dog and the neighbors#they are both still dogs made out of the same thing#at what point does a dog stop being a dog and become something else#probably something about plato's cave in here#also fun fact: the concept of the world being made up of atoms was from about 400bc#concept being there must be some smallest possible material that is some shared form for all objects#and this problem literally did come up
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Homebrew Mechanic: Meaningful Research
Being careful about when you deliver information to your party is one of the most difficult challenges a dungeonmaster may face, a balancing act that we constantly have to tweak as it affects the pacing of our campaigns.
That said, unlike a novel or movie or videogame where the writers can carefully mete out exposition at just the right time, we dungeonmasters have to deal with the fact that at any time (though usually not without prompting) our players are going to want answers about what's ACTUALLY going on, and they're going to take steps to find out.
To that end I'm going to offer up a few solutions to a problem I've seen pop up time and time again, where the heroes have gone to all the trouble to get themselves into a great repository of knowledge and end up rolling what seems like endless knowledge checks to find out what they probably already know. This has been largely inspired by my own experience but may have been influenced by watching what felt like several episodes worth of the critical role gang hitting the books and getting nothing in return.
I've got a whole write up on loredumps, and the best way to dripfeed information to the party, but this post is specifically for the point where a party has gained access to a supposed repository of lore and are then left twiddling their thumbs while the dm decides how much of the metaplot they're going to parcel out.
When the party gets to the library you need to ask yourself: Is the information there to be found?
No, I don't want them to know yet: Welcome them into the library and then save everyone some time by saying that after a few days of searching itâs become obvious the answers they seek arenât here. Most vitally, you then either need to give them a new lead on where the information might be found, or present the development of another plot thread (new or old) so they can jump on something else without losing momentum.
No, I want them to have to work for it:Â your players have suddenly given you a free âinsert plothook hereâ opportunity. Send them in whichever direction you like, so long as they have to overcome great challenge to get there. This is technically just kicking the can down the road, but you can use that time to have important plot/character beats happen.
Yes, but I donât want to give away the whole picture just yet: The great thing about libraries is that theyâre full of books, which are written by people,ïżœïżœ who are famously bad at keeping their facts straight. Today we live in a world of objective or at least peer reviewed information but the facts in any texts your party are going to stumble across are going to be distorted by bias. This gives you the chance to give them the awnsers they want mixed in with a bunch of red herrings and misdirections. ( See the section below for ideas)
Yes, they just need to dig for it: Â This is the option to pick if you're willing to give your party information upfront while at the same time making it SEEM like they're overcoming the odds . Consider having an encounter, or using my minigame system to represent their efforts at looking for needles in the lithographic haystack. Failure at this system results in one of the previous two options ( mixed information, or the need to go elsewhere), where as success gets them the info dump they so clearly crave.
The Art of obscuring knowledge AKA Platoâs allegory of the cave, but in reverse
One of the handiest tools in learning to deliver the right information at the right time is a sort of âslow release expositionâ where you wrap a fragment lore the party vitally needs to know in a coating of irrelevant information, which forces them to conjecture on possibilities and draw their own conclusions. Once they have two or more pieces on the same subject they can begin to compare and contrast, forming an understanding that is merely the shadow of the truth but strong enough to operate off of.Â
As someone who majored in history let me share some of my favourite ways Iâve had to dig for information, in the hopes that youâll be able to use it to function your players.
A highly personal record in the relevant information is interpreted through a personal lens to the point where they can only see the information in questionÂ
Important information cameos in the background of an unrelated historical account
The information can only be inferred from dry as hell accounts or census information. Cross reference with accounts of major historical events to get a better picture, but everything we need to know has been flattened into datapoints useful to the bureaucracy and needs to be re-extrapolated.
The original work was lost, and we only have this work alluding to it. Bonus points if the existent work is notably parodying the original, or is an attempt to discredit it.
Part of a larger chain of correspondence, referring to something the writers both experienced first hand and so had no reason to describe in detail.Â
The storage medium (scroll, tablet, arcane data crystal) is damaged in some way, leading to only bits of information being known.Â
Original witnesses Didnât have the words to describe the thing or events in question and so used references from their own environment and culture. Alternatively, they had specific words but those have been bastardized by rough translations.Â
Tremendously based towards a historical figure/ideology/religion to the point that all facts in the piece are questionable. Bonus points if its part of a treatise on an observably untrue fact IE the flatness of earth
#homebrew mechanic#d&d mechanics#research#tableskills#tabletop inspiration#dm tip#dm advice#exposition
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hnk stuff from reddit
The running joke is that you need a PhD in Japanese Pure Land Buddhist philosophy to understand what is going on. The main thing to get is that HnK is a critique of Pure Land Buddhism.
As for discussions on ship of theseus or plato's save this is anglosphere Westerners trying to use Western philosophical terms (which are more familiar) to interpret the existentialist themes inherent to Buddhism.
Most of this stuff is searchable on the internet. But you can also look up a primer on Buddhist philosophy and Mahayana Buddhism in particular which is the form most popular in East Asia.
Other than that there was this one imgur post going around compiling mythological references but I don't remember where it it.
Specifically ship of theseus/grandfather's axe deal with the question of what is the essence of something (or someone one). If something keeps changing having it's parts replaced with different parts at what point is it something different than the original. To understand a more Japanese perspective on philosophy and aesthetics look up kinsugi, wabi-sabi, or even the shinto influences on Japanese Buddhism.Â
 Plato's allegory of the cave is about perspective, experienced versus objective reality, what is real, and knowledge. Some's dude's only seen the world through the shadows cast on a wall, then leaves the cave and realizes that everything they're seen has been shadows.Â
 Some basic extremely simplified highschool takeaways for Buddhism is that suffering or discomfort (durka) is inevitable in life, this suffering stems from attachment to the world and desires (of any kind). Life is in a cycle of reincarnation (samsara). The way to break free of the cycle is to reach enlightenment (nirvana) by freeing oneself of all desire. In Mahayana Buddhism someone enlightened may instead choose to remain in the world to guide others becoming a bodhisattva. In the context of history this allowed Mahayana Buddhism to better adapt to local religions as it spread across Asia, incorporating local religions and deities. Thus Japanese Buddhism is descendent from Chinese Buddhism and you can see the Chinese influences in it (same with Korean Buddhism). Chinese Buddhism itself was influenced by other non-Indian cultures along the silk road in Central Asia (Persia, etc). So the route Japanese Buddhism took was from India to Central Asia then China before finally coming to Japan. Honestly just read the Wikipedia page on Buddhism it explains thing better than I can.
I'm not well versed enough in Buddhism to have a good guess but here's some notable plot points in relation to Buddhist themes in HnK.
https://semi-imaginary-place.tumblr.com/post/732170126864105472/ichikawa-intended-for-phos-to-be-a-failed-7
Phos is set up narratively to gain all 7 jewels/treasures (houseki) of Buddhism and then the author deliberately makes it so he doesn't. Phos gets the wrong final jewel. Phos gets shell and agate legs, gold platinum alloy arms, Lapis Lazuli's head, and Achemea implants an artificial pearl eye into their head. The last treasure Phos was missing was a red gem/carnelian/coral. But instead Phos got Adamante's eye and became "human". Â
Humanity failed to go extinct. Their souls, flesh, and bones existing separately and simultaneously in the world. Instead of continuing the cycle of reincarnation the Moon People/Lunarians are stuck in a state of neither life of death, stagnant. Instead of striving to reach enlightenment they seek complete annihilation the cessation of existence. To these descendents true humans are as to gods, the only ones with the power to have them die.
There's also a lot of ominous imagery. Like the lotus is probably the most significant symbol in Buddhism representing enlightening and the cycle of reincarnation. And Phos is associated several times with an empty lotus seed pod, like that he has failed Buddhism or something, the lotus failed to complete it's lifecycle and will not be born again from it's seeds. Â
I honestly don't have any conclusions what to make of all this, still mulling over it all.
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AN ITINERARY FOR NON-PLACES: billy woods & Kenny Segal's Maps
We on a world tour with Muhammad, my man; going each and every place with the mic in their hand.
âTrugoy the Dove, ATCQ's "Award Tour" (1993)
Perhaps you will persuade him to relate something of his past. Perhaps there is one among you who can induce him to bring out his old travel-diaries; who knows?Â
âRainer Maria Rilke, The Journey of My Other Self (1930)
Now when I was a little chap, I had a passion for maps.
âJoseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness (1899)
Maps wonât work here.
âAesop Rock, âRabiesâ (2016)
1.
You arrive with certain expectations. You arrive with Edward Said quotes queued up in your mind, knowing âwhat on a map was a blank space was inhabited by natives.â As such, you equip yourself with âmap and compass, gat and cutlassâ (âU-Boatsâ), keen to trouble Orientalist notions. Donât get it twisted as you mark twain: there are flare-ups. On âHangman,â we hear of âHindu kush, a Sikh surrounded by Thuggers,â a modernist nod to August Schoefftâs early-19th century painting. We hear of âflying carpets out this motherfucker.â Itâs a whole-new, brave-new world. âThe room smelled like Marrakech,â woods reports on âFaceTime,â and George Orwellâs âMarrakechâ (1939) happens over the mindâs transom. Orwell depicts colonial subjects who, in the imperial imagination, are nothing more than âundifferentiated brown stuffââeach figure what Said calls âan atom in a vast collectivity.â So, yes, you can skirt âon the edge of Magellan mapsâ (âWonderful Worldâ), or take a cue from Mike Ladd and rip to shreds Universalis Cosmographia by Sebastian MĂŒnster, that lying bastard, butâlike Dylan on âMy Back Pagesââwoods is riding âon flaming roads using ideas as [his] maps.â Weâll meet on edges soon, he saysâprobably the âlists of names, pages and pagesâ heâs hoarding on âSoft Landingââbut the impulse here should amount to more than freeing political dissidents from cages. On Aethiopes, woods clocked nautical miles, but now heâs on a world tour redeeming his frequent flyers. Youâll find nothing quite as unrepentant as cannibal tours here, though there are horrors and hors d'oeuvres aplenty. These Orientalist postulates are somewheres, but Maps is concerned with nowheres.
2. SUBS & COMPONENTS
Yeah, Iâm leaving tomorrow, but I got time today. woods begins âKenwood Speakersâ by speaking his words of departure like John Denver, only he spares us the sentiment. âLeaving on a jet planeââ Denver sings, âdonât know when I'll be back again. / I hate to go.â woods is at worst eager and at best aloof about his own leaving. V. S. Naipaulâs Ralph Singh from The Mimic Men, meanwhile, goes further, stating bluntly: âI am not coming back.â
Mapsâlike Danteâs Inferno, like Platoâs caveâis where all people come to know themselves. The album is billy woodsâ itinerarium mentisâhis journey of the mindâa [heroâs] journey into the center of the [real] earth. One-dimensional MCs canât handle that. The undertaking requires steadfast digging into the so[u/i]l of oneâs self. Another turn of the screw, gyring deeper, despite how much the torture/[tour]ture might hurt. We feel the pangs right along with him, do we not?
Guess whoâs coming to dinner on âKenwood Speakersâ? Some born sinner, the opposite of a winnerâbut not a sardine in his line of sight. Only Deleuze and Guattari lines of flightâescape routes to deterritorialize your whole plane of immanence. The night before woods departs on a pilgrimâs progress, his body and being go surface-to-airâHabyarimana on an economy flight. Or John Denver even, who was watching time and space cross his path as his Rutan Long-EZ plane nose-dived into Monterey Bay. Knock the plane out of the sky and woods sparks his own personal gentrifier genocide.
This is where your humble essayist springs a gentrification quote on dat azz. Say, David Harvey quoting Lenin quoting Cecil Rhodesâthat would be apropos. Some âAccumulation by Dispossessionâ shit; some spatio-temporal fixes shit. But bleary-eyed theorizing would diminish what woods does with his terse, yet totalizing, imagistic lines. Iâm gonna sit this one out and leave it to the gentrifiers themselves to tell it. (Catch me like âLenin lying in stateâ [âWarmachinesâ]; or, as we hear on âNYC Tapwaterâ: âI lie down like V.I. Lenin.â)
3.
The title âKenwood Speakers,â of course, is a portmanteau of their names [Kenny Segal + billy woods]âthe blending of sound and style of [e]strange[d] bedfellows: woods as an observant Ishmael to Kenny Segalâs affable Queequeg. woods listens to Kenny Segalâs beats like Ishmael opens up to Queequegâs tattoosâhis cannibal body [of work] a âbook of nomad inscription,â according to Pierre Joris. The âportâ of this portmanteau is a haven, a hush harbor. âThe port would fain give succor,â Melville writes, â...in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all thatâs kind to our mortalities.â Portmanteau as leather luggage, tooâfilled with Kennyâs circuit-bent Omnichord, his pedals, his SP-404, his âweird little childrenâs toys turned into live beat-machine thingsâ (in woodsâ words). woods calls him ânuts,â but so too was Glenn Branca. Forget jazzmatazz, Kennyâs brand of jazzmaskronk incorporates No Wavy horns and angular guitar strokes put to the orbital sander. Bring the sinuosity. Tonal plexus, to perfection. Counterpane production steez: combining elements unmethodically in sun and shade; beats stuffed with corncobs or broken crockery. Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian. Bones litter the beach, gnawed.
4. A MINIMALIST HOMEBOY WHO KNOWS HIS BEATS
The opening clicks on âKenwood Speakersâ are the clicking of a gas stove before the burner crowns with blue flame (...blue flame like the oven, woods says on âRapper Weedâ). And we can trace the sonic sum of his drum thump and drum pattern to LL Cool Jâs âI Canât Live Without My Radio,â another ode to electroacoustic transducers. The Rubin-produced banger gets audiophiliacs ampedâwoofers wallop and tweeters twitch. Move forward in time to âFantastic Damage,â where El-P introduces a boom-bap that veers cement-crush. He leaves âruthless rounds of radio dustâ in his wakeââcranial mush.â Bigger, deffer, fitter, happier, more productive.Â
In the liner notes for Radio (1985), Nelson George calls LL a âtalkologist,â which we can apply to woods, too. âAfter-market speakers in the Saturn,â he raps, and his whip is his own personal universe, evidently. Heâs a brother from another Lonely Planet. Fodorâs on the dashboard; Baedeker in the backpack. From Plainfield to Compton: Swing down, sweet chariot, stop, and let him ride dirty in a lemon (hell yeah): âBeater but they canât catch it.â The engine clunks and clatters just as the beat breaks down after the first verseâa beat transition/deconstruction not heard since DJ Shadowâs work on âLatyrx.â Kenny Segalâs music is all Chords and Discords, like the Letters to the Editor section of DownBeat magazine. Noizy Meditations like that L.O.N.S. joint T.I.M.E. (âcover my tracks with backronymsâ). Fair to say Kenny Segal could pull a broad sword from a hoarded synthesizer, word to Aes Rizzle.
5.
LLâs radio appeared to ward off gentrifiers by design, destabilizing the ground beneath their feet: âMy JVC vibrates the concrete.â He was âterrorizing [his] neighbors with the heavy bass.â True to Duke Bootee and Melle Mel, the impoverished city is like a jungle sometimesââthe rats is madnessââand the superpredators sport Brooks Brothers suits. woods is watching the blue-eyed soulless ones encroach, the âblue-eyed White Walkers in Kingâs Landing.â They march on the miry Slough of Despond. Heâs not trying to leave the neighborhood empty-handed, so he infiltrates. He finagles and ingratiates himself into a âdinner party with the neighbors, / Their apartmentâs renovatedââno longer a âcrumbling mansion.â He eats their food ravenously, wolfishly. With each morsel, heâs seeking the beloved community, or so theyâd like to believe.
As they dine, woods âturn[s] the music up incrementally,â and youâve got to imagine itâs some PMRC fareâIce-Tâs âYou Played Yourselfâ or the like. Something equal parts catch-wreck and (w)reckoning. Or maybe the song is âKenwood Speakersâ itself. And itâs a sort of Jordan Davis reversal at work. woods as Lord Baelish with the âmischievous lies.â Heâs Claudius with a cup of poison. The whole ear of gentrified Bed-Stuy serpent-stung, rankly (and thankfully) abused. woods goes full Ying Yang Twins and âwhisper[s] in the hostâs ear all night,â hexing him, slow-releasing Paraquat into his supple mind as he sups. (Thatâs whatâs up.) Weâve seen him in this capacity before, like when he whispered to his own dull knife-sheared shadow on âhouthi.â The hushed hemlock woods administers to the âhostâs earâ collapses into what woods âhear[s]â laterâthat âthey found [the host] in the morning [with the] hose run from the exhaust pipe.â A well-thumbed copy of White Fragility left behind on his nightstand. woods reveals himself to be Samwell Tarly with the black dragonglass dagger. âWreathed in gasâIâm a carburetor,â woods raps, contrasting his smoky satisfaction with the carbon monoxide car killing. He sees the Wicket Gate blurry in the distanceâand it bears a helluva resemblance to an airport gate.
6. SPACE IS THE NON-PLACE
Much has been hastily made of the narrative structure of Mapsâeager listeners figuring wussdaplan and blueprint to the realms ân realities that the album presents. But orderâbeginnings [departures] and endings [arrivals]âisnât important; movement is. Better find out, before your timeâs out, what the flux? Think Inspectah Deckâs âalive on arrivalâ; disregard Puff Daddyâs âmess around be D.O.A., be on your wayâ (but heed his fugacious âainât enough time hereâ). Non-narrative acceptance will allow us to revel in what Nathaniel Mackey calls âthe rickety, imperfect fit between word and world.â
And as we navigate that imperfect fit, dwell in the non-. Dwell in the non-, in the non-, in the non-. âAn airport is nowhere,â W. S. Merwin writes, âwhich is not something / generally noticed.â Merwinâs poem (âNeither Here Nor Thereâ) typifies ideas explored in Marc AugĂ©âs Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity (1992). AugĂ© analyzes the meaning of transient spaces in our fast-paced, globalized society. He sets places (rooted, concrete, community-rich locationsâwhere âsaplings bendâ but donât break) against spaces (abstract locations of the mindââI live in my mind,â as woods said on âAsylumâ). We spend an immoderate amount of time in a multiplication of ânon-places,â which AugĂ© sees as âinstallations needed for the accelerated circulation of passengers and goodsââairports, hotels, interchanges, high-speed roads. This is the world woods knows all too well on Maps. Whether heâs taking a â$300 Uber to a showâ role-playing as Future in a Maybach, smoking a spliff that âcould probably jump your car battery,â exploring âJohannesburg in a Ford Explorer,â or manifesting âJimmy Wopo draped over his steering wheel,â woods inhabits the image of the non-place. Makes sense for someone who claims to be âfrom where every car foreign and [they] drive âem on empty,â dwelling in disconnectedness. Your head is throbbing and I ainât said shit yetâthe next movement is by air.
7.
woods takes in the view from his plane window. âSpace,â AugĂ© writes, âstems in effect from a double movement: the travellerâs movement, of course, but also a parallel movement of the landscapes which he catches only in partial glimpses.â On âSoft Landing,â woods sees with new sight: âFrom up here the lakes is puddles, / The land unfold brown and greenâitâs a quiet puzzle.â woods pieces the partial glimpses together into something cohesive and captivatingââa series of âsnapshotsâ piled hurriedly into his memory and, literally, recomposed in the account he gives of them,â in AugĂ©âs words.
âBut the book is written before being read,â AugĂ© adds, and letâs exchange âbookâ with album and âreadâ with heard. â[I]t passes through different places before becoming one itself: like the journey, the narrative that describes it traverses a number of places.â For woods, these places include a pop-in with Aesop Rock in Portland, Oregon, a visit to the Alchemistâs lab in Los Angeles, and a late-night stop at Steel Tipped Doveâs apartment in Brooklyn. He takes up residence at Kenny Segalâs L.A. home and traipses around Japan, Brussels, Amsterdam, and Germany. AugĂ©:
This plurality of places, the demands it makes on the powers of observation and description (the impossibility of seeing everything or saying everything), and the resulting feeling of âdisorientationâ...cause a break or discontinuity between the spectator-traveller and the space of the landscape he is contemplating or rushing through. This prevents him from perceiving it as a place, from being fully present in it, even though he may try to fill the gap with comprehensive and detailed information out of guidebooks.
woods has discussed the âmental and physical spaces that type of travel and touring put[s] [him] in.â His documentation of his movement through non-places is the least he can do to keep from entropying: âI was writing in hotels, and Airbnbs, and airports, and sometimes at home.â For us though, his audience, woods is no longer hiding places; heâs exposing places.
8. LIKE, âI JUST FLEW INTO THE CITYâWHATâS UP WITH YOU?â
We hear âheroâs journeyâ and immediately inch toward Ithaca and Homeric hexameter, but Gilgamesh should be our guidepost, not that man-of-many-ways Odysseus. Our guidepost is woodsâ âGilgameshââa relationship song of stunted growth and stasis. âGot a call out the blue,â he starts, but with Maps, the call is to us and itâs a clarion call. The name Gilgamesh rings out, and it sounds like ârattling medals.â On Maps, it sounds like a âchain banged [on] glass ceilings,â an echo of Prodigyâs piece banging on glass tables. We heard the vibrations on âhouthiââthat âchange on plexiglassâ jingle. Iâm impressed by the resonance. The message doesnât âsound weak coming out the speakersâ like it did on âGilgamesh.â The marginal upgrade is Kenwood speakersâno puttering set of Polks.
woods is arguing for a new paradigmâhe didnât need his paradigm to shift like the rest of us did. He read the daily briefings and was familiar with what-goes-around-comes-around logic. He wasnât caught lacking on 9/11âwe were. Heâd been rapping along with Biggie (Blow up like the World TradeâŠ). He coveted his promo copy of The Coupâs Party Music with Boots holding the detonator on the cover. He was looking at the city like jihadis in the cockpit. When it comes to artistic representations, like my homie D.O.C., no one has done 9/11 better than billy woods. Noreaga adopted the personage of Manuel Noriega; Intelligent Hoodlum was reborn as Tragedy Khadafi; woods takes on the mantle of Osama bin Ladenâgreen army field jacket over white robe.Â
On âGilgamesh,â heâs âleft thinking like Osama in Khartoumâ when his ex splits, âgone at first light, connecting flightâshe made the plane.â Vindictiveness aside, woods should know her airport visit alone will be a hellish experience. Punishment enough. Subjected to TSA screens and pat downs while touring the globe, find woods âexcessively mean-muggingâ as the metal detector wand grazes his testicles. âAirports and aircraft, big stores and railway stations have always been a favoured target for attacks,â writes AugĂ©, âdoubtless for reasons of efficiencyâŠ. But another reason might be thatâŠthose pursuing new socializations and localizations can see non-places only as a negation of their ideal.â woodsâ 9/11 bars may startle us, but they disabuse us of our bliss.
9.
GO flat out at top speed across curve of earth is the only way.
âPierre Joris, A Nomad Poetics (2003)
The earth is a sphere.
ââHoudiniâ
All this perpetual movement, this implacable globetrotting, these abrupt shifts in locationâit makes for a nomad poetics, as poet Pierre Joris puts it. woods is a âNOET,â where âNO stands for play [and] ET stands for et cetera, the always ongoing process, the no closure.â Joris describes how polylingualism is a nomadic trait that is capable of âmoving through languages, cultures, terrains, times without stopping.â So woods drags us from witnessing Yemeni traders off the coast of Mozambique (âThe Doldrumsâ) to Dien Bien Phu (âBaby Stepsâ) in less than twelve months. He slips into Jamaican patois and amuses us with his limited Spanish (Muchos problemas if you donât have it for the plugâŠ). In âThe Schooner Flight,â Derek Walcott says, âeither Iâm nobody, or Iâm a nation.â woods would remix: Iâm nobodies and nations.
â[I]f it is all flux, all nomad wanderingâ for the NOET, âwhen & how to write,â Joris asks. âHow not to stop & yet do the poem?â The nomadic poemâlike the songs that make up Mapsâis a âpoasis, a poem-oasis, i.e., a stop in the moving along.â In Sufi poetry, this is known as the mawqif, which Joris defines as âthe pause, the stop-over, the rest, the stay of the wanderer between two moments of movement.â The layover, in woodsâ words. A moment of âmovement-in-rest, of movement on another plane or plateau, between todayâs & tomorrowâs lines of flight.â Recording âRapper Weedâ in Kenny Segalâs studio in L.A., for example.
Nomad poetics encompass a political component. Joris isnât blind to the realities of âa historical era where cheap air flight has made at least the White World into summer travelers, sun-seekers, tourist-nomads, i.e., fake nomads, or really not nomads at all, while a large part of poor Third World people are constrained to turn themselves into forced labor exilees or at best transhumance-ing workers, transients that have been âtransportedâ as the term was used in the slave trade.â
The triangulation of âsugar, molasses, rumââitâs a strangulation. Thereâs trouble with travel. Travel as forced relocation. Travel as travails, as toilâor, worseâas tripaliare (Vulgar Latin for âtortureâ). From your book I took a page, bell hooksâwho writes in Black Looks (1992) of being accosted, detained, and interrogated by white officials while in an Italian airport, and another time being strip searched at an airport in France, suspected of ties to terrorism in both cases. â[T]o travel is to encounter the terrorizing force of white supremacy,â she writes. AugĂ© writes about how âthe user of the non-place is always required to prove his innocence,â but for bell hooks, a Black woman, âthere is no comfort that makes the terrorism disappear.â Who is AugĂ© to judge how she terror manages?
âGoinâ places that Iâve never been, / Seeinâ things that I may never see again,â Willie Nelson sings, impatient for a return to the road. His is a romanticized perspective; with feelings of dissociation, woods offers a no-man-ticized one, more akin to Atmosphereâs âTravelâ from 2000: âWe travel like the blood that surrounds your brainââpressure builds and aneurysms flutter under cranial walls. The itinerary looks blurry, the ink faded from sun, folds, and creases. âThe engagements are booked through the end of the world,â croons They Might Be Giantsâ John Linnell, âso weâll meet at the end of the tour.â [Open Mike Eagle nods approvingly.]
10. HEAVY AIRPLAY ALL DAY WITH A NINA SIMONE CHORUS
On âSoft Landing,â Kenny Segal introduces guitar to drums and they converse in a dissonant cadence. In the words of Cecil Taylor, they consist of âregular and irregular measurements, of coexisting bodies of sound.â woods takes flight and the sound of the plane lifting off the tarmac is a welcome relief, like blasts from Michael Nymanâs Decay Music (1976). âBirds flying high,â woods sorta-sings, and he follows their migratory patterns. Just get him the fuck outta dodge. Heâs a budding ornithologist with his head in the loud clouds. We hear him mention âbirds-of-paradise in the menagerieâ and âmidnight ravensâ alike. The exotic and the demonicâhe studies them all, binoculars to his peepers.Â
âBefore we take off, I call Mom and say, I love you,â woods raps. Heâs taken a note from Quelle Chris who advised, âCall your folks while they still livinâ.â woodsâ mother antipodal to his ex who he texts upon landing with a significantly less felicitous messageâone feminine figure signals ascent; the other, descent. The in-betweenness of the experienceâlimbic and liminal all at once, exemplified by woods with his âhead in the loud clouds [and] both feet on the fucking pavement.â woods invariably finds himself in the in-betweenness, the purgatorio of his lifeâs purpose: be it from âRolling Loud to Shakespeare in the Parkâ or his own nature documentary ânarrated by an Attenborough [but] over the instrumental to âKeep It Thoro.ââ
âYou believe in [the airport],â Merwin writes:
while you are there because you are there and sometimes you may even feel happy to be that far on your way to somewhereÂ
You know how I feel? woods feels the altitude sickness, his ears popping. But once that subsides, he feels suspended in time and space. Sun in the sky. Breeze driftinâ on. Only gotta fear a flock of geese in the aircraft engines, what with no savior Sully to guide the passengers to safety. At long last, he feels free from the fetters of his life down below. Heâs [re]set for a soft landing.Â
11.
Look out, honey, âcause Iâm using technology,
Ainât got time to make no apology.
âThe Stooges, âSearch and Destroyâ
Thereâs a duality on Maps: two selvesâone who longs to travel; the other who longs to return home. Calypso after the show, but FaceTime calls with the kids at the breakadawn. On âFaceTime,â though, home is the last place. Home is where the heart gave out. What woods takes with him on the flight are the repercussions, the health complications. Quarrels crammed in the carry-on. Relationship woes on the wing:
You flyinâ easyJetâBratislava, Utrecht, Something felt off before I even left, So when I saw the missed calls, I knew what was next. Didnât have to open the text.
woods delineates a communication breakdown. He initially tries to distance himself by using the second-person, but moments later heâs allowed himself to be drawn back in. He notes the âmissed callsâ and uses every shred of self-discipline to not âopen the text.â The patterns, he reminds himself, are nothing new. He may be unnerved by âflyinâ easyJet,â but the awareness that âsomething felt off before [he] even leftâ feels goodâa familiarity. The consonance of âfelt off before I even leftâ provides him the lift he needs. No matter the angle he looks at it [âfeltâ or âleft,â anagrammatically satisfyingâhe can sit with his feelings or leave them all behind], heâs floating above the rubble of the relationship.
Not for lack of trying. They did âcouples therapy on Zoom, [but] itâs a train wreck.â The Celestial Railroad derails and they burn off the vinyl chloride toxic spillage. The evacuation zone is 30 kilometers wide. woods is a suckerâfalls for it every time. Okay, okay, okay: not every time. Heâs become adept at having his âevil eye ward off hex, thoughâFaceTime declined.â He goes full Last Tango in Paris on the enchantress, displacing his frustrations on a crowd of innocent civilians: âButter wouldnât melt, I gave âem margarine.â Echoes of Tony Soprano after Carmela informs him thatâs sheâs filing for divorce: âThe only reason you have anything is âcause of my fucking sweat, and you knew every step of the way exactly how it works. But you walk around that fucking mansion in your $500 shoes and your diamond rings, and you act like butter wouldnât melt in your mouth.â If weâre talking socialization mediated by screens, this is some real prestige dramaâreally real, son.
Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir ïżœïżœtre seul.
With so much drama in the relationship, woods retreats further. He loses himself at a gig. Afterwards, he writes at his desk in a hotel room in Tucson as he hears âdubstep drift in the window.â Partiers, âsome half, some overdressed,â make their way through the halls, âcheckinâ they phonesâ as the âbass shake[s] the walls.â woods is removed from it all: âIâm smoking alone in a cardigan, thinking of home.â In non-places, AugĂ© insists, you can find yourself âalone, but one of many.â Once more unto the breach, he goes âback down to the bar againâ only to witness an âafterparty packed like Parliament,â and who can really say whether itâs the funkiness of George Clinton or Margaret Thatcher, but the masses are pressed âass cheeks and cheekbonesââbaby got bacchanalia. woods, for his part, is âlooking like the help or someone who just wandered in.â Heâs an outsider amongst the âanimal pelts,â âchunky rings, clunky shoes, [and] lots of ink.â Out of place, out of sight, out of mind, out-of-body experience. Heâs Poeâs eagle-eyed protagonist in âThe Man of the Crowdâ (1840), âobserving the promiscuous company in the room.â He marks the âdense and continuous tides of population,â âtheir aggregate relations,â and he âregard[s] with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gate, visage, and expression of countenance.â Despite all of that distraction, by the end of the song woods has only moved the pen six inches. âReally,â he says, regaining our trust, her trust, âIâm just waiting for my phone to pingââemphasis on waiting. âIâm thinking âbout you when Iâm supposed to be thinking âbout other things.â
12.
A stay in L.A., L.A., big city of dreams, but everything in L.A. is overpriced. Avaricious sonsabitches âbloated with gout, / Sores weeping, doubled-over, chest heaving from chasing clout,â shelling out âsix Gs an ounce.â woods went from genuflecting at the weed price to oof. Heâs a savvy consumer, but Los Angeles, as Mike Davis writes in City of Quartz (1990), is âa stand-in for capitalism in general.â He continues: âThe ultimate world-historical significanceâand oddityâof Los Angeles is that it has come to play the double role of utopia and dystopia for advanced capitalism. The same place, as Brecht noted, symbolized both heaven and hell. Correspondingly, it is the essential destination on the itinerary of any late twentieth-century intellectual, who must eventually come to take a peep and render some opinion on whether âLos Angeles Brings It All Togetherâ (official slogan) or is, rather, the nightmare at the terminus of American history (as depicted in noir).â woods excavates the future in Los Angeles, such as Davisâs subtitle goes, where the âNike store on Fairfaxâ is absent of inventory, where oneâs commodified state of being includes âmonogrammed tube[s],â âcrushed velvet,â and other offscourings of âcolorful packaging.â None of which is of much interest to billy woods, a man who has âlearn[ed] to toss the dregs.â This place, he knows, is a cemetery. He rests his riveted gaze on the âwhole entourage on the couch buried in they phones.â You heard right: buried in they phonesâtheir absence-presence of screen staring, their doom-scrolling a Tibetan Book of the Dead written in real time, a bardo of blue light. Mike Davis is quick to remind us: âPĂo Pico, the last governor of Mexican California and once the richest man in [Los Angeles], was buried in a pauperâs grave.â âWhen itâs my time,â woods raps, âno need to pass the hat.â No GoFundMe campaign necessary to cover the costs of a champagne crepe-lined casket. âJust throw me in when the fire good and crackling,â he implores. My my, hey heyâitâs better to burn out than to fade away. Send him up in smoke just the same as so much of his precious time on earth. âBury me in a borrowed suit,â woods advised his mortician on Earl Sweatshirtâs âTabula Rasa.â
13.
Jet-lag is the cousin of Death. On âBad Dreams Are Only Dreams,â woods grows weary as his transient life becomes a trance-ient life. âI canât quite grab the new me,â he raps, brainfogged as he passes through time zones like skipping stones. His âold self [is] dozing in an aisle seatâ on an Emirates flight. Forget about his girl back home, now heâs divorced from himself. AugĂ©:
When an international flight crosses Saudi Arabia, the hostess announces that during the overflight the drinking of alcohol will be forbidden in the aircraft. This signifies the intrusion of territory into space. Land = society = nation = culture = religion: the equation of anthropological place, fleetingly inscribed in space. Returning after an hour or so to the nonplace of space, escaping from the totalitarian constraints of place, will be just like a return to something resembling freedom.Â
woods has split the self, drawn-and-quartered it. Heâs his own chain gang. On the side of the road where his âbrain [is] exposed to the elements.â If we âlift [his] skull-top off delicate,â we see itâs âwider than the Sky,â as Emily Dickinson similized it. Worst of all, itâs infected by devils whoâve no regard for the fragile âbone china chafing dishâ that holds the brain. âAbsent-minded,â woods rapsâheâs absent of his mind. And that might be an error, as criminal-minded might more accurately reflect his present status of âbreak[ing] time like bricks.â âThoughts is cinder blocks,â but all I can see is woods breaking rocks in the hot sun. When he soundclashes, he fights the law. In his cell watching Shogun Assassin for the umpteenth time, but heâs also come into possession of a VHS copy of Can Dialectics Break Bricks? (1973). Flyinâ easyJet: Hong Kong to Paris. How different is monotonous prison labor from the toil of travel? Luggage heft; cramped legs; numb ass. woods needs rest and recovery, but âalarm clocks break spells.â Heâs living in his own private Gitmo. Enhanced interrogation has him walking the witch. TSA sleep-deprives him to extract intel, to elicit a confession. His Self is reduced to geologic bits. Heâs âcrashed out,â Flight 93 style, as he becomes a plane making impact with the ground in Shanksville, PA and disintegrates. âSearch for my own black box in the hills,â he raps, wanting to recover his own voice, his own data. Just as he said on âRed Dust,â âitâd be wiseâ to retrieve it. But what he finds amongst the strewn debris is a âblack Rubikâs cube,â impenetrably scrambled.
This nightmare scenario has woods like the rappers he described on Armand Hammerâs âAubergineâ: âTired, / Inertia the only thing keep âem moving, / Glassy-eyed.â woods is a survivor of the crash, of sortsâhis âparachute twisted and snarled.â You canât put a price on a good nightâs sleep, even if itâs a âkingâs ransom.â But woods is âhalf âsleep with the halo, dead on his feet,â so maybe itâs too little, too late. He wanders zombified, inactive, unconscious. Heâs trying to get right for today; heâs ânot swimming in tomorrowsâ like on âBabylon by Bus.â His death grip on reality is only as firm as his grip on surreality, as we heard from his appearance on Infinite Diseaseâs âAnomaladyâ:
After a while, you don't remember the crowds or venues, just the hotel rooms. ¿Tu tienes WiFi? It's just me in a stocking cap, watching TV The city dead out the window, still not even sleepy Sleep deprivation, the days keep leaking Life on the screen, light the dark like a beacon
woods the amnesiacâhe âdonât remember the crowds or venues.â If only he could repress the meaningless hotel rooms instead. Alive ainât always living in non-places (just ask Quelle Chris), especially when itâs mediated by technology: WiFi passwords, TV, his phone. Somehow he survives; itâs the city thatâs dead.
14. FBI AGENTS NARROW THEY EYES
When you turn the knob on âBlue Smoke,â you trick yourself into believing youâre rehearsing with Ornette. We feel inner circle. We feel privy. But Max Roach might also be in the audience, like he was at the Five Spot in 1959, waiting for Ornette to step offstage so he could duff him up, which he did. The FBI had a dossier on Roach, just as they did for so many other Black cultural icons. COINTELPRO with the hyper-acuity. ELUCID forewarned: Fifty people at a rap showâoneâs an informant. Police came to billy woodsâ show on Known Unknowns, an album which has moments that jive with the claustrophonic and paranoisey sounds of Hiding Places. To avoid any confusion, Iâll pass the mic to media god Marshall McLuhan:
We now have the means to keep everybody under surveillanceâŠ. This has become one of the main occupations of mankindâjust watching other people and keeping a record of their goings-on. Invading privacyâin fact, just ignoring it. Everybody has become porousâŠ. When youâre on the telephone, or on radio, or on TV, you donât have a physical body. Youâre just an image on the airâŠ. Youâre a discarnate being. You have a very different relation to the world around you. And this, I think, has been one of the big effects of the electric age. It has deprived people, really, of their private identity.
On âNYC Tapwater,â woods takes a stab-your-brain-with-your-nose-bone attempt at mentoring the youngins: âNo need for stop-and-frisk, itâs cameras everywhere, / They got your IG feed, / Come scoop kids after they do the deed.â Mass surveillance should have you shook. woods spies the âbig-ass satellite dish pointed at the sky,â on âBlue Smoke.â woods fucks with the frequencies frequently, sabotaging the alphabet boys with âso much tape hiss.â These arenât just some plainclothes cops with iPads in Missoula, Montana. These are FBI agents that ânarrow they eyes, / Frustrated, asking to be reassignedâ because woods is giving them nada. âBeen on this n-word for months,â they concede, âI think itâs all just rhymes.â Yep, rhymes like dimes. Talk about a most strange game, but woods knows he âshouldnât be surprised.â Know that youâll be scrutinized. He threatens that he better not âcatch you unsupervisedââfrom the Latin super [âoverâ] + videre [âto seeâ], which = overseer. You know that soundâitâs the sound of da police. Same as you heard at the conclusion of âPolice Came to My Show.â KRS-One offered a likkle truth and implored you to open up your eye. An exercise, from the Teacher:
Take the word overseer, like a sample, Repeat it very quickly in a crew, for example: Overseer, overseer, overseer, overseerâ Office, officer, officer, officer.
No wonder woods guards himself with galvanized steel security fencing. In a non-place like an airport, writes AugĂ©, âthe passenger accedes to his anonymity only when he has given proof of his identity.â Mom showed him where she keeps the passport hidden, and he retrieves it when necessary. Similar rules apply to others. âAnyone wanna be in my life gotta sign several waivers,â he raps strictly on âBabylon by Bus.â
15. Â
I traveled among unknown men.
âWilliam Wordsworth (1799)
I asked, âIs the mask for the killer or the crowd?"
âArmand Hammerâs âSadderdayâ
What is known and unknown (in a Rumsfeldian sense); what is seen and unseen (in a Lord Quasian sense)? You can obfuscate the message. You can adjust the pitch of your voice. AugĂ© explains how the âspatial overabundance [of non-places] works like a decoy.â Hiding places are everywhere, but theyâre especially easy to access while on tour. A person âentering the space of non-place is relieved of his usual determinants,â writes AugĂ©. âHe becomes no more than what he does or experiences in the role of passengerâŠ. Subjected to a gentle form of possession, to which he surrenders himself.â The rep grows bigger, ELUCID raps on âAs The Crow Flies,â but not so big and unwieldy that woods canât shuffle through a non-place without being recognized by adoring fans. He settles into what AugĂ© refers to as âthe passive joys of identity-loss.â
âJust picture me sittinâ with a pen in a cloud of smoke,â woods says on âBaby Steps.â He asks us to envision him in a rather peculiar scenario, one in which heâs taking notes on a performance while concealing his own presence (despite seeking âto determine if [your live setâs] a hoaxâ). The performer is a âglowed upâ Weird Sister, âlooking like she covered in gold dust.â woods deduces she âmust not have re-upped her Lexapro,â but her glamorous appearance plays against woodsâ own guardedness. You donât just let anyone in. woods is privileged, though, as the performer âpulled [him] aside [and] explained she was just doing a bit.â One is inclined to consider whether this is all a projection on a screen. Or, put differently: Is this performative or praxis? Either way, woods was like, Oh. And not since his ex-wifeâs reaction to learning âwhere [he] stashed itâ has a response hit so heavy (âShe paused, then she said, OKâ). woodsâ whole life feels stashedâbrown-bagged or cardboard-boxed. A secret sharer, heâs not.
Itâs' places no one knows who you are,
Itâs faces we never wore.
ââAgricultureâ
Would woods be able to distinguish a DOOMposter from the real thingâa cheap, bumbling replica from the genuine article? âOver time,â woods raps, âsymbols eclipse the things they symbolize.â The mask becomes not a means to maintain privacy but a phenomenon itselfâa mass-marketed one, at that. Just ask the MF DOOM estate. DOOM masks created and sold by both authorized and unauthorized retailers proliferate. Etsy shops stay busy predicting their posthumous profit margins [see: DEATHFAME]. MF DOOM likened his âimpostersâ to characters. â[W]ho I choose to put as the character is up to me,â he said. âWhen you come to a DOOM showâŠ[youâve] come to hear the show and come to hear the music. To see me? Yâall donât even know who I am! Technology makes it possible for me to still do music and not have to be any particular placeâŠ. [I]f youâre coming to a DOOM show, donât expect to see me, expect to hear me or hear the music that I present.â It sounds like DOOM is eternally wandering one of AugĂ©âs non-places as one of McLuhanâs âdiscarnate beings.â
woods has been Camouflaging himself since at least 2003. Like Poe, he is the man of the crowd, and â[i]t will be in vain to follow: for I shall learn no more of him.â On âSoundcheck,â he asks the venue to âkill the lights,â just as he does every show, murdering the audienceâs hope of eye contact, of facial recognition. Even if they manage the right angle and a âNikon flash,â woodsâ âface is the mask.â As he walks through the uncanny valleys of the shadows, you âdevelop the photograph but [find] something just wasnât right.â President Kongi did not like to be photographed, and you heard Pac screaminâ, spittinâ at the paparazzi. At the merch table, woods places his hand in front of his face for fan photo ops [or are they photo opps?]âa strange paradox of acquiescence [woods stops resisting the photo request, in cop parlance] and a gesture of refusal. âItâs GWAR when Iâm off-stage,â he tells us on âThe Layover.â The mask evolves over time. DOOM went from pantyhose, to a silver-sprayed Darth Maul mask, to a faceplate from a Gladiator helmet (the latter two prototypes thanks to the ingenuity of KEO). Oderus Urungus went from a papier-mĂąchĂ© helmet to a latex-horned extreme.
The proximal distance between woodsâ and his audience inches ever closeâclose, that is, but not too close. No Next-level poke coming through-ness. A double portion of protection for him and his psychic health. He doesnât want to make it hard for himself. âMy shell, mechanical,â he quotes a trusted source in a world full of leakers, snitches, and finks. But for all the attention (achtung baby!) paid to woodsâ face/non-face, more eyes should be devoted to retina-scanning his verse. woodsâ âlove language [is] an obscure dialect,â but his delivery veils his technical prowess. woods raps with a cup-runneth-over flow where words spill over the edge of the bar, past the four, combined with conversational cadence and syntax.Â
Examine the second verse of âFaceTime.â woodsâ sound devices and internal rhyming are in service to his theme, providing hand-holding to the listener as they walk the patterns together. The verse begins simple enough with a nursery rhyme sequence (âoboesâŠclarinetâ; ârainbowsâŠweptâ) but almost immediately complexifies when the garbled /r/ begins to dominate with âMarrakech.â The alliterative /d/ [âdubstep drift in the windowâI sit at my deskâ] drags us to the âparty outside,â away from our sanctuary of solitude. And the contraction of âPlayboi Cartiâ leads to even more intense and immediate âpartyinââ in the halls. woods brings us into the noise alongside him, even if we didnât receive a formal invitation. The tumult of the scene is communicated through woodsâ irregular pattern of internal and end-rhyme. âPhones,â âalone,â âhome,â âcone,â and âblownâ angle through the crowd, bumping and grinding against the dominate /r/ of âcardigan,â âorigin,â âbar again,â âParliament,â âparted,â âmargarine,â âwandered in,â and âorderâ (or disorder, if I may). The sonorant pairing of âhallsâ &âwallsâ (destabilized by bass shakes); the triad of âmelt,â âhelp,â & âpeltsâ; the trading of âchunkyâ & âclunkyâ; the bevy of /nk/ & /ng/ words (rings, ink, drink, ping, thinking, things, sink)ânothing saves us from the discomfiting experience described in the verse. We are subject to the final /r/ pairing of âtread water.â Weâre exhausted by that point, and we drown.
Which way ought we go from here? Doesnât much matter which way we go.Â
16. ODE ON INDOLENCE
âSoundcheckâ is a reclamation of dignity. woods repeats his negative declaration (âI will not be at soundcheckâ) four times throughout his verse, emphatically. Not since Bartleby have we heard such a vehement refusal. âI would prefer not to,â the scrivener says. woodsâ refusal would make Paul Lafargue proud. Itâs an unusual illusion that makes an MC believe he must puppet perform a phantom set for an audience of one, all in the name of amplification. Itâs not that complicated. Organized Konfusion dealt with this shit in â97. On âSoundman,â they summed it up nicely: If it ainât loud enough, we tell the soundman turn that shit up, up, up. Tek and Steele embraced a more threatening approach. Exit the soundclash and enter the venue for a moment. Boom bye bye to a sound bwoy head. (Wiretap sound like Buju Banton, donât it?) They demand a Sound [Man] Bureill.
woods craves his pre-show isolation: âI will not be in the green room if itâs too lit.â Are we talking incandescence or excitement? Either way, he wants none of it. Dah shininâ of a spotlight in his face is not his style. His autonomy is the only item on his rider: âI reserve the right.â And that means no irksome obligations like soundcheck or backstage dawdling. He prefers to take in the town, a âlocal greasy spoon or Szechuan establishment,â maybe the Courtyard Marriott bathroom where he can â[blow] marijuana through the vents.â God-level expertise when it comes to that habit. We know from âNo Hard Feelingsâ how he âtowel[s] the door.â
He âmight watch the sun set over your city from a parapet or a park bench.â woods considers the lilies and how they growâthey toil not, so why should he? Weâve seen him sitting there. We mightâve mistaken him for one of those Park Bench People that Freestyle Fellowship clued us into in 1993. âI see an old man sittinâ on a park bench,â Myka 9 sang, someone âlookinâ in the skies.â Mightâve been woods. âYouâre thinkinâ âbout your kids,â Myka said, â...âbout your girl, / Youâre thinkinâ of all the things you did, / You see the children play.â woods wishes he was pushing his own baby on the swing, but heâs got to wait for that.Â
Timeâs not lost completely. He will not be at soundcheck, but he will be timely for the show. You wonât find him âwakinâ up on a park bench a bumâ (âThe Doldrumsâ). âHeadlamps splash squatter tents on my way to the venue,â woods raps, ââthey wave me in.â Who exactly? The squatters or the show promoter? Who would he be more comfortable with? âIâm smiling like Iâm not,â he says from the stage, spurning the coon caricature so many Black performers have thrust upon them by the public. woods wonât dance a jig, wonât step and fetch it. Not even when itâs time to get paid. âAfter the curtains, I sit for a while before I go get the check,â he explains. He turns merch tables on the promoter; makes him wait. Work slowdown. The pay is small, so take your time and buck them all, as the Wobblies used to say. Every live show forget the lyric, huh?âprobably intentional. Donât give them what they want. Withhold your labor. Set your terms.
17. THE CONQUEST OF BREAD
                                                         âŠFor a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
âWendell BerryÂ
If woods canât escape the commotion of the show, heâll wander even farther off. On âAgriculture,â he moves beyond space and time. If âParaquatâ argued âAnno Domini, itâs no before, itâs only after,â then âAgricultureâ reassesses and finds thereâs only before. âNothing in the thought bubble,â woods mentioned on âSoft Landing,â which leads us to this meditation, this reverie of the before. Before whatâthe Fall? Christ? Facial recognition software? Tour? âBefore history [HistoryâŠ], I made fire in the cave,â he raps on âThe Layover.â A time before connotes premodern, Arcadian. âAgricultureâ strings together a sequence of befores, each more lyrical than the prior (âlyricalâ not in a Biggie âlyrical lyricist flowinâ lyrics out my larynxâ sense, but in a Coleridge & Wordsworth way). woods wakes âbefore the sunrise,â even before nature awakens fully, âbefore sparrow cry from thistle.â He notes âthe kettle boil before it whistle,â holding space in the quiet intensity. The personified night âfight before it dieâ and, consequently, the âsky bleed purple,â battered and bruised. woods leads us to a place (in stark contrast to a non-place) that knows him from âbefore [his] hands been dirtyâ with corruptionâa place âbefore [he] could grasp time,â somewhere embryonic. He welcomes us to his Walden, to an unspoiled place âwithout any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies.â Here, the time is âbefore we had new namesâânames like william woods, like F. Porter, like Madziwanyika. A time âbefore we was new in our own eyesââbefore the mirror stage or interpellation.
To get there, woods has to travel to âparts unknown.â Heâs only âat home when the roadâs not paved.â He only asks for a âlittle piece of yardâ where a âcouple goats graze.â Sustainable living. Living that sustains. With a name like backwoodz, why wouldnât the escape route point to the wilds? He retreats into the peace of wild things, as Wendell Berry calls it. There, woods can focus on [re]productivity. John McPhee, who has always had to balance teaching and writing, refers to his perennial phases as âcrop rotations.â In the rural setting depicted on âAgriculture,â there are places enough for woods to push his plow. He retreats not out of complacency but out of a restorative need. Heâs an olâ dirty bastard, âsquatting in the soil with a fistful.â CAN YOU DIG IT?! He channels Cyrus. He channels Kaczynski (and writes as much as him, too). âAgricultureâ has a subtitle: Industrial Society and Its Future. â[T]echnology exacerbates the effects of crowding because it puts increased disruptive powers in peopleâs hands,â Kaczynski writes, staring at the whole entourage on the couch buried in they phones.
woods âused to plot on the come-up, plot on [his] brothers,â but now he lends care to his garden plot and âget[s] the tomatoes cropping sideways.â His idyll, exhilarating. Heâs âstooped in the coop, gathering eggsâ for breakfast, and, later, he âtraded some to the neighbor for fresh bread.â The song seems mixed with Kropotkin on the console, a mutuality and self-sufficiency at work. Heâd had this vision since forever. On Armand Hammerâs âResin,â woods remixes the Jack and the Beanstalk fairytale. He plucks âone seedâ from âout the poundââtransfixed by its âshiny and roundâ appearance, its seemingly enchanted qualitiesâand imagines a day where heâd âmove away [and] put it in the ground.â âTen years later,â though, the seed is âstill in [his] drawer, rattling aroundâangrily.â (At least he didnât end up with his bones ground to meal to make a giantâs bread, heh.)
âAgricultureâ appears to be an illusion, a phantasy, at most a reprieveâa weekend upstate or a vacation in the old country. âI say Iâm at peace, but itâs still that same dread,â woods laments, admitting his living off the fatta the lanâ is a temporary arrangement, a refueling on a road trip. âItâs hard to live when before you was dead,â and he finds the afterlife a troubling funk. But heâs in the now, heâs in the now, heâs in the now (as ELUCID is wont to say), and he sees âland on either side of the car.â That wonât suffice when heâs back in the city. Heâs better off just getting blunted on reality.
18.
I was high all day, I escaped, goes the refrain on âHoudini.â From the spliff that woods lifts and inhales, heâs able to exhale the yellow smoke of buddha through righteous steps. No mask necessary; this is the vanishing act. To be ghost, to be Ghost.[1] The final âI escapedâ of the refrain vanishes into the ether. Houdini was more an escape artist than a smoke and mirrors magician, of course. Others âworking with mirrors,â but woods âdisappearsâ[he] was never there.â Kenny Segal contrives a Ÿ time signature so that woods can remove himself, waltzing past the typical regulations of time. âDay off,â he says at the top, though Armand Hammerâs âNo Days Offâ offered up the âsorcererâs apprenticeâ gig. Doesnât seem so appealing at the moment.
The green thumbing that had the tomatoes cropping sideways on âAgricultureâ transforms OG into âfresh papayaâ or another strain which has a taste that reminds woods of âJamaican oranges that look like limes.â Where Iâm from, you donât see fireflies, he says. The pastoral escape againâheâs grounding himself (in both the ecotherapy sense and bringing that plane back down to terra firma). woods barefoot soaking up the Earthâs electrons [You donât have to believe it]. But the tranquility turns quick as he âwalk[s] into the forest filled with fearâ and âhears something lumbering near.â But itâs just his mind playing tricks on him. It was all a dreamâhe âwoke up sudden in armchairâ (a money-green leather armchair, maybe). âYo, you good to drive?ââand weâre buckling up, back to movement again.
19.
The wait is over, the wait is over, biddy-bye-bye [to the rhythm of BDPâs âThe Bridge Is Over,â please]. woods and ShrapKnel scheme to lively up themselves like Marley and the Wailers on âBabylon by Bus,â but theyâre touring ingloriously. âCold open, slow to focus, cameras pan to a freeway,â PremRock directs. His cinematic pacing on par with Pasolini. The wait prevailsâstasis. woods âsat on his gate for hours, pissing in a bottle.â Reminds him of the spider hole, probably, when âthe job was to sit there all day and press ârefreshâ.â
On âWaiting Around,â he not only waits but wanders. For all his depersonalization on tour, woods counters the feeling by personifying the night again. Sheâs âyoung,â of courseâfull of opportunityâand he âwatch[es] her move, spinning like vinyl jumping out the groove.â Graceful but with a smidgen of volatility. He personifies night, just as he does time, to keep him company. Later, he finds human companionship in the form of an actual woman. Sheâs an expatriate with âperfect teeth,â â5â3â [and] thick as congee porridge.â They smoke âoutside in the darkness of the eve,â but she rejects his advancesâeven his offer to hop in his Horse & Carriage. woods sees defeat through the eyes and mind of Killa Cam. She kisses his cheek and bids him adieu. The ice melts but the champagne still cold. No hard feelings, right?
woods wanders Amsterdam like heâs done many times before. âI miss having nothing to lose,â he says, like back when he was twenty-two and ainât had nothing but âtwenty-two hundred in [his] shoe.â He feels like Jay-Z on â22 Twoâsâ: I been around this block too many times. Too true, Shawn Cart[ograph]er. woods reads the city with a stoner squint, a subtle wink, with whimsy. He cuts-up corners and avenues like Burroughs riding the Nova Express and disregards the grid like Max Heath. Or, put another way, woods embraces his instinctive travels and paths of rhythm. His verses break the grid too, what with their end-stops and enjambments that jar and jerk the listener as woods weaves through heavy foot traffic. Heâs a herbaliser urban planner, dropping âa science of relations and ambiences,â what the Situationists called psychogeography. (Sorry ahead of time for not sparing you the Hallmark Guy Debord.) Each foreign city, for woods, is a Psycho Realm.
History has known men like woods, flĂąneurs flitting through throngs. âThe crowd is his domain,â Baudelaire explained in âThe Painter of Modern Lifeâ (1863), just âas the air is that of the birds.â Birds flyinâ highâyou know how I feel. âFor the perfect flĂąneur,â Baudelaire writes,
for the passionate observer, it is an immense joy to take up oneâs dwelling among the multitude, amidst undulation, movement, the fugitive, the infinite. To be absent from home and yet feel oneself everywhere at home; to view the world, to be at the heart of the world, and yet hidden from the world, such are some of the last pleasures of those independent spirits, passionate and impartial, that language can only inadequately define.
But for woods (who told us he was a dandy on âKing Tubbyâ), language does seem to adequately define what he sees and feels, right down to the âcobblestoned streetsâ beneath his feet. Time seems to pass exponentiallyâthose cobblestones are Old Testament old, from the Annals of the Former World. woods, we know, vacillates between dwelling at âthe heart of the worldâ and remaining âhidden from [it].â Through woodsâ songsâespecially on Mapsâhe functions as âa mirrorâŠa kaleidoscope endowed with consciousness which, with its every movement, conveys the multiplicity of life.â woods presents himself narratively as a first-person âI,â but he is an âIâ that is âinsatiable in his appetite for the ânot-I.ââ I is another. I is an Other.Â
Debord and his Situationist posse (the Lettrist International Clik, for the people), encouraged citizens to embrace the dĂ©rive, to take a bizarre ride II the pharcyde, to âdrop their relationsâŠand all their other usual motives for movement and action, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.â I jet propel at a rate that complicate their mental state, Bootie Brown rapped, but woods complicates his own mental state with his sauntering. The dĂ©rive can last any amount of timeâminutes between meetings with distributors, Zoom podcast interviews, and press junkets. Pit stops between downtown bars and uptown bars. Middle-of-nowhere gas stations. You notice everything on the dĂ©riveâitâs an entropy of experience, but the gravitational pull of the flĂąneur pulls it all back together. woods looks to avail himself of these âSituationsâ (as the Situationists intended)âlike the Native Tongues sought to create âScenariosââmoments where he can shuffle off the alienation and spectacles of his Daily Operations.
20.
Rilke surveys the city in The Journey of My Other Self (1930) and catalogs what he seesâa parallel to woodsâ journey to his other self: his performing self in juxtaposition to his personal self. Rilke walks along Rue Toullier in Paris, pondering: âPeople come here, then, to live? I should rather have thought they came here to die.â He sniffs an âodour [that] began to rise from the streetâŠa smell of iodoform, the grease of pommes frites, and fear.â He might be smelling woodsâ dinner: âginger root, mussels, and pomme frites.â The âjaundiced moonâ above woods matches the âgreenish complexionâ of a baby âin a perambulator standing on the pavementâ not far from Rilke. âHow much such a little moon can do!â Rilke cries. âThere are days when everything about us is lucent and ethereal, scarcely outlined in the luminous atmosphere and yet distinct.â The moon seems to spotlight everything the world has to offer. âThe nearest objects take on the tone of distance, are remote and merely displayed from afar, not given to us,â Rilke writes. And woods responds by grasping for âpoems just out of reach.â Nothing is insignificant or superfluous.
âThe fatal thing about these acted poems,â though, Rilke writes:
was that they continually added to and extended themselves, growing to tens of thousands of verses, so that ultimately the time in them was the actual time; somewhat as if one were to make a globe on the scale of the earth. The concave stage, beneath which was hell and above which the level of Paradise was represented by a balcony of unrailed scaffolding fixed to a pillar, only helped to weaken the illusion. For this century had indeed made both heaven and hell terrestrial.
billy woods paces that âconcave stage.â His oeuvre has grown âto tens of thousands of versesâ that provide us with his vision of the world. He passes a âCongolese conciergeâ who has fallen âfast asleepâ as he returns to his âbig, lonely suite.â âFrom the tiny balcony,â woods raps with an air of confession, âI watched my planes leave.â Heâs scorned, forlornâlike Marilyn Buckâs poem âWaitingâ (1989), woods âsit[s] wrapped / wrapped in a cool / breeze of assumed indifference.â
21.Â
Vivez sans temps mort.
Aesop Rockâs anxiety kept him from touring early in his career, and heâs been cool to the idea ever since. âNot a piece of me is drawn to the theater,â he admits on âWaiting Around,â preferring the cloistered process of ârecording songs in [his] bedroom.â He forgoes any âalternate venueâ for his art. Ultimately, he âwasnât comfortable everâ on stageâhe just âcanât fuck with the premiseâ of formally presenting such inward-looking works (his âsons and [his] daughtersâ) to the outside world, face-first and face-forward.
woods knows, as well, that touring isnât always a spiritually or financially profitable business. Remember what he told us on âcheckpointsâ: âBest tour advice I ever got: Youâre better off beatinâ your dick.â Not just a tip on avoiding dalliancesâa call to curtail impulse and instead self-stimulate on Seamanâs furnitureâbut a [cock-]hard truth about the economic cost of blundering across the country. Like Prodigy, woodsâll tour the album but only for more sales. Heâs willing to do that now, but it was less enticing when he was playing to a crowd of two plainclothes cops.
That said, woodsâunlike Aesopâfinds value in the journey itself, in spite of merch sales and gas budget deficits. âWe have a world of pleasure to win,â Raoul Vaneigm proclaimed in The Revolution of Everyday Life, âand nothing to lose but boredom.â The travel necessitated by touring disrupts your quotidian existence, your humdrum homelife, but the disruption that is the road life can grow tiresome just the same. âNothing moving,â Vaneigm writes, âonly dead time passing.â woods finds Time âholed up somewhere it didnât have to move.â Touring cuts both waysâyouâll be bored stiff like the Timeless EP, or your experience will prove timeless like Bored Stiff in â97. When heâs in Amsterdam, he watches In Bruges (or is he in Brugesâthe compass stays confused) because heâs got âtime to killââso thatâs a time-kill, not a time-thrill. Sometimes the day gently passes; sometimes time is flattened. Which is which? You gonâ feel it in the rhythm and the pattern, or the âPattern and Rhythm,â the penultimate chapter in E. M. Forsterâs Aspects of the Novel. woods' âroom had a view,â dummy.
22.
Nothing but dumb luck when youâre unstuck in time. On âThe Layover,â we learn woods âalready knew the options was lose/lose, / Baby, thatâs nothing new.â Fucking forget âthe sun set in the desert, red glow, redness in the Westâ for a second. Look to No Country For Old Men, instead. Anton Chigurh pulls a coin from his pocket (no âsafe full of Eurosâ for him). Carla Jean Moss calls heads but the coin flips and lands tails. Carla Jean is helpless, vexed. âEvery moment in your life is a turning and every one a choosing,â Chigurh tells her. âSomewhere you made a choice. All followed to this. The accounting is scrupulous. The shape is drawn. No line can be erasedâŠ. A personâs path through the world seldom changes and even more seldom will it change abruptly. And the shape of your path was visible from the beginning.â This the type of shit thatâll make Baby Jessica jump in the well again. Weâre all âlooking up at a circle of blue.â Weâre all alone in the spider hole, but I suppose thatâs the best part.
Like Armand Hammerâs âTopsyâ from the WHT LBL album, âThe Layoverâ includes a paratactic chorus that functions more as an appendix to the song. Full of alliterative phrases (light/lantern; shovel/spade; OâShea/ofays/obey; posse/Parkway), metonymic references (Deion Sanders; OâShea Jackson), musical/literary allusions (LL Cool J; Dorian Gray), and downright eerie similarities (âgiant pandaâ/âgiant obeyâ; âGrayâ/âgraveâ; âother wayâ/âParkwayâ)âif these choruses are hooks theyâre shepherdâs crooks intended to snare ideas from oneâs consciousness. That, or snaring us out of the spider hole, the well, our bad luck.
23.
woods stabilizes himself with his pen; centers himself with his pad. âMore delicate than the historiansâ are the map-makersâ colors,â Elizabeth Bishop says in her poem âThe Mapâ (1946). In a letter, Bishop said, âI always like to feel exactly where I am geographically all the time, on the map.â She roots[/routes] herself against the threat of non-places. woods gets his mind right with âaromatherapy in the stuâ with lavender diffused in the boothâ (âRapper Weedâ). Poeâs protagonist from âThe Man of the Crowdâ knew how to soothe the burn of a world in flames: âI derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing.â woodsâ sure-footedness stems from his understanding of âthe true nature of this world, in its staggering beauty and its infinite horrors,â as he put it in an interview late last year. Heâs able to articulate that which is ineffable, likely because he âtake[s] care of these wordsâMunchausen by proxyâ (âBabylon by Busâ). Whispering sweet-nothings to his âailingâ childrenâmanipulating them to serve his vision. For the MC whose âlove language is an obscure dialect,â Pierre Joris reminds us âall languages are foreign.â Weâre all living in a chaos-world, so âwhy should one have to write in the mummy/daddy language, why should that oedipal choice be the only possible or legitimate one?â woods works conscientiously, but he also guesses as he goes, filling in the blanks: âPaper and pencilâI wrote the verse like hangman.â Inspiration flits and stutter-steps on a hunt: It was always just a question of when. The duppy stalks, blowing âan ill wind in the trees.â woods is ârunning routes, trees, and patternsââjuking jumbees and stiff-arming the grimmest of reapers. Theyâre always pursuing, no matter where you move. âTime and the land are oneâ John Ashbery writes. In Bonnie Costelloâs Shifting Ground (2003), she describes how Ashbery explores the ârelationship of mind to environment and the play between temporal and spatial awareness.â He achieves this through disappearing paths and slippery topography, shifts in scale and perspective, and subversions of narrative sequence. As concerns woods: check, check, check, and [mic] check. His writing goes hither and yon.
24. EVERYBODY COOKING
Came home, like, âThereâs no recipes left!"
ââcheckpointsâ
By now, we know woodsâ passion for grilling is akin to Nabakovâs lepidopteryâa hobby that enriches his art. The empirical aspects of cooking mingle with his transformative vision. Or, as woods boasts, You know Iâm working the fire. As far as lyrics go, what woods spits leaves us salivating. He leaves us hungrier than Common in â97 (he was a self-proclaimed âverbal vegetarianâ anyway, limiting his menu). On Maps, woodsâ travels are charged with food, from fine dining to stops âat a Costco in the Midwest with a pocketful of small bills folded like tacos.â Even his currency is cuisine.
woods rips recipe raps to counter the empty calories offered at airports. Merwin explained that âyou sit there in the smell / of what passes for food.â Instead, feel the comfort of a home-cooked meal. On âKenwood Speakers,â woods is Cold Lampinâ with [the] Flavor of his hostâs âskate wing, brown butter, and capers, / Sprigs of thyme, heavy pours of natural wine.â On âGilgamesh,â he served up the class: âStiff drinks, / âŠgarnish the parsley.â His epicure bars extend to âSoft Landing,â where thereâs âconch fritters crispinâ in the kitchen,â and on âBlue Smoke,â where the culinary poetics peak with an elaborate spread: âThe pork belly was brined, braised, then deep-fried, / Fresh mint, Thai basil, pickled watermelon rind, / Julienned scallions and other alliums, gave the pepper mill one grind.â In Amsterdam, he indulges in a feast fit for President Kongi: âGrassy gin winning over sweet vermouth, / Framboise, ginger root, / Mussels and pomme frites, confit leeks.â
Meals upon meals upon meals. woods is out to lunch like Dolphyâhe slows time and slow cooks. Unless heâs suspending his gastronomics for a detour through the dark side of the all-American meal. The velocity of tour life sometimes necessitates fast food: âThe burgers was In-N-Out.â Budgeting time and consumption is a perilous path. Cee-Lo Green on âSoul Foodâ issued a Surgeon Generalâs Warning: âFast food got me sick, / Them crackers think they slick.â Catch woods at an all-night diner with Cage and Camu at the counterâa chopped-and-screwed Nighthawks painted by Edward [Hip-]Hopper who, in his own words, âunconsciously...paint[ed] the loneliness of a large city.â No one reminded him that bad dreams are only dreams. Mark Fisher saw the scene for what it was: a [def] âjuxtaposition of the cafĂ© with the cosmos.â
Your time is your own, only when itâs not. Joy James speaks of âtime theft,â the âloss of leisure to recover from fatigue and violence.â Not stolen moments but moments stolen from you. You stare at the time zone clocks on the wall of the airport and mumble woodsâ lyrics from âBabylon by Busâ: I knew the time was borrowed. Borrowed or stolen? woods communes with DOOM/doom. âLiving off borrowed time, the clock tick faster,â expanding and contracting like accordion bellows. Itâs as if every hot minute after History Will Absolve Me is borrowed. Before history, he made fire in the cave. Danteâs descent into hell follows a clockwise spiral [the Flavor Flav clock stillâ(still!)âspins centrifugal]
25. Â FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT WHICH IS TO COME
This is the end, as itâs always been. We spend time and money, money and time. The currency is mortality, or tempmortality. Method Man might âbust shots at Big Ben like we got time to kill,â but weâre in Bruges, and Ken drops warning coins from the belfry before leaping to his death, splat in the market square. Thatâs the Protect Ya Neck jump-off, for those wondering. Coldcocked by the clocktower.
Weâre there but not there. Masked and unmasked. Time out of joint and intimately passing a joint in the cypher. Playing for crowds and playing with your kids. Aesop might refuse to tour, sticking to his quasi-reclusive career turn, or he may someday perform on his own terms. His own terminology in the terms of service, in the airport terminal. Terminus means the end. âIâm trying to live in the moment like death row,â woods raps on âFaceTime.â Thatâs the death row of last meals and last words, the Live from Death Row of Mumia Abu-Jamal; however, itâs also the Death Row of Suge Knight, of a record label that had its moment and then didnât, done in by deserters, failed distribution deals, and bankruptcy.[2]
Who better to invoke than the Notorious B.I.G. to prove the point of tempmortality? woods has drawn from the well of Big Poppaâs precarity punchlines before. Where Big insisted rappers shouldnât be mad because âUPS is hiring,â woods responds with a post-â08 collapse sentiment: âMy advice: donât stop rhyminââUPS not hiring.â Just common sense for a recessionary gap. Death curves at every turn, so never take shit for granted. woods could be freelancing, writing rap reviews for a pittance. That being said, heâs âReady to die, itâs no biggieâ (âFaceTimeâ). Heâs already âlived a couple livesâ so heâs prepared to âgo ahead and slideâ into that good night. Somebodyïżœïżœs gotta dieâif he goes, he goes. Insouciance is the order of the day. Walking with a panther, he tallies his ânine livesâ and wonders like those devilish Yakubs âhow many [he] already used.â B.I.G. appears everywhere on Maps, suggesting to woods that âmaybe suicidal thoughts [is] the everyday struggle.â âGimme the loot,â woods raps on âBaby Steps,â determined to get hisââitâs a museum.â Repatriate artifacts? Donât soften the language. Gimme mine, ELUCID screams.Â
woods has been around the world and ay ya ya, heâs been playa-hated (âDonât forget: Godâs a haterâ). Mo Money Moor Problemsâa wider audience translates to a wider world. But he can brag and meditate on mortality both. âBig jar when they donate my brain,â he says, and the organ transplant moves at a hash jar tempo. Bourdainian flourishes of âspicy chili oilâlet that bad boy marinateâ (Bad Boy, huh?). Sometimes we track time through the dates on âposthumous YouTube viewsâ; other times we can only rely on âthe lonely big tree like a sundial.â To theâŠtick-tock, ya donât stop. To theâŠtick-tock, ya donât quit.
âIn all candor,â woods raps on the chorus of âThe Layover,â âI got one foot in your grave.â He glosses over racist connotations and instead weaponizes farm tools: âI still call a shovel a spade.â Shades of the gravediggaz in Hamletâs courtyard. woods has wielded the weapon before, on âGilgameshâ: âMerrily dug his own grave, whistling as he shoveled.â Tarafah, the nomad-poet & free Bedouin, satirized the king and thus âdug his grave with his tongue.â To bring back Orwellâs âMarrakech,â if only for a moment: âThey arise out of the earth, they sweat and starve for a few years, and then they sink back into the nameless mounds of the graveyard and nobody notices that they are gone. And even the graves themselves soon fade back into the soil.âÂ
Survival rate fluctuates like the market. Even Bourdain chose the rope in Hotel Chambard in Kaysersberg. âI donât go to sleepâI tread water âtil I sink,â woods reveals on âFaceTime.â The waves never let up, but you got to keep ya head up, keep your head above water. Like Trugoy rapped, Weâre all in tune with doom.
26. A HEAD NÓDDAâS JOURNEY
Hing, hang, hungâsee what the hangman done.
ââSadderdayâ
Chokehold slowly closed the airway.
ââDettolâ
On âHangman,â thoughts are hijacked by grisly Afro-Gothic visions. The head nodding of the listener turns to oxygen deprivation. Cold dead grip on the larynx. The neck compresses closer to unconsciousness, another stifled breath closer to death. To cease that âheart beat in [the] jugular.â woods raps as if heâs being hanged, and he makes a spectacle of it. The wheeze of the long /e/ sounds within the lines (âMatisseâ; âteethâ; âdeepâ; âbeatâ; âpeaksâ; âSikhâ; âsheetâ; âsleepâ) and the choke of the short /u/ sounds within the end-rhymes (âcolorsâ; âloversâ; âjugularâ; âruggedâ; âthuggersâ; âfuckerâ)âweâre listening to the hangmanâs tune. The tightening of the iron fist on the throat, garroted; the Iron Galaxy expanding but feeling like shrinking the way it pulls taut. The rope creaks as it tightens.Â
As woods loses consciousness, he âhovers outside [him]self.â My shell, mechanicalâhe survives as he cites a familiar phrase and slips into a new rhyme pattern. He gargles back to life with hardcore consonance (the /g/ and /c/ takeover) and predominant l-sounds (âmanageableâ; âtangibleâ; âmanaclesâ) to smooth the earlier ruggedness, but itâs still a bumpy ride. âPeople paralyzed by the lies they tell theyself,â but not him. Heâs still moving and knows the âcount right,â though he reaches for tangibility as a spirit roams beyond his grasp. Gotta stay on it, as âany day could be the day they frog-march you in manacles.â
The rhymes and rhyme schemes of the first verse attack, but the long /oo/ digraph pattern sustained through the second verse stabilizes (âundoâ; âRubikâsâ; âcubeâ; âcartoonsâ; âboothâ; âcocoonâ; âmoonsâ; âroomâ; âunamusedâ; âtruthâ; âstuââ; âfumesâ; âshroomsâ; âproofâ; âvroomâ; âwombâ; âspoonsâ). The sequence produces a mesmerizing drone. Somewhere between Ginsbergâs OM or AUM (âAU opens the gates of heaven. The humming M closes the gates of hell. AUM is a long sigh; 5 minutes intense total concentration initiates cosmic vibrationsâ) and the monoliths & dimensions of Sunn O))). woods sings a Song of Experience that outmaneuvers protĂ©gĂ©s with wit and wisdom. He becomes the haunting presence of the chorus, the ominous and malevolent duppy. Heâs gonna âkeep it real with youââthat old platitude, yes, but reallyâthe past canât be undone, itâs a âblack Rubikâs cube.â He knows; heâs been in the âbooth like cocoon[/Cocoon],â a butterfly transforming into a shabazz palace, a butterfly pimped. Youngbloods canât relate to a film allusion from before they were twinkles in their mothersâ uteri. woods somersaults âin a dead womb.â If woods records in a Silkk casing, AugĂ© knows why: âIn one form or another, ranging from the misery of refugee camps to the cosseted luxury of five-star hotels, some experience of non-placeâŠis today an essential component of all social existence. Hency the very particular and ultimately paradoxical character ofâŠthe fashion for âcocooningâ, retreating into the self.â
âDig two gravesâŠone for them, one for you,â woods drones on. Weâre leveled by Kenny Segalâs menacing foghorn blast. Itâs a motif heard throughout The Microphonesâ The Glow Pt. 2 (released 9/11/01) with Phil Elverum crediting the first season of Twin Peaks for the idea. (Incidentally, you can hear it at the beginning of The Microphonesâ âMap.â) Segalâs foghorn (in reality, a pitched-down trombone) shows up inconsistently throughout âHangman,â heightening our trepidation, racking our nerves.
Size it up. On âHangman,â woods admits that âpayback always inexact, but [he] be squinting over measuring spoonsâ like T. S. Eliotâs Prufrock busy âmeasur[ing] out [his] life with coffee spoons.â The dreaded hangman and his moribund quantifications bleed and reverberate like King Tubbyâs fingers on the Fisher Dynamic Space Expander. One look all it take to take they measurements.
27. THE EXECUTIONERâS FACE IS ALWAYS WELL HIDDEN
woodsâ brand of [afro-]pessimism leaves Frank B. Wilderson III in a state of bewilderment. Though weâre left with few illusions on Maps (âPeople donât want the truth; they want me to tell âem grandma went to heavenâ would be one such example), nothing matches the protracted decline he sets forth on âYear Zero.â âI quit lookinâ for solutions,â woods opens, signaling the twilight of the gods. If he canât summon the strength, where does that leave us? Itâs underground hip-hop, gentleman. The gods will not save you. woods manages to tell us how it is without falling into despair (note the chuckling at the end of âRapper Weedâ), but his ruthless critique often leaves us laughless. I feel mirth at his gift of gab, but Iâm indignant when I page through the briefings he throws down on my desk.
woods acts in accordance with Franco Berardiâs prompting, opting to employ a âdyst-ironyâ [dystopian irony], âthe language of autonomy.â The pervasive /n/ phoneme within the verse (âlookinââ; âsolutionsâ; âend hunchbacked in frontâ; âmindsâ; âEdisonâ; âweaponâ; etc.)âthe motherfucking alveolar nasal produced as woods raps through gritted teethâslides homophonically into âend,â a succession of âem, as though heâs John the Revelator humming end end end end end. Feels like a âtumor pressing on [our] brain.â Eschatological-hop for the â2-3. Things look bad, real bad. Stupid people rule the land, we buy a pistol and learn how to use it, and our âtaxes pay police brutality settlements.â Thereâs âquicksand [in] every direction, so go ahead and step on in.â That sinking feeling is unavoidable. âThere is no bad luck in the world but white folks,â Baby Suggs says in Toni Morrisonâs Beloved, and so we crouch down in front of 124 Bluestone Road with our finger on the trigger.Â
Technology wonât save us either. Tesla and Edisonâs âgreat mindsâ fall short (their ilk might actually be the âworstest of menâ). âApes stood and walked into the futureâ only to âend hunchbacked in front the computer.â March of regress. Sooner or later they red-pill and rabbit-hole themselves into the comments section of extremist YouTube channels. Shitposters leaving links to their live-stream on 8chan. âSooner or later itâs gonâ be two unrelated active shootersââaspiring genocidairesââsame place, same time.â In Heroes: Mass Murder and Suicide (2015), Berardi argues that active shooters possess âthe psychopathology of human beings exposed to electronic hyper-simulation during their formative years, the special fragility of the first generation to grow up in the virtual age.â These killers âlearn more vocabulary from a machine than from their mothersââin [m]other words, âthe dissociation of language learning from the bodily affective experience.â (woods isnât one of them; heâs sure to âcall Mom and say, I love you.â) These killers donât know people, having only lived a âvirtualization of the experience of the other.â
Itâs not just the extremists, though. At even the âfirst sign of trouble, motherfuckers shimmy right out that human skin.â This world is never home, will never be home. Everything âhomeâ is gone, homie. Time to tabula rasa that shit, wholesale. Everything for sale except forâŠnah, ev-ery-thing. âKids,â woods saysâand heâs addressing not only his young audience but other whippersnapper rappers and his own children, tooââyou and your friends gonâ have to start again, / Itâs nothing you can do with usâweâre fucked.â He repeats how fucked we are, for choral emphasis. We âpoison everything we touch.â The wild jungle out the speaker âwithered and died.â That bitter cassava on the tongue. The poisonwood bible that we thumb. Burn it down with us inside. Burn it to the ground. Make sure we donât survive. âSo what can be done when nothing can be done?â Berardi asks,
I think that ironic autonomy is the answerâŠ. Politicians call on us to take part in their political concerns, economists call on us to be responsible, to work more, to go shopping, to stimulate the market. Priests call on us to have faith. If you follow these inveiglements to participate, to be responsibleâyou are trapped. Do not take part in the game, do not expect any solution from politics, do not be attached to things, do not hope.
If the gods are fucking you, you find a way to fuck them back.
28.
I do hate to be chucked in the dark aboard a strange ship. I wonder where they keep their fresh water.
âJoseph Conrad, The Rescue (1920)
âEverything is landscape,â Ashbery declares in The Double Dream of Spring. Go ahead and think rustic, but he includes â...the great urban centers⊠/ âŠat the center of which / We live our lives, made up of a great quantity of isolated instants.â âI miss this place,â woods longingly raps on âNYC Tapwater,â only to undercut the thought, âââtil Iâm back.â âLong face to match,â he says, just as he looked on ELUCIDâs âNostrandâ: âEvery day I walk past people begging to live, / Every day I walk past the living dead.â The quotidian is calamitous. And now even his âcats are strays.â He surveys the rest of the scene, from the inconsiderate bus driver, to the ânew panhandler outside the store,â to the âyoung boy going through each bag of grabba like itâs raw silk cloth.â Time passes and doesnât. Kenny Segalâs sloomy beat speaks volumes. Nothing ever happens âtil it do. Find woods in the doldrums. Baby, heâs got the bends. Where does he go from here? Heâs been alone on an aeroplane, falling asleep against the windowpane. His blood thickensâhe needs to be rejuvenated, needs an infusion, needs his drip feed on, needs a beat. He diagnoses himself: You lack the minerals and vitamins. He prescribes himself âone sip of New York City tapwater.â
A few weeks later, he sees the old panhandler âoutside Kennedy Fried, grinding his jaw.â Ironically, âhe ainât recognize [woods] at all,â which we assume would please our camera-shy guy, but he seems to yearn for the recognition from this necropolitan wanderer, at least in this instance. Heâs jet-lagged again, not quite grabbing the new version of himself. âSlipp[ing] in the bar at last callâ probably wonât help the dissociation. The words are coming out all weird.
âIâm home, but my mind be wandering off.â So, what does he do in the second verse?âhe hides in plain sight, of course. âSometimes I donât tell anyone Iâm back around,â he confessesâhe âjust lay low.â woods the misanthrope. After all, itâs âthe cat [that] miss [him] the mostâpurring loud on [his] lap.â Home is where the hard plastics are, so woods contemplates with his âfingers steepled, / wondering if [he] really need all this stuff.â Nobody ever really did it for the love, he claimed on âThe Doldrums.â So when O.C. raps heâd ârather be broke and have a whole lot of respect,â woods is dubious. He hides. âThrough the peephole,â creeping, dropping eaves, he âsee[s] new people going up and down the stairs.â Heâs a kindred spirit to Aesop Rock on his fire escape with the 6B panorama: A universe of brick buildings slightly off-balance. woods sees ânew buildings just appearâ out of nowhere.Â
He sequesters himself in his apartment, but eventually ventures out again. He gives us a tour, keeping a body count, as Ice-T yowls, THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD! He spots celebrities, clothing boutiques, and corporate weed everywhere. On âGilgamesh,â he saw the âwhole neighborhood on stage,â even as he navigated a âtwo-block radius, at best.â His territory, small as it is in scale, is invaded. He gets dewy-eyed about âthat â08 Sour Diesel,â but not before âDeath in a top hat dance[s] a jig in the street.â Antonius Block doing the wop, popping and locking down the block.
Gilgamesh returns to Uruk fearful â[h]is people would not share / The sorrow that he knew,â and he was rightâthey didnât. âHe looked at the walls, / Awed at the heights / His people had achieved / And for a momentâjust a momentâ / All that lay behind him / Passed from view.â On âGilgamesh,â woods finds it âincreasingly clear these walls is fucking closing in.â Heâs back at the dinner table in that renovated apartment of his gentrifying neighbors. âLast year I pretended to care, / Right now, canât spare the oxygen,â he raps, exasperated. But he can spare the exhaust fumes. He puts his âfeet up on the Ottoman Empireâ for some rest and respite and reveries of his own imperial conquests.Â
âNYC Tapwater,â like âKenwood Speakersâ earlier, is Delivered Under the Similitude of a Dream [dreams is dangerous]. The City of Destruction you flee might not be Celestial but itâs sufficient enough. Home is never how you left it yet also is. Aphorisms fail us. You canât go home againâsure. We follow woods on the âlast car on the last trainâ on the Last Exit to Brooklyn. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. âTo market, to market, to buy a fat pig.â (The pork belly was brined, braised, then deep-friedâŠ) In her 1965 poem âQuestions of Travel,â Elizabeth Bishop writes:
Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today?
People pin religious hope on travel, butâas Bishop once said elsewhereâthe first person you meet when you get off the plane is yourself. Emerson said much the same, even discouraging travel (âThe soul is no traveler; the wise man stays at homeâ). Everything you need is within you, he arguedâyou create the hallowed place, and then the place helps create you. In âSelf-Reliance,â he considers traveling to Naples to become âintoxicated with beauty, and lose [his] sadness,â but he ultimately thinks better of searching for cheap flights on Expedia. âI pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples,â he writes, âand there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.â It all reeks of jet fuel.[3]
29. NOSTOS
...in the world of supermodernity people are always, and never, at home.
âAugĂ©
ELUCID opens âAs The Crow Fliesâ straddling two simultaneous realities: home and away, near and far, physically present and mentally absent. Heâs always, actively elsewhere. âIâm just cleaning up my kitchen,â he raps, as if to convince us of his domestic bliss, of the virtue of routine. âEmptying the fridge, bleaching counters, sweeping corners, / I be in my drawers aligning my silverware in order,â he saysâhis list of chores, implausibly, a flex. Soon, though, heâll be âtripping through coordinates.â Tripping is operativeâsome altitude-induced delirium as heâs â10k and rising.â Surrealism is his point-of-view, recall (âFlummoxâ). His âbaggage on the carousel loopâ is the symbol on which to meditate. Heâs ârootedâ but âroam[s] free.â Presence and absence. Lost and found. Accustomed and unclaimed. The course he charts is in the form of an infinite loop. AugĂ© writes of the Kafkaesque trappings of corporate-controlled travel: âAirline company magazines advertise hotels that advertise the airline companiesâŠthey outline a world of consumption.â The literature of non-places. You think youâre getting somewhere, but youâre not. âEverywhere and nowhere,â woods recently said. He, like ELUCID, is a real nowhere man and Everyman and all in one fell loop.
On âSoft Landing,â woods references a âbrief, sweet momentâ in which thereâs ânothing in the thought bubble.â His final, concise verse on Maps, for all intents, is that fleeting instant. âAll narrative goes back to infancy,â according to AugĂ©. On âBaby Steps,â woods talks of âbreasts out for the feeding,â which is a profane practice when heâs âfeeling vulgar.â âLarge areolas,â he lusts, âbite like Iâm teething.â Not exactly the sacred act of nursing between madonna and child.
But that was earlier. On âAs The Crow Flies,â woods is present. He concentrates upon his child with colostrum closeness and sees the journey has already begun, has always been. Drawing on Michel de Certeau, AugĂ© writes that the âgleeful and silent experience of infancy is that of the first journey, of birth as the primal experience of differentiation, of the recognition of the self as self and as other, repeated later in the experiences of walking as the first use of space.â For all his expressions of misanthropy, an antinatalist woods is not.
âIâm in the park with the baby on the swing,â woods raps. This isnât a reminiscence of park jams where your man gets shot for his sheep coat, though. Heâs not evoking Kool Hercâs soundsystem in a jam-packed Cedar Park. If anything, we fixate on the mesmerizing motion of the swingâthe symbolic push away of the parent and the insistent return of the childâa prodigal child where the only currency is glee. The child is thrust into oscillatory motion when typically we think of the father setting forth. A spirit quest under the guise of stepping out for a pack of cigarettes. But here, woods pushes his son farther alongâfatheralong, for John Edgar Wideman. A preparatory speech on the pendulum swing of time. Feel-it-in-the-pit-of-the-stomach painâa queasiness, an uneasiness. The child swings high, swings low. (Higher up, higher up, higher, the child calls like ELUCID from a storage closet stacked high with Betamax tapesâheart-wrenching home videos.) woods considers and counters Jay-Zâs image of leaving condoms on Nasâ baby seat. woodsâ verse is not Supa Ugly but Supa Beautiful.
As woods sends his son into the stratosphere, it âhits [him] crazy: anything at all could happen to him.â We learned on ELUCIDâs âMangosteenâ that woodsâ hard shell [mechanical] only cracks when his baby gurgle, but as his son calculates risks and seeks to reap rewards, he fights the urge to tell the child: Donât let me catch you intrepid. I mean, âhe been climbing higher and higher on the jungle gymâ (higher up! higher!), endangering bones and hazarding bruises. Itâs like a jungle sometimes, you know, and it makes a father wonder how his child keeps from going under. The time goes so quick, another parent says, as you watch him ârunning faster, sometimes pushing other kids.â We shudder at the violence, innate as it seems, and struggle to navigate their dysregulated emotions as well as our own: âTear-streaked apologies, balled fistsâitâs a trip.â What he sees in the childâs behavior feels all too familiarâhis own lachrymose regrets of being awayâtripping. In Giovanniâs Room, Baldwin warns: âYou donât have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you can never go back.â
âItâs a trip that this is something we did,â woods reflects, acknowledging the presence of his babyâs mother for the first time. For Vincent Descombes, âThe character is at home when he is at ease in the rhetoric of the people with whom he shares life.â As such, woods turns to the mother and âkiss[es] her on the lips.â The tender moment answers the stress heard about on âSoft Landingâ: âIt ruins the whole day when my baby-mother mad at me.â Here, home, things are set right. The ebb and flow of their relationship, the warp and weft of Penelopeâs loom, settles into serenity.Â
Time moves differently, exponentially, when you have children. âI watch him grow,â woods says, as if his son is doing so right before his eyes. Conceptualizing the multiplying of his sonâs cells inevitably forces the gaze inward. woods is âwondering how long [he] got to live.â The last of his mortality raps on Maps, âAs The Crow Fliesâ lands woods at the site of his final resting place, his thoughts dwelling on the immutable certainty of death. The Child is father of the Man, and the sonâin all his vitalityâraises the volume on the tick and the tock of the clockâs pendulum. For woods, it swings from bliss to bleak. Each split second a split atomâcatastrophic. âMen die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors,â Poe writesâthey âdie with despair of heart and convulsion of throat.â Or pleurisy, like Wordsworth. Or nine bullets, like Big L. So you should pump this shit like they do in the future. woods is in possession of a plan to protect his neck and his legacy, in case. We heard it on Earl Sweatshirtâs âTabula Rasaâ: âGive my babies my rhyme books, but tell âem, Do you.â
billy woodsâ final words on Maps are a final exercise in approximation. They are against idealism; they enact that which is approximate. It is a verse composed of imperfect rhymesâclose, but not quite. They point to good-enough parenting (word to Winnicott). Imperfect rhymes for imperfect lives. woods tells it slant. Like ELUCIDânot fully in the kitchen, not wholly in Arizona for the show. Planting his feet in the Pacific and washing his face in the Atlantic. We sense the not-quiteness in woodsâ sequence of slant rhymes:
swing | him | gym | kids | trip | did | lips | live
These end-rhymes are joined by the internal assonance of short-i soundsâa doubling-up; an overcompensation for when everything donât always go according to plan, man.
[in] ~ swing | [anything] ~ him | [been] ~ gym | [pushing] ~ kids | [fists] ~ trip | [this] ~ did | [kiss] ~ lips | [him] ~ live
woodsâ final words are short-lived, ephemeral as a push on the playground. While he wonders how long he got to live, his brief verse ends abruptlyâoddly, after the seventh bar he falls silentâsignaling a sooner-than-thought demise. That gnawing fear: a premature death. Time is of the essence, so he rather not waste words. He crouches at eye-level to tell his children what they need to hear before heâs gone (Western Education is forbidden, et al.). On tour, billy woodsâ tendency is the same, ending songs in his set suddenly during shows. Itâs on to the next performance, the next city, the next life.
Footnotes:
[1] âto be ghostâ [disappear]; âto be Ghostâ [face]
[2] woods has dabbled in these hip-hop double entendres before. âItâs walls topped with broken glassâIâll show you slum village,â for example (from âNo Hard Feelingsâ).
[3] Robert Leder, an executive at SMW Trading Company, was in his office on the 85th floor of the North Tower when American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the building. âThe whole office reeked of jet fuel,â he recalls.
Images:
âAlexander the Great in his griffin-powered flying chariot,â Roman dâAlexandre, 1444-1445 (detail) | âCosmographiaâ (1544) by Sebastian MĂŒnster | LL Cool J, Radio album cover, 1985 (detail) | âIt Shoots Further Than He Dreams,â John F. Knott (March 1918) | âTruck transporting people between the Republic of China and Libya,â Raymond Depardon (1978) | Capone-N-Noreaga, âL.A., L.A.â music video, 1996 (screenshot) | Frontispiece from Matthew Hopkinsâ The Discovery of Witches (1647) | Can Dialectics Break Bricks?, dir. RenĂ© Vienet, 1973 (screenshot) | Frontispiece from Matthew Hopkinsâ The Discovery of Witches (1647) | Konrad Kyeser, Bellifortis, Clm 30150, Tafel 21, Blatt 91V (detail) | The Seventh Seal, dir. Ingmar Bergman, 1957 (screenshot) | Guy Debord, Guide PychogĂ©ographique de Paris (1957) | Vivez sans temps mort, Paris graffiti (1968) | âEngraving of Croatian mathematician Faust VranÄiÄ jumping from a tower with a parachute,â Italy (1617) | John Bunyan, âA Plan of the Road From the City of Destruction to the Celestial City,â adapted to The Pilgrimâs Progress (1821) | Joos van Cleve, The Holy Family (ca. 1512-13) | âAlexander the Great in his griffin-powered flying chariot,â Roman d'Alexandre, 1444-1445 (detail)
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does anyone have thoughts about s1e7 when bedelia says in hannibal's case it's probably more like a human veil? like what do we think about the distinction between "person suit" and "human veil"?
all i noticed is how weddingy suit/veil sounds, bedelia extending the metaphor to a dichotomy, to highlight that hannibal is only half of it, he is not his own everything, he is alone, aristoteleanly
(and of course the next dichotomy she presents -- red or white wine -- hannibal rejects entirely, suggesting pink (and of course will then does the same when hannibal asks if he's psychiatrist or just interlocutor)etcetcetc)
and i guess being behind something is a bit more of a plato's cave style of image than something you step into and zip up that obscures you completely -- a veil rather distorts and blurs
maybe that's it but i feel like theres quite possibly a lot slipping through my fingers here and i want to know what/if other people thought about this!
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Take a seat, we're talking about data modeling
Was anyone waiting for a post about data modeling? No? Anyone?
Well, youâre getting one anyway, fuck it, here goes.
So.
Let me begin by saying that despite how it may look, with its STEMy vibes and prevalence in computer science, that data modeling is not actually very high tech. (Hell, I can do it, this should tell you everything you need to know about it.)
The definition of a data model is
âan abstract model that organizes elements of data and standardizes how they relate to one another and to the properties of real-world entities.â
In practice, that means whenever you simplify a thing by abstracting all of its moving parts down to certain properties to gain better understanding of it, you are creating a data model. And humans do this all the time, naturally. The world is quite literally made of things that have properties and relate to each other, and the way the human mind conceptualizes these things is, at heart, by building data models. Data models are quite literally the very stuff of common sense.
In other words, you may not know how to make a data model right now, but your brain does.
Because we do this all the time without thinking about it though, people tend to not really get much practice considering about how it works and why. We understand things, but we donât really dig down into the abstraction of how we understand them. We know things, but usually donât ask questions about the underlying structure of that knowledge. When you start making data models on purpose however, youâre forced to think about how you think. And thatâs why I love it.
Ideal Chair, or the part where we talk about Plato (I am so sorry)
Plato? You mean... Yeah, yeah, we all know the god-damn cave allegory, like me you were probably beaten halfway to death with it in various classes all throughout high school and university. Entry level philosophy shit. But it wouldnât be such a mainstay of the Western Philosophy 101 curriculum if it wasnât occasionally useful, so watch me use it in this data modelling course. (If you somehow, ironically, managed to live under a rock all this time, hereâs a primer on Platoâs Allegory Of The Cave).
(Like most of the stuff I will end up mentioning in this post, thereâs a lot more to say about it than Iâm going into, but Iâm a functional analyst and not a philosopher so donât come for me, ok?)
Platoâs whole shtick was that the whole world and all its sensory experiences are but shadows and interpretations, that any thing we can actually touch and perceive is only a cast-off from an Ideal, a more True and Real concept of the thing that encompasses the purest essence of all its properties and qualities. The reason for why a chair for example can look a myriad of different ways and still be instantly understood as a chair, Plato reasoned, is because there is a shadow of Ideal Chair-ness in every material chair that exists.
Now, philosophy has come a long way in the near 2400 years since Plato, but the reason people continue to find this idea poignant is because in some way it rings true.
Why do we know a chair when we see one? What does a 13th century BC Egyptian stool have in common with, for example, the Capitello by Gufram?
Egyptian stool Capitello lounge chair Ehm... You⊠can sit on both?
Now tell me you looked at this image and didnât think âchairâ.
⊠So, you see, if you give it a moment of thought, odds are youâll look at Platoâs cave allegory and think, hmm, maybe there is something to it. (Cue a small army of dead philosophers rolling in their graves)
That something, ladies and gentlemen, is⊠a data model.
Remember how I said in the intro that your brain knows how to make data models even if you donât? Yeah. Your brain is an *expert* data modeler. Your brain has built an abstract model of âchair-nessâ, its properties and relations, that it refers to when qualifying things it perceives, in organic interaction with myriads of other such conceptual models. Most functional analysts can only dream of being as good at data modeling as a moderately functional human brain.
Data models are abstractions that help us understand the world -they also help us explain things to others. Specifically in the context of my job as a functional analyst, data models help us explain things to computers. More specifically still -a data model gives a developer a blueprint for how to build a computerâs âunderstandingâ of what things will exist in a system, what defines them, what can be known about them, and how those things should relate to each other.
There are different types of data modelling in IT, from conceptual data models to logical data models and physical data models, which⊠weâll get to. Letâs get back to some stuff thatâs not too computer-y first.
Chairs and the Data Model as Art
There is a famous piece of conceptual art, that you may or may not know about. Itâs called One And Three Chairs by Joseph Kosuth, and created quite a bit of consternation when it was first exposed in 1965.
It consists of three objects, placed against a wall: A chair, with on its left, an enlarged picture of that same chair in that very location, and on its right, the English dictionary definition of the word âchairâ. The artwork looks different wherever it gets exposed, as the chair and the picture are not an intrinsic part of the piece, but rather chosen and set up ad hoc according to an installation manual provided by the artist.
Thereâs a lot to say about this piece -itâs not quite Duchampâs Fountain, but it certainly got enough people yelling about modern art, even in its day. Iâm going to set aside discussion of its artistic merit however to talk about what it can teach us about data models.
The artwork, in the case of One And Three Chairs, is not actually whatâs on display. The artwork is the combination of instructions that leads to a recognizable yet different setup in every place it is exposed -the concept of it. (Conceptual art, right?)
Kosuth played with that nebulous organic answer our brains have to the question âWhat is a chairâ -making the viewer question the relation between the thing, its image, and its definition, and in that way it is an interesting illustration of what we discussed in the previous section. But Kosuthâs piece does not really reckon with general epistemology of chairs.
It defines what counts as a chair very clearly in the context of the artwork. It defines what is a valid image of a chair too, in that context. It defines what elements need to be present and how they must relate to one another for the artwork to be a valid rendition of One And Three Chairs.
You see where this is going:
the artwork is a kind of data model.
As such, rather than get lost in the surface questions its visual seems to ask, it is more interesting to look at it as an example of a data model in action. Every time One And Three Chairs gets exposed, viewers get to see an instance of its data model. You can think of an instance is a concrete example of an abstract piece of information, like⊠a shadow cast by one of Platoâs Ideals.
In my experience, the relationship between instance and model is somehow simultaneously clear-cut and confusing. Sometimes, the concrete situation precedes and informs the model (for example when our brain starts figuring out what a chair is), sometimes the concrete situation is created from a model (such as an art piece like Kosuthâs Chairs), and sometimes the model acts as a kind of intermediary between those two -for example when a business wants to build or implement an IT solution for a certain purpose, and a data model is created to abstract the concrete business need, which is then refined further and further until it becomes concrete again, only in a software context.
Thatâs what I mentioned earlier, about those âlevelsâ of data modeling in IT. The transition from conceptual data model to logical data model to physical data model is an exercise in abstraction and concretization both.
You start off with a conceptual model thatâs fairly legible without any tech knowledge, a high-level representation of a concrete situation or need. This gets honed into a logical model that on one hand is more abstract (further removed from the concrete real world situation) and on the other hand more concrete (closer to the structure of the required IT solution), without already fully pinning the solution down. A final step is then to refine that further into a physical model, which is an abstraction of the concrete structure of the specific software build or implementation.
Thatâs the theory.
(The practice is that the delineation between these different kinds of data models is very much not set in stone, every analyst and developer and project team and business kinda wings it their own way, and I have yet to work on a project where all of these were both present and fully up-to-date by the end of the project.)
So, in conclusion; data modeling really is more of an art than a science, despite what some might have you believe. ....
I guess thatâs it for a first post about data models on this⊠vaguely data model themed blog?
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The wildest moment that is perpetually stuck in my head from growing up in a Christian high school was in the first week of my freshman year, and I am resisting the urge so hard to make this sound like a formal essay because i stg it's funny
So background, I did, in fact, go to a Christian grade school, where I was generally seen as kind of the weird kid, since I went through kindergarten in a wheelchair and that wasn't really something most kids forgot. However, being the weird kid, I kinda got away with some shit that generally wasn't seen as "the norm" in the school, like spending most of my time, being the nerdy kid I was, obsessing over the theory of evolution, reading a book from the Chicago Natural History Museum I got on one trip about the eras of the world in particular, and generally kind of hearing the "young earth" stuff and going "...nah, I don't think so, because of these fossils and this carbon dating and also some physics here, but thanks, though." I kinda came up with my own theory of theology at that point, one that mostly was Christian but with a much more scientific background (and still forms the basis of my modern "yeah Christian but questioning is okay" viewpoint). That made people think I was MUCH weirder, though, and that was something I wasn't into going into a new school.
So when I went to high school, it was kind of a fresh start, and I was determined to take advantage of it, even though that brought with it a fundamental awareness that I would probably have to bluff my way through some stuff. Cue first week of school, my HISTORY class (with a fun in the moment but in hindsight really kinda ...*off* teacher; he was notable for having a day of lectures every year where students could bring in brownies and he would spend the entire period talking about Plato's Allegory of the Cave to subtly call students who didn't believe in Bigfoot idiots, long story short lmao) gave us an assignment: find five scientific arguments for why the earth can only be 6000 years old.
Of course, there are like. Very few scientific sources for that lol. It's not gonna be supported by a peer-reviewed journal; it'll be Christian websites. So eager to both Not Fail Immediately and to fit in, cite those five sources and do the presentation. Now the funny thing to me, which I guarantee no one else got: he made us choose a favorite argument. One that was a "trump card," in his words, to those pesky pesky evolutionists. So I proceeded, naturally, to choose the most stupid ass theory I could as my trump card. It was literally a conspiracy theory! I said that tectonic plates would get too fucking FRAGILE over the years and the earth would split apart like overheated glass!!! This is blatantly wrong because of the crust's composition, not to mention the physics behind it, the physics behind GLASS, and the chemistry of heating different materials!
Anyway I got the assignment back with an A and a note saying it was his favorite theory too--
#brought to you by me#being recommended a youtube video#about why the young earth blatantly is not scientifically accurate#i refuse to tag this too heavily for fear of angry fundamentalists#but for the record yes I do still consider myself a christian#but more of a theological evolutionist#god might be real but he made the rules too he has to play by them#and his ass deserves to be questioned as much as ours#wild high school stories#high school#christian high school
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Do you sometimes feel that we as non-japanese readers who only know the series from translations and localizations, lacking the cultural context, cant ever truly get them and many of our criticism are just as the shadows in platos cave... might be a bit too dramatic...
I think if I sat here, as someone whose primary language is English, and whose experiences are almost exclusively from within the United States, and acted like my interpretation was more valid, thatâd be ignorant.Â
Thatâs why I try to emphasize the context in which Iâm reading a text, because my own interpretation based on the evidence in front of me, and how I logically reach a conclusion, is valid--but only as valid as the same anyone else would take with the same text.Â
And that fact, that a bunch of people are all reading the same text, helps mitigate a question about âtruly getting it.âÂ
Yes, there is stuff people reading right now in Japan are going to get that I donât get. There are also experiences I have that may give me a different way of seeing something in the text that someone else doesn't.
But I donât think that is because Iâm an English speaker in the US (good God, my perspective as such does not make me more equipped for this at all). Itâs because my experiences vary from other readers so much that the intersection of all of those experiences and identities (level of education, travel, reading, research, my gender, my sexuality, being white in the United States) lead me to pick up interpretative threads that may not be as obvious to other readers (just as my white cishet self is going to miss interpretative threads, so it would be helpful for me to listen to more readersâ interpretations as well) .
All of that said, not living with a Japanese-speaking audience means stuff will go over my head. Would I have understood Freeâs comment about Enrique and âmonkeys and dogsâ? Probably not. Thatâs why I appreciate the translatorâs note in the Yen Press edition, which explains that Free is referring to the Japanese idiom about monkeys and dogs not getting along--the Japanese equivalent of the US English idiom âgetting along like cats and dogs.âÂ
Thatâs the other thing: the work translators have to do to get this stuff to make sense. A translator can never make something a perfect re-creation of the same ideas in a new language. Hell, no matter how some of us phrase things in English, we canât get someone with about equal experiences with English to understand us. Or English across different nations.Â
Itâs that synecdoche problem, like something out of Jorge Luis Borges or Charlie Kaufman: the amount of space youâd need to perfectly duplicate the experience in one language, all the footnotes youâd need to give, or the on-screen notes for an anime sub, or the companion books, would exceed the already tiny dialogue balloons a comic has (and thatâs not getting into how small those balloons are already in manga compared to other comics).Â
Itâs why translators localize. Yeah, it sucks not getting a more âexactâ translation. But look at that Free and Enrique example I brought up. Do you keep it as is, with Free mentioning that dogs and monkeys donât get along, and potentially have an English-speaking audience that doesnât get the joke, or do you have Free say something different about cats and dogs--where now the audience doesnât understand why Free brings up cats when Blair isnât there?
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My followers are probably sick of my "Lovecraftian Horror is just Plato's Cave if everyone had anxiety" but like...
You escape your chains, walk out of the cave, learn how the world works. When you come back everyone scoffs when you try to explain that dogs are physical creatures, because Everyone Knows they're shadows on the wall. The more you try to explain the dumber and more insane you sound until even your best friends can't talk to you.
Meanwhile, you live chained up in a cave. One of your friends disappears which is weird and creepy. Suddenly he appears again and says he "escaped" (something you've never heard of) to a place where shadows are creatures similar to you? You can "kill" the shadows for "meat" (which is the essence of shadows) and.. eat? The shadows? Shadow Essence doesn't seem appetizing *or* hardy (they claim otherwise) and besides, they seem really upset that you're just... living? They were perfectly happy before they went to the shadowlands.
Clearly, humans aren't supposed to go to the shadowlands. Maybe that's why the gods chained you here. Because man was never *meant* to know about the shadowlands. Seriously, who the fuck *tries* to eat shadows?
People, especially games, get eldritch madness wrong a lot and itâs really such a shame.
An ant doesnât start babbling when they see a circuit board. They find it strange, to them it is a landscape of strange angles and humming monoliths. They may be scared, but that is not madness.
Madness comes when the ant, for a moment, can see as a human does.
It understands those markings are words, symbols with meaning, like a pheromone but infinitely more complex. It can travel unimaginable distances, to lands unlike anything it has seen before. It knows of mirth, embarrassment, love, concepts unimaginable before this moment, and thenâŠ
Itâs an ant again.
Echoes of things it cannot comprehend swirl around its mind. It cannot make use of this knowledge, but it still remembers. How is it supposed to return to its life? The more the ant saw the harder it is for it to forget. It needs to see it again, understand again. It will do anything to show others, to show itself, nothing else in this tiny world matters.
This is madness.
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I tried to kill myself on a Monday morning, then I went to scale a mountain
Be still. Be quiet. Be just visible enough.
Shh.
You are 8 and people have been forgetting your birthday for years.
Early December is a period you try to forget, just so you can forget that people have forgotten you.
Maybe people grow up like this, you think. It doesnât happen that way in all the books you read, but maybe thereâs a reason those sell so well.
When the phone rings, you always try to be there first. Just in case itâs someone calling to tell you your life is about to change.
You are 10 and they try to make up for forgetting your birthday. s.
Your friends are all invited and you have a cake with a tiger frosted atop it.
Itâs way too sweet but you smile anyway, sickly sweet.
The corners of your swimming robe dip into the pool on accident, and you are dripping wet the whole time,
A trail of rebellion, but you end up wiping up after yourself.
A roughed up purple rag, an empty house.
You are 13 and youâve learned not to move.
Motion is the quickest way to be noticed, to be itching for a beating,
If there is an angry adult in the room, think of yourself as a shadow on the wall of Platoâs cave
Flat. Completely flat. Completely not real.
Shh. Donât move.
The fist comes flying anyway, your skin peels from your flesh anyway, you are forgotten anyway.
You are 14 and your emotions have caught up.
They have caught up way too quickly.
Something breaks inside you, floods rapidly the corners of your brain that you have kept empty for so long.
You start moving, because if you stop you might die there. Watch as the in-between of your ribs, the in-between of your eyes fill up with water.
You are sick of death. You are sick of grotesque.
Mainly you are sick of people hitting you when you do not deserve to be hit.
So you move. They get angrier. They strike you. You strike back.
Maybe forgotten is better than abandoned. But now that you've started moving, you no longer remember how to stop.
You are 20 and you are medicated every day.
Those white little fuckers help you find your way to some semblance of peace.
Your lips tremble as you smile, as you tell people, âThey saved my lifeâ.
It wasnât them at all, it was you. Youâve always been a liar, especially when it comes to yourself.
You are 22 and you canât stop thinking about the dying earth.
The tiger on your cake is probably extinct by now, running and pouncing in the sweet cloying release of forever darkness.
Medication saved your life, but they also come in cardboard boxes and sheets of metal,
You are generating so much waste just by being here.
The flooding has stopped. The water is no longer beating down on you, it is boring through in a trickle.
So maybe itâs time to stop running. Maybe itâs time to stop moving. Maybe you can rest now.
You are 23 and you are so fucking happy.
Happiness has eluded you for 23 fucking years and youâve finally found it.
Congratulations.
You buy yourself a cake, you light yourself a candle, you invite your own friends and you inhale your own smoke.
Who thought it could be so easy? Iâm sure the trees and the crust of the earth and the pharmacists who cut their hands packing your medication forgive you:
Theyâve delivered you all the way here.
But then you are 25 and you realise your wires are all crossed.
You are so confused.
No. Sorry, I am. This is about me. (I cannot keep writing about myself like I am some place else.)
I â I am so confused.
Nothing happens and everything changes at the same time.
Suddenly you fucking loathe what you see in the mirror. Youâve never learned how to do that, even when everyone was doing it in your posh girlsâ school.
Itâs always eluded you, and now itâs hit you like a truck.
(Why did I switch back to third-person?)
(What happened that I cannot feel my feelings, that I can only intellectualize them? I must have missed the class where they taught us how to do that. Maybe they forgot I was still on the playground by myself. I might possibly still be there.)
Now itâs hit you like a truck and now you are staring at your arm, and itâs so maimed, so abused, it transports you back to the vitriol of last night. Of the night before. Of the night before that. Have your pick.
Â
Now the headlights are blinding and you are shielding your eyes and when you open them itâs a Monday morning.
The grab to the hospital is cheap to the point of hilarity.
The doctor is so bad, itâs to the point of hilarity.
You laugh so hard you shake when they pass you âheavy duty Panadolâ at the pharmaceutical counter. When you try and refuse them but they ask you âwhy wonât you take it? Itâs free?â
Oh, so now you refuse to forget me. Now you refuse.
Thank you very much. It's like a whole stand-up comedy show up in here.
You open your eyes on Monday afternoon and thereâs nothing left to do but move.
Youâve stared at the knife edge and youâve failed. Â
A week later, you climb a mountain.
Three-thousand, seven-hundred, and twenty-six metres.
You move, move, move, until thereâs no where else to move to. Youâre already at the summit.
So you stare into space, point to your own chest and whisper: âAgain, you motherfucker. I dare you. Again.â
Shh, the valley whispers back. Shh. Happy birthday.
Happy fucking birthday.
Many more to go. Â
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B2:S - Chapter 5
Much of this series will be about the differences and additions in the novel version, and how they contribute to my understanding of story canon. But there will be character appreciation, the odd theory and headcanon, and suchlike as well.
Here be lots of Viren deets, Best Boy Soren deets, some writing/continuity stuff, worldbuilding appreciation and half of a theory, Detective Rayla, Moon Temple geeking, Claudium and dark magic, and more!
Spoilers for Book Two: Sky below.
(I know for darn sure that I wrote up a post for chapter 4, but I can't find it anywhere so I guess Tumblr ate it and I'll have to redo it at some point, but today is not that day)
Viren, my evil dude, my bad guy, coming in clutch with the worldbuilding and backstory again! If you want to know decades of information, you gotta talk to Viren. Or read his scenes, at least. Here, he seems to not sleep much when he has a big problem to analyze his way through. Solutions trump pretty much everything else in this guy's life, and he's had a really hard week with a lot of new and complicated problems. Of course he's getting sleep-deprived trying to find his way through them all.
Harrow put so much trust in Viren when he made him High Mage! He just threw himself extra hard at that Lady Justice blindfold, didn't he? Didn't really want to see what Viren was doing in his magic study, so he left Viren to his devices. And Viren has a lot of devices.
Also, this is fascinating: Viren made the secret passage to his "less official study" in Katolis Castle! And he was inspired to do so by the way his own mentor kept the Puzzle House. What else could a Puzzle House be, except a place with secret passages? Yay! secret headcanon that "the Puzzle House" is just "Katolis Castle" from Kid Viren's perspective tho
So either Viren built all of those passageways, or at least the ones to his dungeon. Which means he has to have, or know where to get, a stash of those glowing blue Moonshadow crystals. Hmmm.
I can't wait to learn more about Kpp'Ar and young Viren, btw. From this description of Viren and all his literal secret ways, it feels like another parallel between Viren and Runaan, with the whole "secretive paths, members only, insider knowledge" type stuff. Only the really cool members of this cult club get to know the secrets, and guess what, kid, you're cool now but you can never tell anyone, okay? Our secret.
Yeahhh, that'll never backfire in any way for either of them.
Kpp'Ar calling puzzles and secrets "man-made magic," though. Yes sir, knowledge is indeed power.
This chapter mentions Runaan by name, from Viren's perspective. Generally that would imply that Viren knows his name, even though assassins do not share their names, and Runaan didn't seem to give his to Viren in the first book. However, there was a scene in book one where the last paragraph switched perspective from Viren to Runaan - a technique that's very common in visual media like movies and shows and gives you that "ohoho they left the room and didn't notice this, but you do!" vibe. Using Runaan's name there in book one, where Viren couldn't see it but readers could, helps them keep track of the assassin's story arc while maintaining Viren's racism.
So in book two, in which Runaan has no onscreen scenes (alas), using his name in a scene that calls back to the events in book one helps us remember what happened in that dungeon cell. It would be a bit muddier to recall the specifics if Viren kept thinking about Runaan as "Elf." So I'm cool with the perspective nudge because it serves a narrative purpose: clarity. But I'm also enjoying the angst of considering that, somehow, Viren learned Runaan's name either during or after the coining spell. Mwa ha ha haaa. (Obligatory "Keep my pretty name outta your mouth" goes here)
Okay, back to Viren's scheming! He took the mirror because it was human-sized in a dragon lair. He knew it didn't really fit there, and that made it interesting, so he stole it. But he realized it was really powerful when Runaan wouldn't tell him squat about it - the assassin's instinct to protect Xadian secrets from human hands meant that Viren was holding a very powerful Xadian secret. And that just made him want it all the more. Ah, Runaan, if only your relationship with lying was, like, the exact opposite of what it is. Nyx could've spun Viren a believable tale in 2 minutes flat.
Also of interest: Viren considers his cursed coins to be a final fate. He expects Runaan to remain in his coin forever. With the Chekhov's coins still extant in the storyline, we can assume that they'll come up again eventually, but Viren has no current plans to do anything with his elf money except carry it around.
It's worth noting that Viren admits that he got impatient when he trapped Runaan in the coin. Runaan's first fate in Katolis was supposed to be death at Soren's hands, but Claudia "saved" him from that. His next fate was to become spell components, but Viren's frustration with his stubbornness "saved" him from that fate, too. So now he's in a coin, where no one can chop him up at all. Yay? No, boo!
We get one last line about Runaan before Viren shifts gears: he makes a point of noting for us that Runaan's shackles are still locked shut. However much of Runaan made it into that coin - body, soul, hair care products - he was magicked there, pulled right out of his restraints.
The creepy black liquid that Viren pours right into his eyes is the last of a powerful potion he got from Kpp'Ar, and its recipe is ancient! Humans used it back in the age of Elarion to see through the illusions of the world. And we get a delightfully creepy bit of description about the preparation of this serum, which makes it abundantly clear that it's a Moon magic-based concoction, harvested from eyeless vipers on a moonless night, with the threat of irrevocable madness ("madness" by whose definition, though) if it's done wrong-
Hang on. Hold up. This is a Plato's Cave reference. OH MY GOD.
No no I'm fine, this is brilliant. Sorry, sorry, I couldn't figure why there was so much description for a potion prep that Viren didn't even have to perform himself. But now I get it. I see the light. HA. I should make a separate post for this, it's amazing.
Anyway, for reference, the humans who used this serum were called the Oracles of Ophidia, and Ophidia is a taxonomy group that includes all modern snakes. Can you say "creepy ancient snake rites"? I can! Woo!
Viren activates the serum with a spell, but apparently he's never done it before. He's not sure if it's supposed to be hot and bubbly, and he worries that it's been tainted by moonlight.
Oh, I do hope so.
The magic potion hurts, a lot. Viren will do just about anything, to himself or anyone, to do what he believes is necessary. He just risked madness and blindness to find out what this mirror does! Viren. Can you just. Take a nap or something. Have a Snickers.
This chapter gives us a fun clue that I don't remember from the show: when Viren's vision clears and he can see, his reflection has white pupils and the room reflected in the mirror has inverted colors. You know where else has inverted colors?
You know who else got white pupils for a hot second?
Okay, now it makes sense! Viren and Lujanne were both seeing into the realm beyond life and death. Him with his moon magic potion, and her with her moon powers on a full moon night at the Moon Nexus. Which is Very Interesting! Is it a direct hint about Aaravos's location, or just a separate cool detail? Orrr, does it look like a direct hint because Aaravos is actually trapped in the world beyond life and death, but it's actually separate and we'll see something about white pupils again later on?
Viren really does have self-esteem issues, we all picked up on it with his rant at his reflection. He throws a fit when he catches himself wondering if he's actually worthless. In the book version of his tantrum, he shoves the mirror and hurls a candelabra instead of flipping a table. He didn't need to shove the mirror to set the fire, but it's in here. Foreshadowing that perhaps, if push comes to shove, Viren will choose himself over Aaravos? Giving Aaravos time to peek through and see that the coast is clear?
Soren, my boyyyyy. He has a rough night at the Moon Nexus because two sides of him are fighting with each other. He struggles to understand Callum's friendship with Rayla, and he also fantasizes about chopping off Rayla's head. One of these is a pretty ordinary thing to do. The other is Soren's internalization of what he needs to do to gain his father's approval. If he brought his dad a chopped off elf head every week, he'd probably feel a lot more confident because Viren would praise him a lot more.
Okay, okay, omg, is it just me, or does the "Moonshadow Madness" story, as it's told in the book, seem like Soren just doesn't know what a monsterfucker is? He thinks an elf bite puts humans under a spell. But vampires are sexy, and some people want them to do more to them than just bite them. A passionate kiss under the moonlight could look very bitey, especially if one of the participants has horns and you're already culturally trained to hate them. No yeah, I'm already headcanoning an actual human-elf kiss that got misunderstood by an observer long ago.
it's Lujanne isn't it, we all know, because what is a love spell but a sweet soft illusion, I mean how else does she get supplies for her Caldera, I ask you, and also Corvus was totally sent to investigate once and he told Soren at camp what he saw
And then back to magefam angst: Soren pretending that his sister's nose-tapping is stupid, even though he actually thinks it's cool, just because their dad thinks it's stupid. Viren, istg. Let your kids like harmless things. It's so cute that Soren taps his nose back at her, though! Like they have their own sibling code. I hope we get to see the nose tap again, especially now that they've chosen different sides. It could mean so much, that they're not too far apart yet.
Rayla knows what buttery pancakes smell like. I love this. Do Moonshadow elves have butter and pancakes, does Rayla eat a stack of eight giant pancakes in the morning? Orrrr it is just illusion food? I don't care, let Rayla have pancakes! Everyone loves pancakes. Pancakes will save the world. this message brought to you by the fact that I can't eat pancakes rn, send help
I love that Rayla is both sus of the pancakes and hungry, and that combines into a very motivated "I will get to the bottom of this" attitude. She kind of goes into Poirot Mode when she inserts herself into Soren and Ellis's conversation about Ava, explaining about the wolf's illusion leg and segueing into her claim that the pancakes taste sus. Claudia confirms she used dark magic, and Rayla is furious. It's different than the show's version in that it puts Rayla in detective mode, as the only Moonshadow elf in the scene, and boy does she take that role seriously. Also, she doesn't actually swallow the dark magic pancake bite. It ends up on the ground just like Lujanne's grubs from that earlier meal. These poor kids are so nutrient-starved. You guys gotta eat!!
Rayla's determination and prejudices and the fact that she super knows Harrow is dead all dovetail to make her try repeatedly to persuade Callum that Soren and Claudia are Not To Be Trusted. It's nice that the book keeps taking the time to point out that Rayla is Well Intentioned But Flawed, just like Callum and pretty much every other character in the show. No one is Right All The Time, no one Knows More Than Everyone Else.
Callum loving the sound of Claudia's unique voice is so wholesome. When you like someone, it only makes sense that you like all the things about them that they can't change - like the sound of Claudia's voice. Her choices with dark magic, not so much!
Claudia seems to have the same concerns Soren does about Callum's relationship with Rayla, but she comes out and asks him. The inherent possession implied in "your elf" is interesting, though. Elves are not people to Claudia. They're enemies who can be disassembled for the magic inside them. So maybe more like robots than living beings, if she knew what a robot was. Maybe she heard Soren's "Moonshadow Madness" story and realized he totally missed the kissing implications - but she didn't, and now she's genuinely worried that Rayla could kiss Callum under a full moon and enchant him to do her will. Good thing it's only a half moon, then!
Okay, Callum nervously making a puppet hand and then not knowing what to do with his hands and freaking out about itching and moving and pointy elbows is such a ND mood. The sudden stress of knowing that someone else is noticing your existence and maybe you're Not Existing Right, amirite? Ugh, poor Callum.
The Moon Temple! Omg it's so pretty in the description! Made to be beautiful and useful, full of knowledge but also allowing light and life inside (butterflies and vines). Lujanne, when can I move in, please? Also, it's all the more angsty because Lujanne is the only one who gets to see this beautiful place, but it has lots of chairs and shelves and tables, and it was meant to be used by lots of people. :(((
Claudia knows some of the runes on the walls. She isn't in a hurry to copy the rest of them down or anything, either. Her spellwriting is very precise, and she's a skilled mage. Her father would have made sure she was aware of the dangers of drawing sloppy runes, as much as he made her aware of the dangers of doing dark magic wrong. And the whole point of dark magic is that it's easier to learn than primal magic. Claudia supports her dad and their shared knowledge and life path. She's not gonna go nuts over an elf library she can't translate.
Side note: Between Claudia knowing some Moon runes and Viren building a secret passageway and a dungeon and lighting it with the same blue crystals that Lujanne and Ethari use for light--and Claudia exclaiming that she loves ruins--I wonder once more if there are really Moonshadow ruins somewhere in Katolis, which Viren has found and looted. Father-daughter relic hunting trip, maybe while Soren is away at camp? Omgsh that would be so wild!
Callum out here having a Viren moment with his "I feel powerless unless I've got magic that lets me help" vibes. God. I love their complicated mirroring. One of the hard differences between them is that Callum is very sure dark magic is bad because you have to kill stuff and take its power to cast spells, and he doesn't want to be a person who kills and takes like that. The line he walks to be nice to Claudia on their tour of the Cursed Caldera because he likes her, while telling her that he doesn't want to do her magic, like, ever, is so fine that it might as well be a shifting shadow on the ground. It's a very fitting conversation to be having during the half moon, with its tricks and little white lies.
Callum being out of the castle and his comfort zone, having to deal with the fact that the Claudia he loves is not quite the Claudia who's chasing him down across the kingdom, but of the two of them, he's the only one with a problem with this.
They say that if you really want to get to know someone, you should spend time with them outside their comfort zone - in heavy traffic, with a small baby, taking care of a new pet, trying a new skill, following unfamiliar directions, etc. While the castle is familiar territory for them both, Callum's never really found his comfort zone yet, while Claudia is pretty comfortable with her growing skill set. The creepy part starts to kick in when Callum begins to realize that Claudia's comfort zone encompasses a whole bunch of stuff that seems like it should make her uncomfortable... but it doesn't. But that'll be for a future chapter!
#book two: sky spoilers#book two: sky#b2:s#tdp spoilers#viren#harrow#rayla#runaan#callum#claudia#soren#lujanne#moonshadow elves#aaravos
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OMG OMG OMG I like zonked out for a (Iâm not actually sure how long-form time works with enough chronic pain so letâs say more than a week and less than a month) and bam you cranked out a beautiful comic!!!! I think I remember reblogging 3 parts, but oh my gosh itâs wonderful and going through it again is a treat.
Part 1 coming back to, I really like how authentically confident Aldriin is here. Especially the casual sit down. You can tell heâs in his element, *working* Astarion to agree with his point. Like that pose is just perfect. Open body language, a hand moved a bit closer. Iâd actually say itâs a stone throw away from flirty. And I mean that very strictly. Thereâs something about the facial expression that cues me into it not actually being, but itâs brillant story telling because it makes total sense why Astarion picks the sex bid (beyond his âgods givenâ options as he puts it) later. The end panel is great. Aldrin is round in ways that will change. Astarion is gaunt in ways that will change. They are, oppositional in appearance but so very similar shades of moral grey, down to two smiles that arenât warm when you look carefully. Part 2 panel I love is the horror look. Beyond the person (being seen/ repped is often fun) I do like the very natural response of Astarion here. Itâs not my story, but a lot of A-spec folks are treated like their natural way of experiencing the world must be a result of trauma (or fear of it). Thereâs also the delicious euphemism âsoftâ here. Itâs great character writing because Astarion is an asswhipe at times, but heâs honed into something a bit by accident. I think heâs trying to imply he isnât fatphobic like society, which does link body fat % to maturity. But it also ends up being a real a-spec rep moment. That if we arenât sexually active/ desiring we are immature, and really donât worry dear, I see youâve got some adult traits hidden under there I can help bring out. (And as a viewer, I am of course rooting for our fav half-drowâs moments of realization. It might be coming via manipulation but self-knowledge is self-knowledge.) Pt 3âs shift to cool grey is such an awesome thing btw! The tone shift hits immediately, and oh itâs such a strong way to experience someone âcooling downâ after the heat of a moment. The heavy amount of blank ink makes it feel almost claustrophobic as our poor dude is huddling around a tiny amount of light/ insight. The brightest panel on his face being him admitting Astarion actually smiling is nice is such a nice touch. Especially compared to the heart-wrenching shading on the ânormal peopleâ panel. The heavy use of silhouettes, the literal picture of a cave, and the struggle of learning the truth ends up being a solid fun way of thinking about Platoâs allegory of the cave. Part 4!!!! Yeah, it was Mama K! First off- this woman is giant and I love it. You do not remotely shy away from making her a powerhouse. Honestly, I love the slight change to her camp clothes. Thatâs not a bra really anymore, itsâ more how I see bodybuilders wear tank tops. (Especially when Aldiirn poofs out. That is beautiful and hats off.) I also really like the explicit reaction of her assumption that Aldiirn is gay. I donât see a lot of that, probably because the BG3 setting tries to be post-(or never existing) homophobia. But thereâs an explicit lack of acknowledgement of it in the setting that goes beyond that that keeps the game âplayer-sexualâ. You could argue in Faerun everyone is bi, but that would make no sense in context of how the Drow operate. Or how the couples we do see ratio more like our world. Which is a long way of saying, your Karlachâs reaction hits me more like I *think* they want us to read the setting as. Any sexuality is fine (as long as you shack up with someone) but exclusive preferences in either direction are less common. Basically bi/ pan as the norm. (I guess the fanâs idea of the game vs the gameâs text.) Also: yes Karlach, THANK YOU. The chance everyone in this party is single and/or ready to mingle is low AF. THANKS! Oh, also Karlach as a source of light really helps repeat the themes of knowledge=light in the last section. Karlach is pent up, but knows what she wants. And I really believe just talking to people helps us understand ourselves, like the way Aldiirn seems so much better in his self-knowledge quest at âof courseâ. Part 5Â
Astarionâs catty-ness coming out as a defense mechanism is just a slow spiral horror show. I think Aldiirn âs, er casual affect about sex probably is just read as terrible by Astarion here. His mark isnât consumed by him, so heâs in trouble. It really digs home how early game he only thinks his body is his only option. And I donât think we recognize enough how terrifying that must be in a game of hotties (that are all very horny to boot). Itâs amazing how his last panel makes the idea of him getting blood really feel like a cheap consolation prize. After all, if he canât manage a miracle, this just becomes a tiny detour in decades of slavery. Also that heavy shading is doing work, including the dark speech bubble. A âhealthyâ attitude might be that hey, he still has access to good blood. But honestly, it does remind me that heâs very transactional. Astarion is trading away himself still for it (as sort of a quick Dom thing) in his head. Itâs not that Aldiirn sees him having a need and realizes he can meet it. No, itâs a trade. Performance for food. And thatâs humiliating. The journal by the way is clever as shit. Love it. Aldiirn really appears honest in his tent, I feel like his gender presentation shifts a bit without an audience here. The concerning amount of mushrooms, the supply focus dialgoue, hells the way his hair is tied. Thereâs something honest here- even when thereâs a source of lighting itâs soft and doesnât cast shadows on his face part of his body might still be a little obscured but that the the setting feel kinder. (Well until the detour commentâŠ.but I think thatâs more telling us what will happen.) Iâm glad we get to see him in private. It makes the more open Aldiirn that shows up to Astarion feel a little performance-y. And I think it again works to affirm why Astarion assuming things. Yep, Aldiirn is hiding things and well. Concerns, active agency, his own problems. Aldrin might show up in a much better headspace after getting to think and talk about things, but heâs not fully candid and able to talk to Astarion openly.
In all honestly, the last page kind of explains a lot. Itâs a little jaring to not see Aldiirn digest Astarionâs actions. He moves onto Karlach and his issues. Itâs not even clear if Astarion fed on him, as a lot of his neck his hidden so thereâs no clear lack of or presence of bite marks.
To be clear, itâs healthy for him not to be obsessed with Astarion. But again, Astarion needs obsession. Thereâs no way someone like Aldiirn who just cares about these random people exists, based on his world experience. That plus, Aldiirn clearly not caring about his own self needs has to be apparent on some level to our âmagistrateâ.
Itâs a story of two liars circling each other, and it was a joy to read.
Stealing Hearts (Complete)
14 pages, all in one post! A bard and rogue make for a smooth heist team but have a rocky romantic start due to both being idiots who can't say no. I started this scene in December when thinking about how the Astarion romance would have kicked off for my demisexual tav, Aldiirn, and how a long rest queue surprise fit in.
Rest of the scene under the cut! The daytime pages have also been updated for a better texture so they're not dark like the OG posts.
#Aldiirn is great#Go read his story people#THERES EVEN A WEBSITE NOW#Aldiirn is free from tumblrs horrible search function#He would be proud#You are efficiently delivering him to the people
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Didyme, Part 2: Something, Something, Plato's Allegory of the Cave
Continuing from here, and weâre doing sub-parts for this bit. Iâm genuinely surprised I had this much to say. (And fun fact, I almost lost the entire goddamn post, but fortunately I was copy-pasting into Word just in case. Not today, Satan.)
2.1. What Canon Tells Us
Didymeâs murder by Aro (and with Caiusâ apparent assistance, either during or afterwards), is only mentioned on the page in Life and Death, the 10th Anniversary gender-swapped version of Twilight. Edythe/Edward mentions it briefly when discussing the painting of the leaders Carine/Carlisle brought back from Volterra, but itâs just background information with little narrative weight. I bring it up just to highlight Caiusâ involvement and knowledge -- Iâll get back to that.
Now, hereâs the âcanonâ backstory we have to work with. Per the illustrated guide, Didyme was Aroâs younger sister, and he turned her at some point after meeting Marcus, Caius, and Athenadora. Interestingly, the Guide doesnât say anything about Aro returning to Didyme out of brotherly love; apparently he just wanted to see if she would have a powerful gift like his, only to be underwhelmed (âdisappointed,â according to his Guide entry) by her actual ability -- she made people happy just by being around them. Then she and Marcus fell in love, sharing âthe strongest romantic bond of any of the Volturiâ (from Marcusâ Guide entry), and this prompted a suddenly very single Aro to seek out his own mate, Sulpicia. The Guide says Didyme âdistractedâ Marcus from Aroâs goals, and that the pair eventually made plans to split off on their own, leading Aro to murder Didyme so he could hold onto Marcus and his valuable gift. Although nothing written so far suggests that Aro even liked his sister, the Guide does state that Aro âtruly loved herâ and that his grief upon killing Didyme was genuine.
Apparently Caiusâ role in all is was something Meyer thought up later, because none of the leadersâ Guide entries mention him being in on it. (You canât see me, but Iâm staring pointedly at Part One.)
2.2. Fuck Canon, Actually
(This just seemed like the funniest place for a cut. Continued below~)
Iâll be honest with you, person whoâs persistent/unfortunate enough to still be here: very little about this murder scenario makes sense to me. Iâm going to start with the âdisappointingâ nature of Didymeâs gift and that it was supposedly much less useful to Aro than Marcusâ, because thatâs just...stupid, frankly, and thereâs no way Aro would have missed the inherent utility of Didymeâs gift. I donât even have to read into anything to get this idea -- the Guide itself shows us how useful it is! It says right there in Marcusâ entry that Aro went off to turn Didyme, and returned with his sister, âalong with the first members of the guard -- vampires who were drawn to Didymeâs aura of happiness.â That is a direct quote.
Just -- I practically shrieked when I read that. Youâre telling me that Didymeâs gift was the stated reason their coven got its first subordinates, and Iâm supposed to believe that Aro thought that was disappointing? Fuck off! Fuck off!! Even if Didymeâs happiness aura isnât as powerful as Corinâs opium haze, well, Aro doesnât have Corin yet, does he? He has every reason in the world to want to keep Didyme around, drawing other vampires to his cause -- even if most of those vampires arenât gifted or skilled enough to join the guard, itâs still good PR.
At this early stage in the Volturiâs rise to power, it isnât a good time to lose Didyme -- or any of his inner coven, really. Yet Aro apparently considered her disposable enough that he killed her. I canât square this with what we know about Aro: that heâs still coherent despite holding god-knows how many peopleâs lives in his head; that heâs very intelligent; that heâs cunning, charming, and persuasive. Aro, once he learned they were thinking about leaving, would have tried to talk to Didyme and Marcus and done everything in his power to convince them to stay just a bit longer, until the Volturiâs position was more secure. And maybe he did; the timeline of all this is hazy, but nothing in the Guide suggests that Aro jumped straight to duplicity and murder. Clearly, though, whatever negotiations or arguments he presented failed. So what does their desire to leave the Volturi at this critical stage say about Didyme, or Marcus for that matter?
2.3. What It Says About Didyme and Marcus (Mostly Headcanon)
Brace yourself, because weâre into full headcanon territory now. To follow me, please refer to @therealvinelle âs meta about the larger mission of the Volturi and why theyâre necessary, because Iâm starting from the perspective that the Volturi are ultimately a force working in vampiresâ and humansâ favor. While Meyer and the Guide would have you believe that Aroâs just power-hungry, actually looking at the impact of the Volturi and the benefits of enforcing secrecy shows that his broader vision isnât just world domination, but establishing a world in which vampires and humans can both thrive and endure. Thereâs no way the rest of the inner coven was unaware of this goal; we know Aro talks a lot, so heâs certainly talked his covenâs ears off about this.
Now, we know very little about Marcus and what he was like before he was all dead inside. Based on what would be a logical balance of personalities, with Aro as lead decision-maker and Caius as ruthless enforcer, it seems likely that Marcus was originally the voice of reason and/or mercy. I also think Marcus would have had a strong sense of duty. The Guide says that Aro was the first friend Marcus had as a vampire, and I believe that Marcus cared about him very much and was committed to the Volturi. I think he would have been genuinely conflicted about leaving, especially considering the stabler, safer world the Volturi have been striving to build, and which they havenât yet secured. Again, itâs a very bad time for any of the leadership to split off -- but in the end, Marcus and Didyme are going to do it anyway.
What for, though? Why leave? @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin has an interesting take on that question here: that Didyme saw that she and Marcus would be locked into the Volturi life and a thankless existence for eternity and tried to opt out while she still could. I like it a lot, itâs a great post and that scenario makes sense, but the tone of it feels...too forgiving. Maybe thatâs because Iâm evil. But the way I see it, given the magnitude of the Volturiâs mission, and its (at best) very tenuous grip on power at the time Marcus and Didyme plan to leave (they havenât even defeated the Romanians yet), jeopardizing the entire operation so that they can pursue their romance unburdened strikes me as...well, fundamentally selfish on some level, so much that I find myself side-eyeing Didyme and Marcus for it. Although to be clear, itâs not the desire to live their own lives apart from the Volturi that I find selfish, just the timing of their departure.
Honestly, Iâd like not to vilify another female character if I donât have to. Given everything Iâve just said, I see Didyme in much the same way as I see Bella: not a bad person, but someone with definite selfish tendencies. At best, sheâs likely short-sighted or naive if she doesnât see how leaving the Volturi at this stage is fucking them over in a big way. However, I hesitate to read into the happiness aura as a straightforward indication of Didymeâs fundamental goodness; I think she probably was kind, charming, and delightful to be around, hence the nature of her gift -- but that capacity for selfishness is still there. (Iâm certain Meyer wants us to take her gift as proof of Didymeâs goodness, to reinforce how evil Aro is for killing her...but I think Iâve made my disdain for what Meyer wants me to think pretty clear.)
2.4. MURDER MOST FOUL
I am not saying it was justifiable or okay for Aro to murder his sister. Iâm really not. Itâs actually better, from a character standpoint, that it isnât okay -- that Aro has to carry this with him for the rest of his life while Marcus sits in the throne next to him, reduced to a husk, so that in effect Aro has lost them both after all. Itâs got that Greek tragedy element @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffinâ mentioned in her post. (Even better from that standpoint, the Guide implies that Aro found Chelsea relatively soon after killing Didyme, which compounds the tragedy.) I mean, itâs terrible, and it hurts me because I love Aro, but itâs compelling stuff.
What I am saying is, I can see how their insistence on leaving might have deeply hurt and offended him. And that brings me to my issue with the calculated murder scenario the Guide gives us -- I still think Didymeâs gift is too valuable for Aro to throw away by killing her in cold...venom (or whatever), even as the price for keeping Marcus in the fold. Plus, thereâs the fact that Aro does love Didyme, and I imagine her gift makes it very difficult for people to think of harming her...when theyâre calm, anyway.
Yeah, the only way I can really see the murder happening is if Aro killed Didyme in the heat of an argument about her leaving, possibly even by accident -- except you canât accidentally kill a vampire, can you? Itâs a very deliberate process wherein you have to dismember them and burn every piece, which also means it probably takes long enough that any irrational, overwhelming rage would wear off before you were done. But now that youâve started....
I mean, at that point it would certainly be awkward to put your half-rubble sister back together, and Aro would be in a whole other load of shit even if he did. Itâs possible, given what weâre told, that Aro could have lashed out and yanked Didymeâs head off before snapping out of it, only to realize that his sole option now is to finish the job. If he doesnât kill Didyme now, she and Marcus wonât just leave, theyâll be sworn enemies of Aro from then on. And thanks to Didymeâs gift being the draw for a lot of the guard, and the inherently bad look of a leader who would brutally attack his own sister, a chunk of the guard would probably leave with them, destroying Aroâs plans. No, the only way to salvage it is to follow through.
Then Aro has to call in Caius for help with the cover-up, because it wasnât actually planned and itâs just pure luck that no one walked in on the murder as it was happening.
And maybe Aro learns a hard lesson about learning to let people walk away, leaving the possibility open that they could be drawn in again. Because if Aro had just waited, he would have found Chelsea, and with her gift he could have had Marcus and Didyme back again.
Assuming everything didnât fall apart as soon as they left, of course. But thatâs a whole other what-if scenario.
#and those are my thoughts on didyme#...mostly#but i need a break now#twilight#twilight renaissance#twilight meta#i stared too long and the twilight abyss gazed back#didyme volturi#aro volturi#marcus volturi#sources cited:#therealvinelle#theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin#i'm going to go lie down
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MLC: Josie and Viper
[Symbiote Boyfriend]
She hadnât moved all day, she barely ate anything all week, she didnât speak to anyone for almost a month; her phone muted. She tossed and turned on her couch from time to time but mostly to keep a cramp in her leg at bay. The only time she moved from the couch was to use the restroom, if it wasnât for Viper she probably would have trouble even moving a single finger.
âBabe, honey you need to eat.â
Josie tilted her head towards the voice, no one was in the room. Her stomach complied with the tone, it growled like a ticked off bear. With a heavy sigh she walked into the kitchen, she went to the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. From her back a large ocean-black tendril extended and pulled out a box of cereal and a large bowl. Josie picked up two spoons and went back to the couch, once the cereal was made the tendril picked up the remote and turned on the TV; from her shoulder a larger mass formed a head and turned to her. Large milky eyes curved upwards before leaning and gently placing a soft kiss on her cheek.
ââŠ.Thanks sweetieâŠâŠ.sorry about all this-â she was silenced with a smaller tendril touching her lips.
âBabe you got nothing to be sorry about, come on lets watch some dumbass commercials and classic cartoons. Weâll deal with what happened laterâŠok?â
Viper nearly melted seeing her smile, he could feel that little spark of joy in herâŠbut then get smothered by guilt againâŠhe had to help her but problem was how.
After the seventh spoonful of chocolate cereal came a rather interesting commercial. It was an ad for the Meta Clinic andâŠMonster/Human couples therapy? This made the couple pause, this wasâŠwell this was new! Sure there were dating sites, clubs, cafes and speed dating for people looking for monster boy/girlfriends but now offering couples therapy?
Viper wanted so badly to grab the phone and call for an appointment butâŠhe didnât wanna force Josie into something like that. Heâd be doing more damage then goodâŠheâd start by talking about it.
[Two weeks later]
âViper and Josie?â The secretary called out. Josie looked up from her phone and stood up.
âThats usâŠâ Viper extended his head from her back giving a nod.
âDr. Fortune will see you now, please head back down the hall to room 7 please.â
With a nervous smile she proceeded down the hall, Vipers head gently tucked beside her..whispering soothing nonsense. This was enough to at least quell the rising panic in her chest, finally they came to a door with the number 7 on it. With a hard gulp Josie pushed opened the doorâŠ
The room was massive! It almost looked like the lobby of a hotel, hell it even had a pool in the corner of the room and a tank! The room was painted in shades of two-toned moss, the air smelled of perpetual rainfallâŠand lemon. It was there but didnât overpowerâŠthe temperature was perfect.
In the center of the room were two chairs, a large love-seat sofa and a dark grey armchair. Between them was a white round table with a pitcher of water and three glasses. In the grey armchairâŠ.was the doctor they came to see.
âAh, you must be Josie and Viper. Please come in, have a seat.â
She hesitated butâŠJosie complied, the love-seat felt like if jelly and clouds got married and had a baby. It was so soft and cool to the touch, best part she didnât sink it like some other chairs. Viper loved the feeling, hell he could just imagine cuddling up with his girl on this couch watching old sci-fi movies.
âLets get started, first can you tell me how you met an how long have you two been together?â
Josie pausedâŠthen spoke. âWellâŠViper an I met via collage..we had the same class, we got paired up and it sorta started from there. Weâve been together for aboutâŠtwo years now.â
âWhat kind of class were you in?â
âIt was a philosophy class, I took it cause I was curious on what made philosophy so damn interesting.â Said Viper.
âI personally took it cause Iâve loved things that sorta question the norm of society. Our project was to listen to one of the stories of Plato, we got âThe allegory of the caveâ and write our thoughts on the meaning and reasons behind itâŠ.those were some of the best nights I ever had.â
Josie never noticed the subtle blush on her cheeks, but that smile she had told the Doctor everything they needed to know, even Viper couldnât hide his smile.
âYou and Viper have a very close relationship I can tellâŠhowever the reason why youâre here is not really about the two of you. Its the people around you, mainly family.â
You could almost make out Josieâs heart in her throat, Viper; if he had one, would have been in his as well. Dr.Fortune took a sip of water andâŠwith a sniper-gaze they fixed on Josies eyes.
âIâm going to take a guess, stop me at any time. The problem isnât with either of you two but from Josieâs family.â
Josie began to chew on her thumbnail, Viper was quick to pull it away as the Doctor continued.
âYour parents I will take are very strict people, perhaps even falling in line with deep religious practices but yet despite saying their âdevoutâ they continue to say and do things that go against the basic principles of their religion. Growing up they saw you as either property or a tool to get what they wanted. If you ever raised your voice in defense of yourselfâŠyou were either met with Verbal or Physical violenceâŠâ
The Doctor paused, fat tears were cascading down Josieâs face. Her breathing was labor, almost choking on some of her deeper breaths. Viper already had his tendrils wrapping around her in a tight embrace, gently whispering into her ear.
[Klink!]
Josie jumped, looking down she found one of the glasses had been filled with waterâŠwith a lemon slice in it. She looked up at the Doctor who was pouring a glass for themself.
âTake a sip, itâll help.â
SheâŠdid feel a little parched, Viper handed her the glass, she took a few small gulps. Blinking she looked into the glassâŠthe water tasted sweet, with the lemon slice it almost had the taste of lemonade but without the sharp zing. She noted how the water almost was coating her throat, soothing the burn forming.
âLike it? Its something I made myself for my patients, I boil distilled water and honey together an let it sit overnight in the fridge then add lemon slices to it. The honey and lemon help soothe your throat while the cold water rehydrates you.â
âItsâŠreally good.â Josie smiled taking another sip. âEverything you saidâŠwas right, even the religion part. My parents always treated me like I was some show pony at every gathering, they never listened to me an always thought my problems were justâŠnot worth their time.â Josie rubbed a tear away.
Viper remained quiet but nodded when she was done speaking, Dr. Fortune turned to Viper then.
âAn the first meeting with her parents they referred to you as a âparasiteâ and even went so far as to disown Josie from her own family if she didnât breakup with you.â
Vipers eyes went wide for a moment before slowly closingâŠhis lips curling back, showing off his razor teeth.
He hissed. âYes, the moment she finished telling them they started calling her all sorts of nasty things andâŠeven went so far as to say they picked out a husband for her to marry. To be honest I actually knew the guy and heâŠheâs rich but also a huge dick, he was the biggest bully at my high-school back in the day. When Josie refusedâŠthey disowned her and kicked us out on the streetsâŠthis was around a month agoâŠâ
Dr.Fortune set their glass down, leaned back in the gray chair with their elbows resting on the armrestsâŠfingers pushed together in a pyramid fashion.
âAn since then Josie has received texts and phone calls demanding she breakup with you and marry this âdickâ all for the sake of money. Iâve seen this before and its a classic case of narcissism but also a show of parental neglect and abuse.â Doctor Fortuned leaned forward, their gaze turning sharp.
âJosieâŠ.for starters you are not the problem, your parents are stuck in a mindset that is outdated and unacceptable. You are not to blame for their disappointment, no you never were. Your parents refused to change their ways and therefore are stuck in the past. However that doesnât mean you have to, in order to help yourself you need to first cut ties with the âparasiteâ that is your family. Go completely no contact with them, then once thats done I want you to focus on your relationship with Viper.â
Josie blinked, eyes widening. Cut ties with her family?! How could she do that, this was her family!
âYes Iâm aware your not keen on the idea butâŠlet me ask you something. When has your family ever done anything for âyouâ out of love an ask for nothing in return?â Josie opened her mouth butâŠ.nothing came outâŠshe looked through all her memoriesâŠbut couldnât find anything.
âNowâŠI want you to think about what Viper has done for you, who do you think is more deserving of your time an energy? A family that wants you to marry a jerk for money or the symbiote who from the moment he met you has treated you like the human you are?â
Josie sniffledâŠ.they were right, ever since they met; Viper had shown her nothing but compassion, patients and love. Sometimes she felt so guilty about putting him through her crap butâŠhe never complained about it. She rubbed her eyes again, it was time to stop waistline her hard earned time and effort on people who didnât love her! It was time she spent her energy on Viper and school!
Doctor Fortune smiled, the match was struck and the fire was starting to burn. Now it was time to slowly stoke the coals and make sure they never went cold.
âYour right DoctorâŠ.I need to stop waiting my time with those peopleâŠIâm thankful they gave birth to me but thats no reason to hold it over my head. IâmâŠIâm done with them!â Josie slapped her knee, itâŠit felt really good to say that.
Viper could feel the adrenaline pumping in her, yes there it was, the spunky spitfire he fell for was back an with a vengeance!
âThats good to hear, but thats just the first step in your road to recovery. I want you to take this a step at a time, in time you may learn to âforgiveâ your family but donât you ever, EVER forget what theyâve done to you. If you forget then your just gonna end up falling into their grasp again. On another note as a way to help you cope and give you a extra bit of therapy I suggest taking up a type of hobby. Hobbies can help you gain a sense of control over your life.â
The Doctor paused and looked down at their watch. âOh, it seems weâre just about done with our session. If youâd like to set up another appointment please see the secretary up at the front desk, before you go is there anything youâd like to ask me?â
Viper looked at Josie, she looked right back at him before turning to the Doctor.
âWhat kind of hobby should I get?â
Doctor Fortune handed them a small brochure. âTry flipping through this and see if any catch your fancy, my suggestion is find a hobby you two can do together or by yourself; its really all up to you an there are no wrong choices.â
An with thatâŠJosie and Viper left, scheduling another appointment two weeks in advance. As they walk outside Josie looked through the brochure, there were so many hobbies to choose from..
At least she and Viper can choose together.
[I plan to do more couples, I did a Symbiote/human couple to start cause everyone is familiar on what they look like thanks to Venom. Iâll be working on more monster like boyfriends in the future. I hope you like this, Iâll be doing more of this in the future including Yandere couples. This was inspired by @semisolidmind artwork, I also wanna thank @sarabat85 for helping me out as well. My next couple will hopefully be posted very soon and was put together by my closest and dearest friend @eomlotanis who has always helped me with story ideas and character development.]
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okay i know i say this nearly every time but i think this was my favourite chapter up until now- it had me smiling all the way through (especially during the promenade with anthony i love their banter sm) and i kinda needed this lighthearted relief after last chapter đđ
Her eyes found yours in the mirror for a second before she returned her attention to tying the laces. âNo one yet,â she murmured oh no darling lucie you will have your girlfriend and cherie will wholeheartedly support it bc it's LOVE <33
âIâm beginning to think you grew up in a cave made of romance novels and dreams.â sorry but this reminded me of plato's cave allegory so much- she has developed this whole idea about romance and love through the 'shadows' but knows nothing of the real thing- and would probably like it less too đđ
âYou looked so beautiful, light blue suits you so wellânot that any other color does not!â // âNo Iâd love to but Iâm afraid I cannot. My book is very riveting and I have a headache that goes worse when I walk. Also Iâm hungry so I probably eat something. Andâand I also want to enjoy the scenery right here more.â this is a family of complete idiots (affectionate).
you couldnât help but imagine their wedding in the near future, along with a grand ball for the celebrations of their engagement, not to mention you already had multiple ideas for Cecilyâs wedding dress okay but modern! cherie would have several wedding pinterest boards
âThat looks like a pleasant book.â HONESTLY ANTHONY?? CAN'T EVEN LEAVE HER ONE SECOND AS SOON AS SHE'S ALONE???
âBetter than none,â you insisted yes anthony BETTER THAN NONE!! she deserves more!!
He hissed in a breath and made a face. âAh. Correct.â were you honestly counting on her not finding out??? fool.
âAnything close? No? None at all?â you insisted and he shook his head again. i call bullshit.
âI accuse you of being in denial,â YOU AND ME BOTH CHERIE
âIâm not quite sure what it entails, but I have a very good idea,â you said, shifting your weight from one foot to other, making him tilt his head. bestie anthony really wanted her to know huh just to taint her honour even further
âYouâyou think that means flirting with ladies?â he asked as if he was still in disbelief you know what?? i'm offering to duel anthony for cherie's honour and innocence bc the way he's talking he's probably going to ruin it all. i would probably lose but it would be a worthy sacrifice
âIâm guessing if he distracts you just as half as you distract him, Iâll be safe from your matchmaking.â YES TELL HER ELOISE!! CALL ANTHONY OUT FOR THE FOOL IN LOVE HE IS!!
okay idk if you'll believe me but honestly i cut down on the passages i wanted to comment on- to be honest if you published a book my copy would 100% be completely filled with annotations and underlined sentences that i love bc there's just SO MUCH goodness in there!!
i wish you a wonderful day and i hope you feel better soon <33
Aaaa Merel hi loveeeâ€â€
Omg yessss it was lighthearted compared to befoređ
Oh Cherie will so support it†She will be coming up with possible romantic scenarios in her headđ
Plato's cave allegory THIS IS GENIUS!? đ±đ†Like, it makes perfect sense how she sees love! đ±â€
They have one braincell onlyđđ
Modern!Cherie would definitely have that and probably multiple foldersđ
Anthony saw she was alone and directly went to herđđ
She does have a point, he hasn't "complimented" her yet đ
He hoped she wouldn't find out about that but Cecily knows everything about every coupleđ
Anthony was fighting himself to not give her any detailsđđ„
Dueling him omg I can't stop laughing at the mental image đ
Omg darling I absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVEEE your comments so much, literally don't cut down anythiiing †and it means so much to me to hear thisâ€â€â€ You've just made my day, thank you so much! â€â€â€
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Hello! You mentioned reading Piranesi a few months ago and I finally got around to reading it and I love it so much - thank you for the lovely recommendation <3 If you don't mind can you talk a little about what you loved about the book (I love hearing your thoughts)? Also have you read Jorge Luis Borges' Ficciones (I believe it inspired Piranesi)?
HELLO my friend!! first of all tysm for taking the recommendation, I'm so happy it worked for you! honestly what do I NOT love about this book? it's hard to wrap my thoughts about piranesi because it was such a lovely reading experience which i honestly need to repeat ASAP because the layers to explore in piranesi are so numerous. secondly let me admit that i haven't read any borges yet BUT he's definitely on my radar and I've been looking for his books on my used bookstore runs since i read piranesi, not to much avail unfortunately but i added ficciones to my tbr for reminder!!
anyways I'm gonna stop right here for anyone who has not read piranesi yet because i think you'd benefit from going into it not knowing much except that it's told in vignettes and that it has elements of mystery which become more and more central to the plot as we advance and unravel the world that piranesi lives in. so don't keep reading past this if u haven't read piranesi yet! i did keep it spoiler-free though so no pressure. also putting everything under a read more bc i truly was obnoxiously verbose adlkjglsjk if it didn't work my apologies 4 it
NOW let's talk about what i loved about the book which honestly will probably just be a flimsy overview bc again i think a re-read would make what i love about it more salient and richer but i guess we can already have a start here!
first of all, the character of piranesi. when i first started the book and immersed myself in his inner voice, i was kind of thinking ok there must be a reason as to why he is so incredibly wholesome but also with an extremely sharp mind and immaculate observation skills. the childlike wonder of his perspective was an absolute joy to read from but also provided some tension because i think pretty early on you catch that he might be a bit of an unreliable character and that what he tells you may not match the reality of what his experiences and observations mean to the reader. you're very much the prisoner of his limited perception, his sometimes bizarre but always delightful thought process, and also again the childlike wonder with which he observes the world and which makes everything carry so much more weight w/o resorting to pompous/pretentious gravitas. a statue isn't just a statue to him, it is the Statue, something important in and of itself, with its own story/mythos and it harkens back to a child's point of view which hasn't yet been shaped by the world and therefore isn't as limited as our jaded adults' minds, even though he is an adult himself, which is apparent in his very keen mind.
then we have the form, with the novel being told in vignettes. i personally really like novels such as these because they feel a lot more personal but also propels the story forward. I'm not a fan of huge chapters tbh because my attention span is trash lmao. it was so easy to immerse myself in his world because the writing was so vivid and honestly made me reevaluate a lot about myself adjdjslg. I'm not much of a quote person but "the Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite" lives rent-free in my mind because 1. it appears at two key points in the novel and both iterations echo the other brilliantly in their respective context and thus add even more meaning to the quote and 2. i think it's a beautiful metaphor for the world we live in, which leads me to the next point
what i mostly clung to during my reading experience was the theme of confinement to a specific physical space, which can feel suffocating and limited. susanna clarke suffers from a chronic illness that has kept her within the confines of her home for many years and this book very much reflects that. from my personal experience with that theme, i was less reminded of how thematically relevant it was in the middle of a pandemic, and more about how much goodness there is still in this world at a time where everything seems so bleak, and unkind. i myself suffer from an ugly case of chronic cynicism which i think is very unappealing lmao but at least I'm self-aware! being reminded that we live in a world where kindness is indeed infinite in the smallest and biggest of ways is the balm that my shriveled soul truly needed. i guess it's my emotional support quote lmao.
then we have the setting of the book which, while limited spatially, is also so full of wonderful things and imaginative configurations that i was just in awe of everything that was being done with it. the plot is closely tied to the setting and i really want to keep this spoiler-free (just in case) so I'm not going to delve too deeply into it but i'd love to visit this place and have piranesi guide me through the labyrinth of the House and the many wonders (and tragedies) that it holds.
finally we have the MYSTERY and omg i love picking up the clues and kind of forming my own theories along the way bc it truly isn't an in-your-face mystery like a thriller would be. we buddy-read this with some ppl from the book club so the experience of sharing our theories made it all the more pleasant. i really loved how clarke presented the many mysteries of the story in such a subtle yet gripping manner that soon i was just obsessed with knowing who was whom and what they wanted from piranesi and who piranesi was and how this all came to be. all the different players felt fully fleshed out and made me feel veeeery strongly (i.e. i wanted to kill some of them like literally daydreaming about choking them to death... not to sound unhinged or anything). they provided such good foils to piranesi's inherent goodness and all that they lacked in terms of decency. their shamelessness and infinite greed and how they see piranesi as a pawn to use set my teeth on edge so i was just biding my time for the karmic retribution that they'd get akjdlkgj also great exploration of how ambition can be the downfall of mankind
then we have all the clever-people-themes of neoclassicism and philosophy and plato's cave and whatnot and it's not what held my attention so i can't speak much on it bc I'm not one of those clever people who picked upon these themes LMAO but I'll for sure spend more time unpacking these layers on my re-read of this book because there are so many smart ideas hidden in the nooks and crannies of this story that i think you could get something different from each read, kind of like i feel about pride & prejudice by jane austen which offers me new delights to enjoy upon each re-read.
honestly i have so much more to say about how religion is handled, the rituals surrounding grief and their importance in the celebration and respect of of life, birds being amazing creatures, identity and how it can create contradictions etc etc but at this point i might as well just write a college essay on literally every theme explored in this book because it was just SO GOOD! thank u piranesi for me life
tl;dr this book made me feel like my brain was buried in a thick coat of dust and let some much-needed air in
#also i read this message at like 6am and thought long and hard about it#and then started crying bc i'd die and kill for piranesi period
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