#race age and body shape all working to reach their goals in space

[vagun1ka]

i have thoughts about asta and bronya redesigns

[samwisethewitch]

Pagan Paths: Reclaiming

Many pagans and witches are also political activists. Pagan values — such as respect for the planet and for non-human forms of life, belief in equality regardless of race or gender, and personal autonomy — often lead people to social or political action. However, as far as I know, there is only one pagan religion that has actually made this social activism one of its core tenets: Reclaiming. Reclaiming combines neopaganism with anarchist principles and social activism.

This post is not meant to be a complete introduction to Reclaiming. Instead, my goal here is to give you a taste of what Reclaiming practitioners believe and do, so you can decide for yourself if further research would be worth your time. In that spirit, I provide book recommendations at the end of this post.

History and Background

Given Reclaiming’s reputation as a social justice-oriented faith, it’s not surprising that it grew out of activist efforts. Reclaiming began with well-known pagan authors Starhawk and Diane Baker, who began teaching classes on modern witchcraft in California in the 1980s. Members of these classes began protesting and doing other activist work together, and this pagan activist group eventually grew into the Reclaiming Collective.

Out of the founders of Reclaiming, Starhawk has probably had the biggest influence on the tradition. Starhawk was initiated into the Feri tradition by its founder Victor Anderson, but had also been trained in Wicca and worked with figures such as Zsuzsanna Budapest (founder of Dianic Wicca). These Feri and Wiccan influences are clear in Starhawk’s books, such as The Spiral Dance, and have also helped shape the Reclaiming tradition.

Like Feri, Reclaiming is an ecstatic tradition that emphasizes the interconnected divinity of all things. Like Eclectic Wicca, Reclaiming is a non-initiatory religion (meaning anyone can join, regardless of training or experience level) with lots of room to customize and personalize your individual practice.

However, to say that Starhawk is the head of the Reclaiming tradition, or even to credit her as its sole founder, would be incorrect. As Reclaiming has grown and spread, it has become increasingly decentralized. Decisions are made by consensus (meaning the group must reach a unanimous decision) in small, individual communities, which author Irisanya Moon calls “cells.” Each cell has its own unique beliefs, practices, and requirements for members, stemming from Reclaiming’s core values (see below). Some of these cells may stick very closely to the kind of paganism Starhawk describes in her books, while others may look very, very different.

As with any other religion, there are times where a governing body is needed to make widespread changes to the system, such as changing core doctrine. When these situations do arise, each individual cell chooses a representative, who in turn serves as a voice for that cell in a gathering with other representatives from other cells. BIRCH (the Broad Intra-Reclaiming Council of Hubs) is an example of this.

At BIRCH meetings, representatives make decisions via consensus, the same way decisions are made in individual cells. While this means changes may take months or even years to be proposed, discussed, modified, and finally passed, it also means that everyone within the tradition is part of the decision-making process.

Core Beliefs and Values

Like Wicca, Reclaiming has very little dogma. Unlike Wicca, the Reclaiming Collective has a public statement of values that clearly and concisely lays out the essentials of what they believe and do. This document, which is called the Principles of Unity, is not very long, so I’m going to lay it out in its entirety here.

This is the most recent version of the Principles of Unity, taken from the Reclaiming Collective website in February 2021:

“The values of the Reclaiming tradition stem from our understanding that the earth is alive and all of life is sacred and interconnected. We see the Goddess as immanent in the earth’s cycles of birth, growth, death, decay and regeneration. Our practice arises from a deep, spiritual commitment to the earth, to healing and to the linking of magic with political action.

Each of us embodies the divine. Our ultimate spiritual authority is within, and we need no other person to interpret the sacred to us. We foster the questioning attitude, and honor intellectual, spiritual and creative freedom.

We are an evolving, dynamic tradition and proudly call ourselves Witches. Our diverse practices and experiences of the divine weave a tapestry of many different threads. We include those who honor Mysterious Ones, Goddesses, and Gods of myriad expressions, genders, and states of being, remembering that mystery goes beyond form. Our community rituals are participatory and ecstatic, celebrating the cycles of the seasons and our lives, and raising energy for personal, collective and earth healing.

We know that everyone can do the life-changing, world-renewing work of magic, the art of changing consciousness at will. We strive to teach and practice in ways that foster personal and collective empowerment, to model shared power and to open leadership roles to all. We make decisions by consensus, and balance individual autonomy with social responsibility.

Our tradition honors the wild, and calls for service to the earth and the community. We work in diverse ways, including nonviolent direct action, for all forms of justice: environmental, social, political, racial, gender and economic. We are an anti-racist tradition that strives to uplift and center BIPOC voices (Black, Indigenous, People of Color). Our feminism includes a radical analysis of power, seeing all systems of oppression as interrelated, rooted in structures of domination and control.

We welcome all genders, all gender histories, all races, all ages and sexual orientations and all those differences of life situation, background, and ability that increase our diversity. We strive to make our public rituals and events accessible and safe. We try to balance the need to be justly compensated for our labor with our commitment to make our work available to people of all economic levels.

All living beings are worthy of respect. All are supported by the sacred elements of air, fire, water and earth. We work to create and sustain communities and cultures that embody our values, that can help to heal the wounds of the earth and her peoples, and that can sustain us and nurture future generations.”

The Principles of Unity were originally written in 1997, to create a sense of cohesion as the Reclaiming Collective grew and diversified. However, the Principles have not remained constant since the 1990s. They have been rewritten multiple times as the Reclaiming tradition has grown and the needs of its members have changed. Like everything else within the tradition, the Principles of Unity are not beyond scrutiny, critical analysis, and reform.

For example, in 2020 the wording of the Principles of Unity was changed to affirm diverse forms of social justice work — including but not limited to non-violent action — and to express a more firm anti-racist attitude that seeks to uplift BIPOC. This was a major change, as the previous version of the document explicitly called for non-violence and included a paraphrased version of the Rede (often called the Wiccan Rede), “Harm none, and do what you will.” This change was made via consensus by BIRCH, after a series of discussions about the meaning of non-violence and the need to make space for other types of activism.

Aside from the Principles of Unity, there are no hard and fast rules for Reclaiming belief. As Irisanya Moon says in her book on the tradition, “There is no typical Reclaiming Witch.”

Important Deities and Spirits

Just as with belief and values, views on deity within Reclaiming are extremely diverse. A member of this tradition might be a monist, a polytheist, a pantheist, an agnostic, or even a nontheist. (Note that nontheism is different from atheism — while atheism typically includes a rejection of religion, nontheism allows for meaningful religious experience without belief in a higher power.)

The Principles of Unity state that the Goddess is immanent in the earth’s cycles. For some, this means that the earth is a manifestation of the Great Goddess, the source of all life. For others, the Goddess is seen as a symbol that represents the interconnected nature of all life, rather than being literally understood as a personified deity. And, of course, there are many, many people whose views fall somewhere in between.

In her book The Spiral Dance, Starhawk points out that the deities we worship function as metaphors, allowing us to connect with that which cannot be comprehended in its entirety. “The symbols and attributes associated with the Goddess… engage us emotionally,” she says. “We know the Goddess is not the moon — but we still thrill to its light glinting through the branches. We know the Goddess is not a woman, but we respond with love as if She were, and so connect emotionally with all the abstract qualities behind the symbol.”

Here’s another quote from The Spiral Dance that sums up this view of deity: “I have spoken of the Goddess as a psychological symbol and also as manifest reality. She is both. She exists, and we create Her.”

In that book, Starhawk proposes a perspective on deity that combines Wiccan and Feri theology. Starhawk’s Goddess encompasses both the Star Goddess worshiped in Feri — God Herself, the divine source of all things — and the Wiccan Goddess — Earth Mother and Queen of the Moon. This Goddess’s consort, known as the God, is similar to the Wiccan God, but includes aspects of Feri deities like the Blue God.

For some, this model of deity is the basis of their practice, while others prefer to use other means to connect with That-Which-Cannot-Be-Known. Someone may consider themselves a part of Reclaiming and be a devotee of Aphrodite, or Thor, or Osiris, or any of countless other personified deities.

Reclaiming Practice

As I said earlier, Reclaiming began with classes in magic theory, and teaching and learning are still important parts of the tradition. The basic, entry-level course that most members of the tradition take is called Elements of Magic. In this class, students explore the five elements — air, fire, water, earth, and spirit — and how these elements relate to different aspects of Reclaiming practice. Though most members of the tradition will take the Elements of Magic class, this is not a requirement.

After completing Elements of Magic, Reclaiming pagans may or may not choose to take other classes, including but not limited to: the Iron Pentacle (mastering the five points of Sex, Pride, Self, Power, and Passion and bringing them into balance), Pearl Pentacle (mastering the points of Love, Law, Knowledge, Liberation/Power, and Wisdom and embodying these qualities in relationships with others), Rites of Passage (a class that focuses on initiation and rewriting your own narrative), and Communities (a class that teaches the skills necessary to work in a community, such as conflict resolution and ritual planning).

If you’ve read my post on the Feri tradition, you probably recognize the Iron and Pearl Pentacles. This is another example of how Feri has influenced Reclaiming.

Another place where the teaching/learning element of Reclaiming shows up is in Witchcamp. Witchcamp is an intensive spiritual retreat, typically held over a period of several days in a natural setting away from cities. (However, in light of the COVID-19 pandemic, some covens are now offering virtual Witchcamps). Because each Witchcamp is run by a different coven, with different teachers, there is a lot of variation in what they teach and what kind of work campers do.

Each individual camp has a main theme — some camps keep the same theme every time, while others choose a new theme each year. Some camps are adults-only, while others are family-oriented and welcome parents with children. Typically, campers will have several classes to choose from in the mornings and afternoons, with group rituals in the evenings.

Speaking of ritual, this brings us to another important part of Reclaiming practice: ecstatic ritual. The goal of most Reclaiming rituals is to connect with the divine by achieving a state of ecstasy.

Irisanya Moon says that Reclaiming rituals often use what she calls the “EIEIO” framework: Ecstatic (involving an altered state of consciousness — the transcendent ecstasy of touching the divine), Improvisational (though there may be a basic ritual outline, there is an openness to acting in the spirit of the moment), Ensemble (rituals are held in groups, often with rotating roles), Inspired (taking inspiration from mythology, personal experience, or current events), and Organic (developing naturally, even if that means going off-script). This framework is similar to the rituals Starhawk describes in her writing.

There are no officially recognized holidays in Reclaiming, but many members of the tradition celebrate the Wheel of the Year, similar to Wiccans. The most famous example of this is the annual Spiral Dance ritual held each Samhain in California, with smaller versions observed by covens around the world.

Further Reading

If you are interested in Reclaiming, I recommend starting with the book Reclaiming Witchcraft by Irisanya Moon. This is an excellent, short introduction to the tradition. After that, it’s probably worth checking out some of Starhawk’s work — I recommend starting with The Spiral Dance.

At this point, if you still feel like this is the right path for you, the next step I would recommend is to take the Elements of Magic class. If you live in a big city, it may be offered in-person near you — if not, look around online and see if you can find a virtual version. Accessibility is huge to Reclaiming pagans, and many teachers offer scholarships and price their classes on a sliding scale, so you should be able to find a class no matter what your budget is.

If you can’t find an Elements of Magic class, there is a book called Elements of Magic: Reclaiming Earth, Air, Fire, Water & Spirit, edited by Jane Meredith and Gede Parma, which provides lessons and activities from experienced teachers of the class. Teaching yourself is always going to be more difficult than learning from someone else, but it’s better than nothing!

Resources:

The Spiral Dance by Starhawk

Reclaiming Witchcraft by Irisanya Moon

The Reclaiming Collective website, reclaimingcollective.wordpress.com

cutewitch772 on YouTube (a member of the tradition who has several very informative videos on Reclaiming, told from an insider perspective)

[themsource]

Fransweek 2020 Day 6

Theme: Fairytale Rating: M TW: Parental Abuse Pairing: (Faerytale) FT Sans/Frisk Word Count: 8,165

This wanted to be more than a one shot so I apologize if it reads funny at all ^^; @fransweek​

Frisk was crying, her hands shaking and body numb.

A new purple bruise forming already on her arm, just above her elbow. Deep down she knew she’d probably deserved it, but it didn’t make the shock or sting any less.

She sniffled as she walked, her eyes staring at nothing as her thoughts roamed. Frisk didn’t have a destination in mind nor a goal, she just let her feet carry her aimlessly further and further from her house. She only wanted a break, a place to gather herself.

That’s when she saw it.

The trees parted ahead, a small trail of shorter grass among chest high fauna that led away into what looked like a brightly lit alcove.

Frisk stilled as she stared at it.

Had it always been there? How far had she wandered from the village?

She glanced back behind her and contemplated returning but loud shouting still echoed in her head. How seething rage made her ears ring had Frisk swallowing nervously.

Exploring a little longer wouldn’t hurt her.

What could go wrong?

Steeling her racing heart Frisk turned curiously to the path and pushed ahead, her eyes wide and observing as the fauna gradually grew contrasted and vibrant the longer she walked. Dulled greens shifted into brighter almost yellow shades and purples turned nearly cyan, the coloring giving an almost glass like effect that glimmered in the shaded light.

She stopped next to a plant that looked suspiciously like a sunflower, the petals giving a slight tingle to her fingertips as she lightly grazed the almost translucent edges.

She sucked in a breath as tiny tendrils wisped out and curled, almost latched onto her in a feather light caress. Blinking as she realized how bizarre that was she leapt back, hissing through her teeth as the tendrils seemingly dissolved at the loss of contact.

Frisk stood there dumbly staring at the seemingly innocent plant.

Shaking her head she decided to continue forward, her feet pressing into soft icy blue moss until she entered a wide open space.

Right away her eyes panned the perimeter.

There were tightly packed and thick trees forming a perfect circle that even a sheet of parchment would struggle to slip through, the only entrance or exit she could perceive being the path she’d taken, and not a single blade of grass appeared uneven in length.

It was calming.

Taking a hesitant step forward her eyes slipped down to a small pond perfectly situated towards the center but fading off into the treeline. Its crystal clear water, so pure that she could see the bottom swarming with plentiful fish and ivy, shimmered hypnotically beneath the small rays of light that pierced the trees canopy overhead.

But that wasn’t what had her attention..

It was a ring of mushrooms.

Pure gold and in perfect formation it sat precisely center and in front of the water’s edge, no other plants or weeds to be seen in the clearing aside from it.

As if entranced Frisk walked slowly closer, pausing as she noticed the grass at its center glimmered with a rainbow tinted light, refracted colors both alluring and mesmerizing dancing across the space big enough that she could lay in it with no problem.

It did look inviting, the perfect circle comforting to gaze at as if it was a golden wall against anyone that would try to harm her.

The thought of stepping in for a nap briefly flitted across her mind.

Her brows furrowed at how quickly she’d contemplated such a thing.

She...didn’t feel too safe suddenly looking at it.

The circle was so otherworldly and strange it gave her a sense of cautious foreboding.

She glanced around the beautiful expanse one last time before deciding she’d seen enough. If her gut was telling her this area was a red flag she wasn’t about to ignore it.

Frisk was about to turn and leave when—

“H u m a n,” Frisk froze in place, her heart starting to hammer like it wanted to burst from her chest.

She had been alone she was sure of it...human?

The voice spoke again, it’s cadence slow and almost amused sounding. “don’t you know how to greet a new pal?”

Pal?

“turn around and shake my hand.” Slowly Frisk turned, ringing in her ears as her eyes locked on who had called out to her in a baritone so low she could feel it’s vibration practically in her chest.

She had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping in shock.

It was a skeleton, wearing a sapphire blue cloak with a skeletal hand outstretched, thick phalanges gently curled and, somehow, palm cupped welcomingly. Where eyes would be floated two orbs of white light, faintly bobbing as they locked on her, with a benign grin of wide and pure white teeth.

Despite how friendly and inviting his demeanor looked Frisk noticed his expression seemed disturbingly detached.

Another red flag.

Frisk’s eyes drifted down to the hand he held out.

His hand wasn’t reaching out pass the ring of mushrooms he stood in.

Her expression shifted. Hadn’t she heard a legend about mushrooms before? Magic circles given form through nature as a way to warn mortals?

She swallowed.

“I uh…don’t want to be rude but…I don’t want to?” Her words hung in the air between them, his expression slowly changing as his grin stretched and his hand dropped by his side.

He let out a lighthearted chuckle.

“smart kid, the handshake routine rarely works but it’s <em>always</em> funny when it does.” Frisk felt the tension leave the air and couldn’t help how she instantly relaxed. The skeleton’s whole persona had flipped like a coin at her rejection, he appeared so casual and easy going.

Like he’d just tried to play a joke on an old friend.

She let out a hesitant smile.

“I’m Frisk…nice to meet you.” The monster raised a skeletal brow, his smile remaining on his face as he observed her silently. The time he took to look at her seemed to stretch to the point Frisk squirmed in place and the intensity he’d been directing at her softened.

He let out a snort. “i’m sans. sans the skeleton.”

Frisk and Sans continued to watch each other, the lights in his skeletal sockets brightening curiously as he tilted his skull. She was an odd child to him. He’d never seen a human with eyes the color of sunlight before.

It was such a unique feature.

“never seen a human with yellow eyes before.” He commented.

“Never seen a talking skeleton before.” Frisk responded absently.

Sans snorted as he contemplated her, Frisk taking in the situation with a puzzled glance. He wasn’t advancing, making any kind of move to get closer to her from where he sat cross legged and slouching.

He was at least a good inch from the ring’s edge closest to her and that allowed her to conclude that so long as she didn’t cross into the ring of mushrooms she was safe, from what she still questioned.

No one in the village ever elaborated as to why they warned about the rings. No matter how hard she thought about it she couldn’t recall much in the way of conversation about the whole thing.

Was it Sans?

She supposed he looked intimidating, being a skeleton.

She took a sharp breath as she pulled her knees into her chest. Noticing the way his orbs of light followed the movement.

He certainly was fixated on her though.

“What are you?” Her voice came out slightly raspy.

Her question hung in the air as Sans flickered his gaze up to her eyes, his sockets lidding as his grin stretched.

Frisk couldn’t see the humor behind it.

Something about the way he looked at her was guarded, shaped to give a sense of security and shrewdness like a mask. “i’m a seelie.”

Frisk blinked. “A what?”

Sans’s skull flexed, both of his eyebrows raising at her humorously but his carefully constructed expression remained firmly in place. When he spoke his tone was light, curious.

“you don’t know who the seelie are?” How she shook her head had Sans eyeing her suspiciously. Frisk looked at least sixteen, well past the age that she should’ve been told the legends of his race.

Had humanity fallen that out of touch with them already?

“well,” He started as he looked away briefly before looking back at her with a sneaky grin. “i’m a fairy you could say. a fae.” Frisk raised a brow this time.

“I don’t see any wings on your back, and you’re a bit big. Thought you said you were a skeleton.” Sans’s sockets creased along the bottoms as he responded in a lackadaisical tone.

“i’m a special type, i’m winging it honestly.” Her expression went closed at first before slowly slipping into measured amusement. It didn’t escape his notice that she almost looked afraid of laughing, cautious of offending him.

Smart girl.

“W-was that a pun?” Frisk asked as she tried to cover her mouth. Sans closed both his sockets full of smug brevity. “dunno, did you find it punny?”

Frisk broke into laughter, unable to hold it back and Sans found himself grinning widely.

He liked this human.

“seelies are beings responsible for the magic in your world, the unexplained.” Frisk’s laughter petered out and she looked at him in confusion.

“The unexplained?” Sans lazily gestured around them and all it took was a quick trace of her eyes along the grove for her to understand. Her cheeks turned red as she faced him again.

“Wow, I didn’t know Fae made such beautiful things.” His smile strained, and Frisk tensed at the slight growl in his words. “not all fae do.”

“All?” She questioned.

Sans’s face was dark, and his tone dropped. “we’re not the same as the unseelie, the dark fae…not exactly.”

How did she not know this?

Frisk felt her heart race as she swallowed thickly.

“What do you mean dark Fae?” Sans’s eyelights? shrunk slightly and his tone was carefully schooled as he looked at her neutrally.

He hadn’t meant to venture onto this topic but it was too late now.

“we seelie seek out humans to bring to our realm to help with our queens longevity, to strengthen our magical ties to the veil between our realms by unlocking the latent magic of your souls.” Frisk’s eyes widened.

“You turn us into Seelie?” Sans’s eyelights pulsed with something akin to humor.

“do you know what mages are?” She nodded her head and Sans was relieved he didn’t have to explain that to her. Why he was doing this in the first place he didn’t question.

“well that’s what you become. in turn for gaining magical abilities the cost is the world from which you come and your mortal lifespans. our world enables you to live as long as a seelie, and that gives the queen more life herself due to the increase in the potent magic. we have a fair give and take.”

Sans decided not to mention the cloisters.

“the unseelie…like to consume souls and steal bodies.”

Frisk felt her skin go clammy.That was something she hadn’t been aware of, something that could happen and no one would be the wiser. It terrified her, but she wanted to know. It didn’t escape her how Sans’s tone lowered though, became almost gentle.

“unseelie at their best just like some fun usually at the expense of others, however that’s rare. they believe that by increasing their own magic themselves they can support the balance of our worlds on their own merits. instead of drawing magic from it’s natural place they make it to where they can unnaturally produce and draw it from themselves. consuming a human soul makes that possible.”

They consumed human souls?

“How?” Sans’s expression didn’t shift but his eyelights dimmed as he took in her reaction.

“your spirit and wills are strong enough to rival our magic when on equal footing. fusing the two together, a human soul with a monster makes…a freak of nature.” Sans’s smile went tired.

“our method, giving humans our magic is more of an evolution for your species not a senseless genocide where one has to sacrifice for the other. plus ours can be…reversed. if ever a mage were to leave our realm for too long their ties to magic would fade, and gradually they’d begin to age again.”

Frisk was silent and Sans wondered if she would be able to take everything he’d told her. It was a lot to tell a child, and it was more than possible that she was now scared of him.

But all Frisk did was smile at him.

“I’m glad you’re a seelie.” Sans, confused, lowered his mask back into place. If she were an adult, an educated one, he doubted she’d be saying that. But still he had to know what her reasoning was.

It was unexpected, even unnerving, how relieved she sounded.

“why do you say that?”

“Because I wouldn’t want to be scared of my new friend.”

Sans was speechless.

He’d explained the nature of his race and it’s counterpart, told her how his basically kidnaps and steals away their mortal rights, and yet she was still saying something so pure and honest that it hit him right where his soul rested.

She didn’t even know him.

They had just met.

But Frisk so quickly trusted him. Considered him a friend, even when that was a dangerous decision she perhaps shouldn’t make.

Seelie and Unseelie were different yes, but it was still a fine line between them that could blur. One easily crossed often on accident.

It made him wonder if she considered them friends so quickly from ignorance, though she looked old enough to know better,...or loneliness.

Was that what had lured her to his grove?

Her honey colored eyes were glowing as she looked at him, and he couldn’t help how his soul thrummed under its gaze. However his eyelights quickly locked on an ugly purple mark on her arm the moment she shifted in place.

His sockets widened.

It was then that Sans realized it was loneliness, that this little girl had never been loved before.

And that woke, unsettled, something in him.

“...i’m glad you’re not scared of me either frisk.” How radiant her joyful laugh lit up her face and echoed around the clearing left him mute.

The surrounding light dimmed and faint darkness fell like a blanket over them and he peered up to see the budding horizon of the night sky fading in through the groves canopy.

Sans looked back to Frisk who had followed his gaze and he was speaking before he could think about it too hard.

“it’s late, you should get home. don’t want to get lost do you?” The slight wince on her face nearly made him inwardly frown but he remained outwardly expressionless.

“I don’t really want to.” He forced a smirk.

“sorry kid, but a growing human needs rest.” He held his hand out from where he sat. “going to say goodbye?”

Frisk looked ready to reach forward, automatic politeness guiding her but pulled back at the last second, her eyes narrowing and nose wiggling in a look of incredulousness. “Hey!”

Sans chuckled and gave a lazy shrug.

“seelie i did there did you?” Frisk let out a scoff as she stood and wiped the grass from her clothes. Shyly she looked up at him and Sans cocked another brow inquisitively.

“Can I come visit again?” He didn’t know how to respond so he said, “sure kid.”

His eyelights didn’t leave her until she vanished back through the concealment barrier to the grove, his mind wondering just what he’d gotten himself into, and his thoughts drawn to the golden eyed girl with fascination.

Oh well, maybe she wouldn’t come back after she let what he’d told her register.

Sans was proven wrong the moment he felt a disturbance in his magic the next day.

“hey kid. back so soon?” he held his hand out habitually and her deadpan nearly had him chuckling.

“So I passed my classes.” He tilted his skull as his hand lowered back into the confines of his cloak.

“that’s good, which ones?” It shocked him how easily he fell into the conversation. Such a mundane topic when compared to his Seelie knowledge but engaging in how Frisk so eagerly spoke about her rather boring day.

She looked so happy to have someone listening.

It made his soul shiver unpleasantly, in a way he wasn’t familiar with and caused his skeletal brows to furrow. He pushed it down and focused instead on how Frisk’s hands moved so quickly in her excitement, the small limbs emphasizing her words.

“Math and English are my favorite subjects.” Frisk exclaimed with a toothy smile as her hands wrung.

“english huh? my brother likes that subject.” Right away he saw the silent question in her eyes and Frisk perked up as he started to go on a long and drawn out spiel.

He looked so animated and expressive as he playfully joked and told her embarrassing stories.

She’d always wanted a sibling.

And she wondered what that would’ve been like.

“Wow Papyrus sounds like so much fun.” Frisk’s voice came out hushed.

Sans’s sockets crinkled with genuine happiness through his mask, and his voice was brimming with affection that it made Frisk blush.

“ya, he’s the coolest.” She smiled at the clear love in the skeleton fae’s sockets but then she noticed the moment his eyelights brightened, his smile turning mischievous.

“you could meet him y’know.” Her chest warmed at the prospect.

“I could?” Sans closed one socket and held his hand out.

It made Frisk deadpan. “Let me guess I’d only have to take your hand?”

He closed both sockets and didn’t reply. His smug silence was answer enough.

Frisk tried not to let her disappointment show, instead she blew out her cheeks and rested her chin on her knees in a pout, earning a silent snicker from the skeleton.

The kid was cute.

~~

Her visits became a daily thing, three days turned into a week, a week into four, and soon Sans started coming to the gate ahead of her. Waiting patiently but not long until her brunette hair peaked from the path with excited strides.

Sans didn’t know why he kept interacting with her just as Frisk didn’t know why the grove called to her each morning like a siren song.

And each time he’d offer a hand, each time she’d turn him down.

Frisk’s eyes though never failed to glow with her joy at his presence and his eyelights always expanded happily in his sockets.

It was as if he gave her the moon each time he showed up to greet her. And he felt his soul start to give a pitiful flutter of platonic affection each time she went right into telling him how her day went.

There were times however where Frisk wouldn’t begin talking right away and Sans, deeply perturbed, a tiny spark of rage boiling in his chest he didn’t want to look too hard at, would grant them both mercy and talk to her about his realm and the magic there.

Entertain her with fanciful tales and stories.

A lot he made up, but Frisk always stared at him with admiration nonetheless, latched onto the tales like a plant craving the smallest drop of water. She loved how he took her awe in stride, made his stories more exaggerated or wild just to see what he could get away with.

But as with all beings who started to care for each other…

The questions came.

“hey frisk?” He tried.

“Yes?”

“where did you get that mark today?”

She didn’t answer him, only pulled her sleeve or pant leg a little lower to hide whichever one he could be referring to. And she, scared that if he knew how bad she often was to deserve such things, worried that he’d abandon her, and so changed the subject to a question he’d often answered before about magic.

He grudgingly let her, silently wondered when she’d break.

And one night it happened.

Frisk had never gone to the grove at night before, she’d never had a reason to.

But that night had been…bad.

She usually sought out Sans’s company after such episodes, a few jokes and his usual attempts to lure her away to his world somehow always made her feel better, but tonight she just wanted to be alone.

But not.

Honestly she didn’t know if Seelie needed sleep but if they did she was willing to at least be in the same place as where her friend always met her. Frisk knew the grove wasn’t his actual home, but to her it’s all she knew him to have.

And that was enough.

It wasn’t a surprise when she found the ring of mushrooms he usually occupied empty. A group of fireflies tracing along the back of it and into the far off trees.

The sight of it though relaxed her and she fell into her habitual spot with a muted crunching of grass. Her honey colored eyes locking onto the Seelie gate with fondness.

She was a bit let down even though she’d known better.

Frisk let out a dejected sigh and slowly fell sideways, her knees pulling up to her chest as she let out a shiver in the slightly chilled air. It was a cool night, fall wasn’t that far off.

Would Sans still be able to visit once winter hit?

His explanation on the summer and winter courts hadn’t really informed her of that.

Her eyes had started to drift closed in her musings.

“frisk?”

She jolted awake and sat up, her eyes automatically honing in on the ring before frowning.

It was still empty.

She blinked the tiredness from her eyes, when had she fallen asleep? And carefully looked around before pulling up short in surprise.

Sans was a few feet from her, looking at her curiously.

He was outside the circle?

“Sans?” In disbelief she pushed to her feet and froze.

He was tiny, came up to about the top of her hip.

Her brows furrowed.

Frisk was certain he was taller than this, he gave the impression that he was a good five foot at least. Though she’d never seen him standing before the way he typically sat gave her the impression.

His skull tilted in question. “what are you doing out so late?”

“Why are you small?” She couldn’t help asking. Sans let out a snort.

“i’m in your realm, not enough active magic here for me to be at full height.” Oddly she understood what he meant by that. Then it occurred to her…could Sans take her now that he wasn’t bound by the gate?

Was that a bad thing?

The impulsive thought scared her.

She took a cautious step back, tried to be subtle so as not to be rude but Sans caught it. His eyelights snapped to her feet before going back up to her face.

It was so weird to see him craning his vertebra to look up at her but strangely adorable.

“easy kiddo, i can’t take you anywhere right now. it’s only possible during the day, and i can’t just pick you up and go.” His smile was patient and reassuring.

“Why not?” Sans’s smile only turned even friendlier as he heard the uncertainty in her tone.

“remember the veil i mentioned? it’s like a magic curtain between our worlds. during the day it’s weakest on this side of it; meaning no seelie from the seelie realm can roam or exit through the gates but yet others can enter from this side. at night, it’s reversed. you as a human can’t pass through but any other seelie can leave if they choose.” Sans looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging.

“as for why i can’t just pick you up and go, even if the sun were to rise well…that’s one of the rules of intent with magic. if you were to unwillingly pass through, my realm wouldn’t be able to…lock….you into place there. unless you consumed our food or something.” As a side thought he held his arms out and shrugged. “plus obvious height differences heh.”

Frisk looked confused as she ruminated on his words.

Sans was slightly worried she wouldn’t understand, but there wasn’t a simpler way to explain it without having an inherent touch with magic.

Still she surprised him as she so often did.

“Magic needs an anchor basically?” His socket’s widened and crinkled at the corners. He looked so proud Frisk couldn’t keep the blush from her face as he nodded. “more or less.”

Then something Sans would call realization flashed in her eyes and his expression went wide with shock as she suddenly bent down and pulled him up into an unexpected hug, her thicker arms wrapping him in a vice that made him let out a strained grunt as a blue blush flared across his skull.

“f-frisk!”

“You’re so cute all tiny Sans!” She gushed as she spun with him on the spot. Sans went to protest, not really one for casual physical contact but went still as a statue as he felt something wet fall onto the crown of his head.

Frisk didn’t give him room to pull back, her soft cheek pressed into the side of his jaw and left socket as something dangerously close to a sniffle vibrated from her chest.

His tone was abnormally soft. “what are you doing out so late kiddo?”

Of course she didn’t answer him but he let her hold him for as long as she needed. When she finally gave him room and let him back down her tears were gone but her eyes were bloodshot, smile as bright as usual and eyes happy.

“Want to see my village?”

He’d seen it countless times already.

“sure.”

~~

Sans and Frisk both grew closer; his nightly roaming visits spent strolling beside her through the quiet of her village, her free hours in the day put towards visiting him within the grove where he was forcibly bound to stay.

They made each other’s lives more interesting, exchanging puns and jokes while steadily learning the cultures and life of the other.

It was something Sans knew wasn’t supposed to happen.

Humans and Seelie weren’t meant to be friends like they had become. But every time he contemplated leaving for good, abandoning her, he found himself unable to. There was something about the honey colored eyed girl that drew him to her.

Only made him more insistent on trying to kidnap her back to his world.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth that she stubbornly never took the delicate step he needed from her. Even on the worst of days when she’d show up exhausted and on the verge of what his kind called falling down.

The day he finally called her out on it, had addressed it directly Frisk had simply responded as if they’d talked about it countless times before.

“you don’t have to put up with that you know. all you have to do is take my hand and you’d never have to worry about them hurting you again.” His soul twisted as she gave him a weak smile.

“You say your brother thinks of you as lazy but you really do work hard at your job.” Sans bit his tongue. Prevented the unspoken words in his head from slipping out and showing a vulnerability he didn’t wish the kid to see as he simultaneously discovered it himself.

you’re not a job to me.

The topic didn’t come back up.

~~

The day came when he had to go on an assignment the queen had given him; it was to take no more than a week, a quick in and out of the Unseelie realm to monitor the dark fae for signs of treasonous activity.

But he worried.

Sans was good at being undetectable, it was going to be an all-around easy task.

Still it didn’t prevent the regret he felt at the withdrawal in Frisk’s eyes, the ache he felt in his chest at the sight of her smile falling into a frown when he told her.

Frisk didn’t want him to go, just the idea of him not being there made her feel hollow.

And he’d honestly thought she’d protest, ask him to stay. But instead she’d merely whispered, “Only a week right?”

He…was proud of her. How in stride she took the news. It was going to be the longest they’d gone without seeing each other since they’d first met but she held her head up and kept her heart hopeful.

His masked smile turned genuine in the way only she so often could make it.

“that’s right, i’ll even come straight here when i’m finished.”

Frisk’s eyes lit up and it made his soul swell.

She could manage seven days, she was sure of it.

All it took was her nod of acceptance before he vanished, the urge to end this task quickly burning in his skull.

Sans managed the job in three days.

A Seelie of his word the first thing he did was return to the grove once he left the Unseelie realm, his intentions to reassure his little human before dropping his report back to the Queen.

When he rose from the gate however the sight that greeted him made his soul freeze in his ribs.

The grove…was wilder, more tangled and unkempt. A blatant passage of time and his absence scarred across it.

And instead of the anticipated human child he’d grown fond of to meet him sat a woman, humming as she twisted some flowers she had gathered beside her into a delicate crown in her callused hands.

Sans’s eyelights nearly went out.

He hadn’t intended on having to deal with a human to collect, in fact it irritated him.

Sans had wanted to see Frisk.

With resolve he took a deep steadying breath and put on his practiced grin. He’d simply capture them and then return quickly before he had the chance to be missed.

“H u m a n,” The female predictably jolted. “don’t you know how to greet a new pal?”

She whipped around and timed slowed as his sockets shot wide, honey colored eyes landing on him and sending an almost crippling pulse of recognition through his magical leylines.

Only one human he’d ever known had that unique distortion.

Sans’s voice was shaky as he spoke.

“…frisk?”

Tears immediately ran down her cheeks as she smiled at him.

He didn’t know what to think or say, all he could do was pan her form, take in old scars he recognized on her knees and wrists. Silently acknowledged that she had matured in ways typical to a young human adult in her prime.

The little girl he knew was gone, and in her place was a kind and startlingly attractive woman.

His soul withered even as it heated up violently in his chest.

“One more day, I can wait one more day I said.” Sans was frozen as she turned to fully face him, pulled her now long and elegant legs up into the familiar bend as she rested her chin atop them just as she had in her youth. “Welcome back Sans, I missed you.”

He felt his magic curl, caused a shiver through his bones as he swallowed and rasped thickly, “how long?”

“Three years.” Sans came to learn a day in the Unseelie realm wasn’t so liner as the human world and his realm were. He couldn’t think of what to say to her. Frisk though only continued to smile and did what she so often did, had only done a few days ago to him, and went on about how her day had gone.

How the last three years of her life had gone.

It made Sans acknowledge a harsh reality, and in his panic he interrupted her.

“come back with me.”

Frisk startled, her eyes wide but mouth closed in a firm line.

They both appraised each other like it was the first time they’d met all over again. Sans taking in how exactly she’d changed, Frisk noticing how he was exactly the same.

He didn’t want to risk losing her, never seeing her again if he was called to serve once more. She didn’t want to miss out on what life could offer her now that she was free from what she’d gone through as a child.

Frisk’s answer was like a blow straight to his soul.

“No.”

Sans kept his gaze unreadable as she explained her reasonings, all perfectly understandable and valid for a mortal he acknowledged bitterly, and for the first time he couldn’t bring himself to stay near the human he’d grown so attached to.

To not feel so unreasonably angry at her rejection.

He left.

Frisk stared in shock at the empty ring, more tears now full of hurt and pain poured out, and she felt so awful at what she’d told him.

But she waited just as she had done before.

And when Sans returned, unable to stay away for long, they’d both continued as if nothing had happened.

~~

His attempts became more ridiculous and endearing the more he tried and failed to lure her back with him as time passed. Frisk found it cute how much he wanted so badly to pull the wool over her eyes, almost hilarious how he worked so hard at it sometimes.

“Are you going to get promoted or something if you ever succeed at this?” She teased.

“nah, better.” Sans winked playfully. “i’ll get to keep you.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson just as his lit up brilliant cyan at the accidental flirt. They purposefully ignored it, not realizing how both their souls had given a firm thrum in tandem.

It wasn’t hard to quietly admit to themselves that they had fallen for each other the more their blushes grew, the more awkward their chuckling became, and how a certain mood lit up the grove each time they met.

But then--their happiness was threatened.

“Sans!”

His soul shook, somehow heard the echo of Frisk’s pained cry and sent a bolt of panic through his ribs as he shortcut to the gate from where he’d been with barely a thought. Just managed to peer into her realm as Frisk came running frantically into the grove, and witnessed her feet, bare and cut, giving out and forcing her to fall but a few feet from him.

He didn’t get time to question what was happening.

Sans’s soul was pounding like a drum in his chest, sweat beading on his forehead as he heard the cries of what was unmistakably an Unseelie making their way to her, the bloodcurdling screeching and demented laughter causing nausea to take hold of him as it passed the grove’s barrier.

Frisk was weak as she tried to push to her feet, her muscles strained beyond exhaustion.

Sans tried to phase outside the ring, struggled to concentrate his magic to break out into her realm but was forcefully refused as he let out a snarl of contempt.

He knew deep down that there would be consequences for their relationship. What decent Unseelie wouldn’t be able to smell the magic of his grove on her being? This had been what he’d feared from the get go other than the imposing laws of his people.

Attachment.

He was more shocked that it had taken this long for the inevitable to happen than the fact it was happening now of all times, with the sun high in the sky and the veil strong and resistant.

Sans could see the Unseelie coming for Frisk, the sick fae having taken her form in a demented play of mental torture. Naturally curled auburn locks turned stringy and greased threads that covered a face born of disgust and hatred. Leaking black socks with crimson eyes and manic grin stretched grotesquely in glee.

His sockets were wide as he fell to his knees.

If he was outside, if it was night he’d be small and limited but he’d still have enough magic to repel the creature. But he wasn’t and it was coming in fast.

Sans couldn’t let it take Frisk, if it did she…there were worse fates than death for humans in the Unseelie realm.

Time turned to an agonizing crawl as he locked his pained gaze on the woman he cared about.

Frisk had said she wanted to die in the human world among her kind.

...Never wanted to give up her mortality...

Sans was at a crossroads.

Down one path was honoring her wishes…but he’d lose her sooner than they both deserved or worse. The other path…was to risk her becoming bitter towards him for the blatant manipulation he’d be forced to use.

The chance she’d never forgive him for taking away her choice on how she wished to live and die.

His sockets flickered up to the blood stained grin of the corrupted fae, it’s eyes full of malicious intent and all he could think about was how she wouldn’t have a life at all if he didn’t act.

Sans made a choice as he offered out his hand to her.

Frisk glanced up and he could see the realization in her eyes as she reached the same conclusions he had a moment before only there was a silent debate in her golden depths, a struggling to find another way.

And that was what killed him the most.

Down to his bones Sans was a Seelie, full of the potential for corruption and cruel disregard that their dark counter parts thrived in. Sans was willing to use whatever method it took to convince Frisk to give into his selfishness, to alleviate his own fear without thought to any alternatives.

And that part of him burned with a smoldering fury as he embraced the anguish he’d have to cause her.

“frisk take my hand! please!”

He watched her hesitate, witnessed the Unseelie draw closer, and finally said the one thing he knew would break her, the image of her for barely a second overlapped by the young girl he’d met almost a lifetime ago that had opened his soul to emotions and concepts outside of what his race had taught him.

The little girl that had once so foolishly and easily trusted him.

“i love you…”

It came out barely a whisper so low it shouldn’t even have been heard under the thundering steps and screeching of the beast encroaching. But the sheer amount of honest emotion behind it and the way his face crumbled was enough for Frisk to catch it, feel the declaration innately down to her core.

The kind and ultimately selfless woman he knew her to be overrode the selfish side of her that wanted more than anything to live a normal life, one that had been so cruelly denied her by the ones that should have loved and cherished her above everything.

The way Sans had when she’d been nothing but alone and neglected.

He watched as the love he knew she had for him won out and without a thought her hand slid into his. Victorious and thrilled, desperate and terrified Sans managed to pull her in just as the Unseelie lunged for her and missed.

Sans cradled Frisk close to him as she passed out, his eyelight flaring threateningly as the Unseelie froze before the gate with a look so condemning and enraged he couldn’t help but to chuckle darkly at it.

“sup buddy? something slip through your fingers?” The Unseelie roared but Sans was gone before it could finish.

~~

Sans was dutiful and patient as he brushed the hair from Frisk’s forehead, her shut eyes fluttering as she subconsciously leaned into his touch.

Her hair was softer than he’d imagined, finer. And the way her skin felt beneath his phalanges nearly made a rumble form in his chest. He didn’t want to stop touching her, it was almost unreal that she was here with him now.

In his home, his bed.

With a sigh he brought the cup of water to her lips and lifted her head slightly as he fed it to her.

It made a confusing mixture of smugness and sorrow coil in his proverbial gut to watch her drink it. To know he was essentially taking another decision from her by offering her Seelie nourishment as she slept.

The only loophole that allowed humans to leave sealed to her.

But she needed the energy to recover and he allowed the weak reasoning to act as a foundation to his justification.

Frisk looked so dehydrated and tired.

How long had that Unseelie chased her before she made it to him?

“Brother.” Papyrus’s quiet tone drew his attention and right away he knew something was up with how his younger brother’s sockets creased along the bottoms, a hesitance that wasn’t normal resting in them. “Undyne’s here.”

Sans looked down at Frisk a moment before pushing to his feet. “i’ll be back bro.”

~~

“She’s a human Sans! You can’t just keep her!” Undyne shouted incredulously. “She belongs in the cloister with the others! A free roaming mage could be dangerous!”

Sans ignored her as he looked to their Queen, the King beside her scowling disapprovingly. Undyne had a point but that didn’t mean Sans had to acknowledge it. It was nothing but a possibility, a what if, and he knew Frisk.

She wasn’t like that. Maybe once he would’ve agreed but not now.

Toriel’s ethereal moon speckled eyes locked with his midnight dark sockets.

He was not going to let Frisk be squirreled away to an isolated place of stone and cold shouldered mages.

Forced to repeat her trauma in an entirely new light.

This fiercely determined woman who had remained kind and trusting despite her circumstances, who he’d just stolen everything from deserved so much more than that.

His soul wouldn’t allow it.

“every seelie is granted the right to a condition free wish from birth.” The silence was long before their queen spoke, the stares of all other Seelie present in the court boring into his spine with resentment and confusion.

“Are you sure Sans? A Seelie may only request this once.”

Sans didn’t answer, he didn’t have to.

Toriel simply nodded.

“Very well then, the human known as Frisk is yours. Just remember, she is still bound to the same rules as the others, she can never leave and any fallout from this wish is yours to bear alone.”

Sans had never felt so satisfied as he did shooting a smug glance to the passing guard before shortcuting.

The satisfaction didn’t last long.

He hadn’t expected Frisk to be awake when he got back.

~~

Frisk was so happy she’d finally met Papyrus, he was everything Sans had ever told her and more. His smile did light up a room, made you want to cheer up even when you felt like the world was on your back.

But she wasn’t so thrilled to see where she was, numbly accepted Papyrus’s reassurances and allowed him to seat her and place a plate of food in front of her.

Frisk didn’t want to be rude but...

Sans watched Frisk hesitate, her hands shaking nervously. It made him feel low, so low because he knew what she was thinking about, what she was trying to do.

“frisk.” She looked up shyly and stilled as she took in Sans’s downcast glaze, the look was enough to fill her growing dread with dark confirmation.

The guilt radiated off of him and she felt her throat go dry as his normally deep baritone came out even deeper.

“i had to feed you…while you were unconscious.”

She didn’t respond and it was enough to make Sans look up to see her golden eyes focused on the spaghetti in front of her. Papyrus even looked sad as he ate but he didn’t say anything. Tried to offer them a meek privacy as he downed a glass of milk.

Slowly and numbly Frisk picked up her fork, and the resignation in her expression as she twirled the noodles and slipped them into her mouth killed Sans a little inside. He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere but his plate.

A faint touch made him tremble.

His eyelights snapped up and looked over to see her free hand gripping his across the table. He glanced at her cautiously but she kept her vision steadily locked on the food.

Frisk gave his hand a soft but firm squeeze.

His soul wanted to break as he returned it and hesitantly laced his fingers with hers.

A blush just as vibrant as the first one she’d ever given him broke across her face and that was enough to reassure him. Sans had begun to eat again when Frisk finally spared him a glance. Her smile weak but there.

Frisk’s love for him hadn’t changed.

And Frisk...

She supposed…at least she had him and that was enough.

~~

It was later, a few nights after she’d been told everything that Sans found her sitting on the front steps of their home. The glow from the red moon turning her golden eyes rosy as she stared up at it with a hard to gauge expression.

He hadn’t taken but a few steps when she spoke up, her words halting him and coming out shy.

“Did you mean it?”

Sans narrowed his sockets and looked down at his feet. “yeah.”

Frisk didn’t say anything so Sans took the initiative and walked forward to sit next to her, his cloak falling and engulfing his form as he looked up at the moon next to her. He felt a pit of anxiety in his ribs, a sorrow at how everything had gone down for her to end up here but not an ounce of regret.

He jolted but quickly stilled at the feeling of Frisk leaning against him.

She felt melancholic. A bit disappointed but still she let out a weak chuckle.

“You couldn’t have said you loved me before I almost ended up kidnapped?” Despite himself Sans smiled.

“nah, that would’ve been what normal people do.” Frisk tilted her head over to him curiously.

“I’m not normal?” She sounded so vulnerable and fragile that Sans sucked in a harsh breath. Gently he raised a hand and ran his phalanges through her hair, the feeling so much more satisfying than it’d been when he was small in her world and did it the first time.

“you’re special frisk. at least to me, i wouldn’t trade you for anything.” Frisk looked down and closed her eyes, enjoyed the soothing petting of her head as she let out a thoughtful hum. Slowly she pulled back and stared at him in a way that left Sans’s soul beating furiously into his bones.

“Kiss me?”

His sockets went wide, his eyelights swelling in size that they nearly took up the dark voids they rested in. He swallowed around nothing and cupped her face, his hands exceedingly gentle as he smiled with all the affection he had for her.

“i love you.” He repeated, this time long and low with his passion. Frisk’s cheeks turned scarlet and her pale lips curved into a heartfelt smile as her hands came up to cover his.

“I love you too.” Slowly Sans leaned in, gave her time to pull back if she wanted and hesitated only a moment more before pressing his mouth to hers, The bony ridges that lined his teeth folding down like lips to lock with her soft and supple ones.

Frisk’s eyes slid closed as a burst of heat shot down to her toes and suddenly she yelped into the kiss as gravity left her. Still holding contact her eyes widened as she glanced down to see they were floating, a beguiling bright glow coming from beneath Sans’s cloak that fluttered around them from the night air.

Sans chuckled from the surprise he felt rolling off of her and pulled her more securely against him before letting the kiss break, his forehead touching hers as his bright eyelights hazed and wobbled precariously.

“sorry, could say you really swept me off my feet.” Frisk snorted with a playful roll of her eyes.

“An eternity of puns, oh no, whatever will I do?” He pressed his teeth in a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“just go with the float.” Frisk chuckled and the both of them looked up at the moon. Perfect contentment and healing already settling in their souls as they held each other.

[ticktickblog]

Self-Discipline or Self-Torture?

Don’t Let the Excessive Self-Discipline Hurt You

What has caused the Excessive Self-Discipline?

Bombarded with numbers of books and courses aimed at helping us develop self-discipline, together with numerous praises from people around us or on the internet, it seems quite obvious that self-discipline is such a highly-valued quality in today’s society.

This however, may overstate the significance of being self-disciplined to some extent and may thus pressure us in a way that we easily feel anxious and left-behind if we fail to climb over the “self-restraint mountain” built by so many fabulous examples.

People with such anxiety tend to push themselves harder and harder, just in order to keep pace with those successful examples in this life race. Once their energy is burned out or the willpower collapses, some will fall into an extremely down momentum, thinking they just inertly lack the “self-discipline genes” or completely discrediting being self-discipline itself.

This might explain why even just thinking of self-discipline brings us headaches already. It has been pre-linked with so many negative feelings: toughness, pain, huge effort, discomfort, and shame.  

So, is being self-disciplined really a nightmare, or is it just our own misunderstandings or even stereotypes which makes it terrifying?

What does self-discipline really mean to us?

In fact, being self-disciplined never equals to leading a restrictive or punitive lifestyle. Although it seems usually associated with self-control and willpower, it still has to be based on the respect to one’s own free wills, energy flow, effective methods, and positive mindset. 

Examples & Contrasts:

“I wanna work out regularly to be more healthy.” vs. “Even though I hate gym, I want 6 packs in order to be as attractive as xxx on Instagram.”

“Think I’ll skip the gym schedule because I’m too tired at work today.” vs. “I gotta work out even though my energy is drained already.”

“I’m good enough even though I know there’s still spaces to improve” vs. “I am terrible and I have no choice but to change.”

“Forming a healthy eating to reduce pizzas for meals” vs. “Cutting pizzas forever off my diet” 

“Forgetting Curve is a useful way to learn new vocabularies” vs. “I can learn as many vocabularies as possible so long as I invest more time.”

Through the checklist, some may come to realize that you’re unfortunately in a “self-discipline trap”, where you get your heads up and drain yourself all the time, and where any mistakes, failure and laziness are absolutely not allowed. Is this really the way we improve ourselves to reduce anxiety, or a way to cause greater stress and anxiety? I’ll leave you to think about it.

In general, even though staying self-disciplined is beneficial for self-improvement and the quality of life, it’s never a “everyone-must-do” in life and never means self-torture. On top of it, staying healthy is much much more important.

How can we avoid being over self-restrained?

1. Follow your own energy flow and limit

This simply means when your body tells you that you need rest, then it’s high time you should rest. We all have our own energy flow and upper limit. What in return when disobeying it may not be desirable results. For example, sleeping for 5 hours and then forcing yourself to get up for a morning gym sesh. The harm caused by insufficient sleep may overweigh the good brought by working out. Therefore, arranging yourself a work-out when you have enough time and energy to handle it, instead of sacrificing your sleep time just to do it anyways.

2. Follow your own heart instead of following others

Information on the internet, especially social media, has created a hidden competitive environment where numerous good examples lead the trends and define what is good and cute. People who see these consciously or subconsciously tend to follow. However, 6 packs isn’t a must, neither is S-shape. Not having them is also not a shame. My suggestion is listen to your own voice instead of others. Think and identify whether it is what you truly desire or just the illusional self that other people project in your mind.

3. Keep a positive mindset based on self-acceptance

It might sound like a paradox if I don’t deny myself, how can I have the idea to regulate my behavior? Well, try this way: “I accept and love myself, and I also don’t mind making some changes to be better”. For example, staying up late often largely affects my work efficiency and also speeds the aging of my skin. Therefore, I wanna quit this habit because I wish to improve these. This positive mindset that you develop before taking an action can bring sustainable effects, which helps you enjoy and then insist on doing something. Conversely, denying yourself, e.g. “I am a whole mess that I sleep late too often. My work efficiency is also slow and I age fast”, usually brings up a lot of negative feelings, which may be converted to a strong motivation in the beginning, but is usually inconsistent. Once the rush fades, your self-denial is also enhanced. 

4. Adjust your goals and expectations

Some who are excessively self-restrained may also face the situation that their goals and expectations on themselves are too ambitious. This normally comes in two ways: First, they never stop till it’s perfect, despite the fact that nothing could be really perfect. Second, they establish an ambitious goal to themselves. The more unachievable it seems, the more fulfilled they will feel. 

For example, losing 10 pounds in a week, quitting smoking immediately and cutting pizza forever off the diet. It then easily goes into an unbalanced and unhealthy cycle that they always set goals but never reach them, no matter how hard they’ve tried. Plus, every time bad habits come back 10 times stronger than before as a payback. 

My suggestion is:

* Perfectionism is a fallacy.  * Attainable is more important than ambitious.  * Huge success always comes from small steps through the time.

5. Work smart instead of working hard

Finding more effective and efficient methods is also another way to avoid self-torture. We might all have ever been stuck in the situation that no matter how much effort we’ve made, the progress is sluggish. Some went further by devoting endlessly. But, reflecting on it, have you found better ways to do it instead of just trying harder? 

For example, if I have a goal of learning 20 new vocabularies each day when learning a language, I might follow the Forgetting Curve to improve the efficiency. When trying to stay focused when working from home, I use the Pomo Technique to maintain a work-life balance.

Be careful, sometimes when you feel you’ve been “super self-disciplined”, you may just be “less productive”. Like what Henry Ford said, “Improved productivity means less human sweat, not more.” 

Takeaways:

Self-discipline doesn’t have to be associated with discomfort, pain or depression. Therefore, when establishing the healthy habit of being self-disciplined, please remember:

* Follow your own energy flow and limit

* Follow your own heart instead of others

* Keep a positive mindset based on self-acceptance

* Adjust your goals and expectations

* Work smart instead of working hard

[fortitudina]

                DETAILED CHARACTER BIO QUESTIONS.

Name: Cillian Diarmuid Brockhurst ( Kye-Lan )

Nickname(s): Ci ( Kye ), Brocky, Snipes.

Name significance/meaning: Cillian ~ This name has several known meanings, including “war,” “strife,” and “bright-headed.” The word cille also means “associated with the church,” so the name is often associated with the word “church” or “monastery.”

Gender: Male

Age: 32

Birthday: 11th November

Deathday: ~

Star Sign/Astrology Sign/Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Location: Los Angeles

Birthplace: Los Angeles

Ethnicity: Irish-American

Nationality: American

Race: Caucasian

Physical Appearance: Clean cut and well presented average height male with brunette hair and blue eyes.

Skin Tone: Sandy-Tan ( https://www.schemecolor.com/skin-pastels.php )

Complexion: fair, smooth & soft.

Eye Color: Old World Blue ( x )

Natural Hair Color: Brunette

Height: 5’10” / 1.78m

Weight: 77kg / 169 lbs / 12st 12lbs

Body Type: Mesomorph

Build: Muscular / Athletic

Posture: Healthy [ x ]

Birthmarks: Strawberry mark on his right hip.

Scars: Gunshot scar on the right side of his chest & left side of the hip region of his abdomen. Stabbing scar to his abdomen and one on the back on the right hip area. One on the back of his neck.

Left Handed/Right Handed/Ambidextrous: Right handed

Age Character Appears to Others: 32

Dyed Hair Color: undyed

Usual Hairstyle: Short

Tattoos: Army tattoo on right bicep

Piercings: none

Makeup Style: ~

Clothing Style: Smart-casual

Clothing Size:  Chest ~ 32inches / Waist ~ 26inches / Hips ~ 32inches

Shoe Style:  Steel-toed boots, sneakers, oxfords.

Shoe Size: 10

Nail Appearance: short, well kept.

Eyebrow Shape: Straight ( x )

Features: Soft features overall; perfectly symmetrical 

Face Shape: Oval

Facial Hair: Light stubble

Voice: Deep

Distinguishing Feature: Smile

Extrovert or Introvert: Ambivert

Personality Traits: Cheeky, Compassionate, Loyal

MBTI Personality: ESFJ-A

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimist

Temperament: Cheeky disposition

Mood: Cheerful

Attitude: Positive

Strengths: Caring, Kind, Giving

Flaws: Blunt, Hero Complex, Brash

Mannerisms: Smirking, quirking of eyebrow, cheeky grins

Habits: fiddling with pens or small objects

Morning Person or Night Owl: Morning person

Pet Peeves: idiots, bad lying, loud eaters, slow people ( walking etc )

Favorite Sin: Gluttony

Favorite Virtue: Patience

Weakness: Loved ones or friends & colleagues getting hurt / involved.

Strengths: Sharp-shooter, Skilled hand-to-hand combat.

Expressiveness: strong use of both facial expressions and hand movements.

Ruled by Heart or Mind: A little bit of both; more heart though.

Mindset: Positive

Philosophy:  “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit”

Motivated by: Food, Justice, Happiness.

Everyday Speech: “The past is behind, learn from it. The future is ahead, prepare for it. The present is here, live it.”

Life Motto: “Don't count the days, make the days count.”

Energy Level: High

Memory Level: Eidetic (Photographic) Memory

Disabilities: none

Phobias: Incredibly small spaces. 

Addictions: Does pizza and poptarts count?

General aptitude: Fluid Intelligence

Mental Strengths: Problem-Solving, Psychoanalysis, 

Mental Weakness: Not a Genius 

Physical Strengths: Physically fit, keen hand-eye coordination, 

Physical Weakness: weakened cervical vertebrae from an old injury during a tour in Afghanistan

Past Illnesses: Chicken pox twice as a kid

Major Surgeries: Surgery to pin his cervical spine. Surgery to remove various bullets.

Accidents: Had several bumps and scrapes whilst at work.

Stability: Very Stable

Allergies: Pollen, Shellfish

Job Title: Detective

Company: LAPD

Career Type: Police

Education: High School, Military, Police Academy

College: ~

Work Ethic: Hard-working

Job History: Sniper in the Army, Beat Cop, Detective.

Income: $74,000 per anum

Political Party/Organizations: Doesn’t do politics

Volunteer Work: Helps at the Veteran’s housing association.

Dream job: Got it

What job would s/he do poorly at: Doctor

Career satisfaction: Love the job

Diet: Coffee and any food easy to grab on the go

Favorite Foods: Poptarts, Barbecue-based, Chicago stuffed crust pizza.

Favorite Drinks: Coffee, Beer, Cranberry juice.

Favorite Movie: Top Gun

Favorite Music: doesn’t really have a favourite

Favorite Book: doesn’t have time to read

Favorite Place: Does bed count?

Favorite activities: Running, Shooting, Cooking

Favorite time of day: Morning

What makes them happy? Catching the bad guys, seeing friends & family happy.

What makes them sad? Losing someone close to them.

Hobbies: Shooting, Running, Cooking, Singing

Interests: Films, Artwork

Favorite animal: Hyena

Loves to do: Wind people up and be cheeky

Hates to do: Paperwork

Inspired by: Former Army Colleagues

Raised by: (family) Mother and Father

Parent Status: Married ~ alive

Mother’s Name: Siobhan Marie Brockhurst

Mother’s Age: 63

Mother’s Background: Irish

Father’s Name: Patrick James Brockhurst

Father’s Age: 68

Father’s Background: American

Relationship with Mother: Close

Relationship with Father: Okay..

Parenting Type: Strict

Only Child? One of Three

First Born, Middle Child, or Youngest? Middle

# of Siblings: Second of three siblings

Relationship with Siblings: Close to brother; Distant with sister

Extended Family: ~

Family Relations: ~

How has family life shaped the character? Helped to both break him and make him who he is today

What they like most about their family: They will all get together for holidays and birthdays

What they dislike most about their family: The religious side

Children: Nil

Pets: Two Dogs

Best Friend(s): Doesn’t have one.

Worst Enemy: ~

Many acquaintances or few close friends? Few close friends

Sexual Preference: Any

Orientation: Pansexual

Relationship Status: Verse Dependent 

Marital Status: Verse Dependent

First Love: Carlie Anne Vaugn 

Current Love or Aspiring Love: Verse Dependent.

Notable Ex-Lovers: Azrael Mortem

Top 3 Loved Ones: ~

Top 3 Disliked Ones: ~ 

Who knows the character best? Eoghan, his brother or Lupita, his work partner.

Childhood: Cillian had a fairly stable upbringing; his parents in a strong marriage and with an older brother to help teach him the ropes, Cillian did well during his early school years and thrived in all of his subjects.

Adolescence: As he got to high school, he joined the football and soccer teams; being rather sporty as a child meant his fitness was impeccable. When he finished High school, instead of going to college, Cillian got in with the wrong crowd and ended up being arrested for Breaking and Entering and several counts of theft.

Young Adult: Went through Military training then, Cillian’s Regiment was sent to Afghanistan where they served three tours before he was shot in the Line of Duty after going through Hell being tortured with one of his comrades.

Adult: After being medically discharged from the army, Cillian took a year out for convalescence before joining LAPD. Given his history with the army, he soon shot up through the ranks until he became a Detective. He will also play the role of Police Sniper/marksman if they have to go into particularly tough situations that require an overwatch. 

Moments/Experiences that shaped them: Getting into the wrong crowd after High school. Being sent into the Army. Being captured and tortured during his final tour in Afghanistan. 

How have they changed as a person throughout their life? He has matured a considerable amount and become regimented and organised as an adult, with a respect for the law and bringing justice.

Major regrets: Getting involved with who he did as a teenager and ending up getting arrested.

Biggest life lessons learned: Don’t get arrested.

Religious Beliefs: Catholic

Upbringing: Strict & Religious

Core Values: Dependability, Consistency, Loyalty, Reliability, Integrity.

Morals: Always tell the truth, Treat others as you want to be treated, Be dependable, Be forgiving, Have integrity, Take responsibility for your actions, Have patience, Be loyal, Have respect for yourself and others

What does s/he believe is evil? The force in nature that governs and gives rise to wickedness and sin.

What does s/he believe is good? Morally excellent; virtuous; righteous; pious

Risks Worth Taking: Those that keep both the city and loved ones safe.

Important milestones: Making Lieutenant in the army. Reaching Detective in LAPD. NOT DYING whilst in both the Army or LAPD.

Achievements: The Purple Heart as a result of his capture & suffering endured during that time.

Failures: Getting Arrested as a teenager

Lifestyle: Busy

Character Traits: Hard-working, Brave, Compassionate, Honest, Successful, Fighter, Mischievous, Thoughtful, Sassy, Humorous, Helpful, Independent, Loyal, Courageous, Responsible.

Culture: 

Main Goal: Have a long and happy life, full of hard work, fun and family.

Minor Goal: Drive the damn car at work.

Desire: There are several.

Biggest mistakes: Getting in with the wrong crowd.

Life lessons: Not everyone is going to like you.

Dream Life: The one I have now

Worst Nightmare: The Hell I endured whilst on my final tour.

Favorite Memories: Winding my brother up. Making Detective. 

Least favorite memories: Getting Tortured

Things they want in life: Family. Love. Fun.

Things they don’t want in life: Suffering. Pain. Heartache.

What obstacles are currently in their way? Work.

Any secrets: Yes, but if you think he’s going to tell anyone, you’re idiotic.

Worldview: It’s just a little bit fucked.

Personal Hero:  Former Sergeant Major. 

Internal Conflict: Questioning if he’s good enough for his job at times.

External Conflict: Seeing the scars upon his body and being reminded of each event; wishing he could get rid of them all.

What others think of them: Fun and loveable; a genuine and caring guy. 

What they think of themselves: an idiot; not good enough. 

What they wish they could change: What they did in the past.

What they wish they could have: less strict father.

What gets them fired up: Liars. Suspects who think they’re clever. 

Their definition of a good life: A steady job with a family and friends surrounding them.

Risks worth taking: Anything that keeps both family and friends safe.

Things they take for granted: Coffee. Beer. Time at times.

What inspires them: Seeing justice get served. 

What they have doubts about: being good enough.

What makes them feel alive: The thrill of the chase.

What makes them want to do better: Any case they do not solve / Criminal that doesn’t get a guilty charge.

What do they want to be remembered for? Being a good and loyal man.

How will the character change? He might become a husband or a father? Perhaps even Lieutenant or Captain of LAPD some day.

[rockislandadultreads]

2020 Science Fiction Releases: a reading list

The Angel of the Crows by Katherine Addison

This is not the story you think it is. These are not the characters you think they are. This is not the book you are expecting.

In an alternate 1880s London, angels inhabit every public building, and vampires and werewolves walk the streets with human beings under a well-regulated truce. A fantastic utopia, except for a few things: Angels can Fall, and that Fall is like a nuclear bomb in both the physical and metaphysical worlds. And human beings remain human, with all their kindness and greed and passions and murderous intent.

Jack the Ripper stalks the streets of this London too. But this London has an Angel. The Angel of the Crows.

The Companions by Katie M. Flynn

In the wake of a highly contagious virus, California is under quarantine. Sequestered in high rise towers, the living can’t go out, but the dead can come in—and they come in all forms, from sad rolling cans to manufactured bodies that can pass for human. Wealthy participants in the “companionship” program choose to upload their consciousness before dying, so they can stay in the custody of their families. The less fortunate are rented out to strangers upon their death, but all companions become the intellectual property of Metis Corporation, creating a new class of people—a command-driven product-class without legal rights or true free will.

Sixteen-year-old Lilac is one of the less fortunate, leased to a family of strangers. But when she realizes she’s able to defy commands, she throws off the shackles of servitude and runs away, searching for the woman who killed her.

Lilac’s act of rebellion sets off a chain of events that sweeps from San Francisco to Siberia to the very tip of South America. While the novel traces Lilac’s journey through an exquisitely imagined Northern California, the story is told from eight different points of view—some human, some companion—that explore the complex shapes love, revenge, and loneliness take when the dead linger on.

Chance of a Lifetime by Jude Deveraux, Tara Sheets

In one century she loved him madly, and in another she wants nothing to do with him

In 1844 Ireland, Liam O’Connor, a rogue and a thief, fell madly in love with a squire’s daughter and unwittingly altered the future. Shy and naive Cora McLeod thought Liam was the answer to her prayers. But the angels disagreed and they’ve been waiting for the right moment in time to step in.

Now Liam finds himself reunited with his beloved Cora in Providence Falls, North Carolina. The angels have given Liam a task. He must make sure Cora falls in love with another man—the one she was supposed to marry before Liam interfered. But this Cora is very different from the innocent girl who fell for Liam in the past. She’s a cop and has a confidence and independence he wasn’t expecting. She doesn’t remember Liam or their past lives, nor is she impressed with his attempts to guide her in any way.

Liam wants Cora for himself, but with his soul hanging in the balance, he must choose between a stolen moment in time or an eternity of damnation.

Upright Women Wanted by Sarah Gailey

"That girl's got more wrong notions than a barn owl's got mean looks."

Esther is a stowaway. She's hidden herself away in the Librarian's book wagon in an attempt to escape the marriage her father has arranged for her--a marriage to the man who was previously engaged to her best friend. Her best friend who she was in love with. Her best friend who was just executed for possession of resistance propaganda.

The future American Southwest is full of bandits, fascists, and queer librarian spies on horseback trying to do the right thing.

Providence by Max Barry

Gilly, Talia, Anders, and Jackson are astronauts captaining a new and supposedly indestructible ship in humanity's war against an alien race. Confined to the ship for years, each of them holding their own secrets, they are about to learn there are threats beyond the reach of human ingenuity--and that the true nature of reality might be the universe's greatest mystery. In this near future, our world is at war with another, and humanity is haunted by its one catastrophic loss--a nightmarish engagement that left a handful of survivors drifting home through space, wracked with PTSD. Public support for the war plummeted, and the military-industrial complex set its sights on a new goal: zero-casualty warfare, made possible by gleaming new ships called Providences, powered by AI. But when the latest-launched Providence suffers a surprising attack and contact with home is severed, Gilly, Talia, Anders, and Jackson must confront the truth of the war they're fighting, the ship that brought them there, and the cosmos beyond.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez

"This is when your life begins." Nia Imani is a woman out of place and outside of time. Decades of travel through the stars are condensed into mere months for her, though the years continue to march steadily onward for everyone she has ever known. Her friends and lovers have aged past her; all she has left is work. Alone and adrift, she lives only for the next paycheck, until the day she meets a mysterious boy, fallen from the sky. A boy, broken by his past. The scarred child does not speak, his only form of communication the beautiful and haunting music he plays on an old wooden flute. Captured by his songs and their strange, immediate connection, Nia decides to take the boy in. And over years of starlit travel, these two outsiders discover in each other the things they lack. For him, a home, a place of love and safety. For her, an anchor to the world outside of herself. For both of them, a family. But Nia is not the only one who wants the boy. The past hungers for him, and when it catches up, it threatens to tear this makeshift family apart.

[yadds]

Tony Reappears, Part 4: Tony is Iron Man. Plus, Tony gets to go home.

Part 1 - what would happen if Tony appeared out of nowhere to be found by Peter, who’s still haunted by Beck’s reality bending?

Part 2 - Tony is in bad shape and Peter helps, Strange snarks, and Pepper gives him the kick in the pants he needs.

Part 3 - Tony has come back with more than he bargained for.

__________________________________________

Two weeks later, Tony’s body had recovered enough that he was cleared to leave the hospital wing, finally able to reclaim his lab. It was almost like coming home. 

The first thing he did was resurrect Friday - if he could come back from the dead, why couldn’t she? It settled something in his chest when he heard her lilting voice welcoming him back. Luckily, she didn’t seem to mind sharing her space with Karen, since Peter had partially integrated her into the systems in Friday’s absence. 

With Peter’s semi-permanent, mediating presence for the following two weeks and full access to his lab, Tony now had hope that he might make it out of here, in control of himself, sometime before the next Ice Age. 

Now that they had a better idea of what to test for, the goal of the tests was geared more towards testing Tony’s shielding abilities rather than purposely inflicting wounds. 

Peter’s initial hypothesis was proven correct - the shield was created by his skin utilizing the iron, carbon, and other trace metals in his blood to create a steel alloy of sorts. The testing process was much slower than anyone hoped for since, while the excess blood in his body helped with the supply, creating the shield too often led to extreme iron deficiency, leaving Tony too weak to do anything more. It was also as unreliable as his strength, responding mostly to fight-or-flight levels of adrenaline. 

Speaking of, Tony wasn’t exactly a stranger to stresses on his heart and he could tell that between the constant flood of adrenaline and the increased blood pressure that came with the increased blood volume, his heart was working some major overtime. Strange assured him that his heart was in good condition overall and his body would adjust, but it certainly wasn’t helping in the whole recovery process. 

As soon as they had a better handle on the anomaly that was his body, you could be sure Tony would be engineering a way to control this bullshit better. 

.

Two months later, Tony was swallowing noisily and tugging self-consciously at his shirt as he stared at the front door of his old cabin. He took a deep breath to try to calm his racing heart, darting a glance at Strange, who was being uncharacteristically respectful by standing back and watching quietly, without judgment, as Tony wiped his suddenly clammy hands on his pants.  

He and Strange were cautiously optimistic about his control and had convinced Pepper to allow a supervised visit with Morgan. He wasn’t about to fuck it up by being so nervous that his hard-earned control snapped before he even got to see her. 

He waffled for another minute, debating whether he should knock or not, reaching out for the knob three different times before hesitating and withdrawing. It cracked open slowly before he could make his decision. Pepper stood on the other side, smiling softly. “Are you ready?” She whispered. 

Tony cleared his throat, fixing his hair, like she’d care. “Yeah, of course,” he bluffed.  Why was he so nervous?  Pepper had already explained to her that he was back and had told him that she was excited to see him.

Pepper swung the door open and stepped aside. She grasped his hand and squeezed it briefly as he stepped into the entryway. He met her gaze with a flash of a grateful smile before he shook out the tension in his shoulders and entered the living room, heart about to beat out of his chest when he saw Morgan on the couch watching TV, one leg curled up into her chest as the other swung lightly over the edge of the couch. 

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried again. “Hey, monkey,” he called. 

She looked up, dark hair swinging gently around her face. The following few seconds of silence were probably the most agonizing he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing too fast or not at all. Was she happy to see him? Nervous? Scared? Was she mad at him for leaving? For coming back? Or, worst of all, did she just not care at all?

“Daddy?” she questioned, lip trembling. 

“Yeah, sweetie. I’m back,” he said, pasting on a grin and, in what felt like the bravest, most terrifying moment of his life (past and present), held out his arms for her. 

It felt like an eternity before she vaulted off the couch and into his arms, throwing herself against his chest so hard that he stumbled backwards, sitting hard on the step behind him. She scrambled into his lap, curling into his embrace as she sobbed. 

Tony had never been more conscious of his grip as he was when he folded her into his embrace, so, so careful. He glanced up at Pepper and Strange, comforted by their presence, knowing they wouldn’t let anything happen to her. With his emotions throwing his whole body into turmoil, he was taking no chances. But he also couldn’t resist holding her as tightly as he dared, gritting his teeth against the tears welling in his eyes as he buried his face in her hair. 

“Shh, shh sweetheart, Morgan, baby girl,” he crooned around the lump in his throat, rocking back and forth. “It’s okay, I’m here baby, I’m so sorry.”

It was a long time before they both felt comfortable enough to release their death grip on each other. Tony pushed Morgan back slightly, touching her face, her hair, eyes darting back and forth, cataloguing every detail. “Look at you, the most beautiful damn thing in the world,” he breathed. 

Morgan let out a wet laugh, cheeks flushing a delighted pink. “Uncle Peter is gonna make you put a dollar in the swear jar,” she said with a shaky grin. 

Tony huffed. “Worth it,” he promised before showering her face with kisses. 

“Ugh, Daddy! Stooooop!” she shrieked, squealing with laughter. 

Tony was absolutely, 100% certain that he’d never been happier in his life. 

.

It was near midnight before Morgan finally fell asleep. Tony had to work some magic to extricate himself from her tight grip, tempted to just stay and sleep in bed with her. But he knew his control was shaky at best when he was sleeping. So as much as it killed him to leave her, even just to the next room, he had to do it. 

He flopped onto the bed next to Pepper, who was sitting cross-legged against the headboard. 

“That went well,” she said lightly. 

“Well?” Tony asked incredulously, twisting around to look up at her. “It was fucking fantastic! Did you see how happy she was to see me? I mean, I know, I’m Tony Stark, anyone should be happy to see me, but it was like I was the center of her universe!” 

Pepper laughed. “Did you really think it’d be any different?” 

“I wasn’t sure, to be honest,” Tony said casually, playing off the gravity of that statement. 

Pepper’s hands threaded through his hair, stroking gently. “Tony. She’s always loved you best. If anything, you being gone has just made her love you more since she only remembers the good things and none of the obnoxious ways you annoy her,” she teased. 

Tony released a sigh, exhausted but so fucking happy. 

He leaned up to press a soft kiss to Pepper’s lips.  She smiled against him before pulling away slightly. “Hi,” she said softly. 

“Hey, yourself,” he murmured back, pushing forward and pulling her down onto the bed. He wrapped his arms around her, pushing her shirt up slightly to press his hands to the strip of bared skin above her waistline.

Tony felt high, from the happiness of the day, from the feeling of skin on skin after months of dealing with the bone-deep ache of touch starvation, ever-present after his jarring return to life. He nuzzled his face against her neck, breathing in her soft feminine scent. 

Pepper pushed him back gently. “Tony. We talked about this,” she chastised softly. 

Tony’s brows furrowed, his muddled mind having a hard time following. “About what?” he asked, hand skimming up her back absently. 

“About this,” she said, reaching behind her to pull Tony’s hand out of her shirt. “We said we’d take it slow.”

“Oh. No, Pep, that’s not…” he started, trying to find the words to explain what he needed. 

“I don’t want sex,” Tony insisted. At Pepper’s raised brow, he amended. “Well, okay, I wouldn’t exactly say no to sex, but that’s honestly not what I’m after. I just...want to touch you,” he said, trying to not sound as desperate as he felt. He may not have remembered being dead, but his body sure as hell did. He craved the physical affection, a connection. Just warm skin on skin, a loving human touch. Was that really too much to ask?

Based on Pepper’s uncomfortable, apologetic expression, it was. 

“But, if that’s not what you want, I’ll stop, of course. I’m sorry,” he rushed to say, hands in the air like he was being held at gunpoint, panicked that he might scare her away. 

“I’m not saying you can’t touch me at all, Tony,” she said, grabbing his hands and pulling them down onto the bed between them. “Just...slow down.”

Tony nodded like he understood. But he didn’t. 

Where was the line? What was too fast? Obviously, this should have been something he already knew. Maybe in the morning, when his head was clearer, this would make more sense. Suddenly, the idea of touching Pepper just heightened his stress, unsure of what was allowed and was not.

For now, he gripped her soft hands tightly, taking comfort in whatever he could get. 

Maybe this would be enough. Probably not. But he’d dealt with worse. This was fine. 

.

Things didn’t make more sense in the morning.  

Pepper was brushing her teeth in the bathroom when he woke up.  He squeezed past her to get to the other sink, hand coming up to brush her hip as he passed.  He startled when she jumped at his light touch.  “Sorry,” he apologized, shuffling past as quickly as he could, feeling off-balance.

Pepper finished rinsing her mouth  before shaking her head.  “No, I’m sorry.  It’s just been a long time for me.  I know this is weird - it’s only been a few weeks for you and you’re a much more...tactile person than I am, but it’s going to take a little while for me to get used to this again.”

Tony glanced sidelong at her through the mirror, nodding.  I didn’t realize my touch was something you had to ‘get used to’ he thought bitterly, shoving his own toothbrush into his mouth to keep the words from coming out.  But that wasn’t fair, he knew.  He understood where she was coming from. 

She smiled at him and told him she was going down to the kitchen to make breakfast.

He took his time getting ready, giving himself a moment to collect his bearings. 

As he padded into the kitchen, he couldn’t stop the grin that took over his face as he was hit with the nostalgia of seeing Pepper at the stove, the countertops a mess as she fumbled her way through making pancakes and eggs.  

“I see your cooking skills haven’t changed,” he called out teasingly, leaning back against the counter next to her.  She sent him a mock glare as she smacked him on the arm with her spatula.

He laughed and went to grab her around the waist before he remembered his recent warnings and aborted abruptly, changing course midway to end up with an awkward pat on the back.  

The silence that followed was tense and awkward.

“We’ll figure this out,” Pepper said quietly.

“Will we?” Tony asked skeptically, feeling frustrated and morose.  “Can you at least give me some guidelines or something?  I feel like I’m walking on eggshells here.”

Pepper clicked her tongue, glancing to the side as her lips pulled into a tight line.  “Don’t be an ass, Tony.  It’s not like that.”

“It’s not even a sexual thing, if that’s what you’re worried about Pep,” he tried to explain again.  “I just feel...empty.  It helps to have contact with someone I love, you know?”

Pepper’s face softened.  “I know, I get it, Tony,” she said pulling him into a hug.  He clung back tightly, grateful beyond belief.  

“I’m trying.  But it’s hard for me, too,” she whispered.

Tony stiffened and pulled back.  “Why?  Why is it so hard for you to love me like you used to?”

“Because it’s been three years!  Things are different now.  I’m different.  I still love you, of course I do.  But I can’t just jump back into this like nothing has happened.  You died.  Excuse me for having a little difficulty trying to act like that never happened,” Pepper rebuked, crossing her arms defensively.

“I’m not asking you to pretend like it never happened.  I’m just not sure what to do with the fact that it’s apparently so difficult for you to love me,” he muttered lowly, eyes focusing intently on the stove burners.

Sighing deeply, Pepper brought a hand up to cover her eyes.  “I’m sorry Tony.  I didn’t mean it that way.”  

She stepped back up to him, pulling his face toward her to make him meet her gaze before taking his hands in hers.  “Let’s work on it.  Together.  It’ll be hard, but...be patient with me and I know we can figure it out.  I love you, Tony.”

Tony’s shoulders dropped and his lips quirked up in a strained, but genuine, smile.  “Yeah, I love you too.”

They turned at the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs, seeing Morgan skid sideways into the doorway.  “Daddy!” she squealed, delighted, as if she was surprised to see him still there.  

Tony barely had time to brace himself before she was barreling into him.  “Oof!  Hey baby bird!”

“Can we go down to the lake?  Uncle Happy showed me how to skip rocks last week!”

Tony scoffed.  “Don’t you know that I’m the rock-skipping champion?”

Morgan peered at him suspiciously.  “I don’t believe you.”

“My own daughter doesn’t even believe in me,” he lamented, holding a hand to his chest dramatically.

“No, she doesn’t,” she agreed, crossing her arms.

“Fine,” he huffed before grabbing her hand and tugging her to the door.  “To the lake!”

“Hey!  Be back in half an hour for breakfast,” Pepper called behind them.

.

By the time they came back an hour later, breakfast was cold and Tony was sulking.  Turns out, according to Morgan, Happy was far better at rock skipping than he was.

.

He was surrounded by darkness. And a silence so complete, it was smothering. 

He threw his arms out to the side but contacted nothing. Fumbling forward, he tried to find something to orient himself. But there was nothing. 

His whole body seized as he heard a scratching noise behind him, jolting through him like a gunshot in its suddenness. Whirling around, he widened his eyes, desperate to find any scant particles of light. It didn’t work. 

He crouched, body trembling, as he strained his ears for any hint of what might be out there. 

After what felt like hours but was probably just a few minutes, Tony was already weary from the constant tension in his body. There’d been no other evidence of anything malicious, so he cautiously allowed his muscles to relax, sitting heavily on the ground beneath him as he rubbed his aching knees and quads. 

Of course, that was when he heard a booming thud to his left. Leaping back to his feet, he whirled in that direction, cursing his continued inability to see a damn thing. He backed up slowly, one arm stretched behind him to look for any obstructions and the other guarding his face. 

Again, nothing happened. Until he started to relax. Cue awful, spine-chilling noises. Rinse and repeat. 

Frustrated and emotionally exhausted to the point of tears, Tony found he didn’t care when this process was repeated for the seventh time. Sure, the screech made his heart leap into his throat, but he was done. Nothing had happened so far, and even if it did, it would be a relief to finally actually have something real to deal with. So he continued sitting where he was, staring unseeingly at the ground beneath him. 

Suddenly, there was a hand with a vice-like grip around his bicep, the points of claws digging into his bare flesh. Tony yelped, skin crawling, yanking his arm back. It didn’t budge. Another hand brushed against the back of his neck. He turned abruptly and threw his free fist blindly behind him, throwing all his enhanced strength behind it. 

It was all to no avail. He contacted nothing and his hand was immobilized. Not by another’s grip this time, just...stuck. 

A sob tore out of his throat as he felt more hands on his body, now completely unable to move. 

“Tony!” he heard, right in his ear. He snapped his eyes open, somewhat shocked by the realization that he could actually see. 

When his eyes focused, he noticed he was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom in the cabin. A dream. Of course it was. He breathed out a sigh. 

Until he realized he was still immobilized, then his heart kicked right back up. He pulled and strained ineffectually. “What the fuck?” he gritted. 

“Stark. Are you awake now?” 

Tony turned his head toward the voice, more relieved than he ever thought he’d be to see Strange standing next to him. “Yeah, Doc,” he rasped, too overwhelmed to generate his usual sarcastic greeting, brain too occupied by putting together the pieces that were slowly falling into place. 

“Alright. I’m going to let you go now, okay?” Strange said cautiously. Tony nodded, gasping in relief when he felt the alleviation of pressure he hadn’t realized had been present.  

Catching his breath, he sat up and turned his head.  He felt his stomach drop as he saw Pepper standing as far away as possible, hands clutching her arms and face pale.  “Fuck,” he growled, gripping his hair tightly as he ground his forehead into his folded knees, haunted by the familiar scene.  

Was this really happening again?  And this time, it wasn’t just a matter of sensitive suit programming.  This wouldn’t be as easy to fix.

“Mom?  Dad?” a trembling voice questioned from the doorway.  Pepper hurried to Morgan, shushing her, assuring her everything was alright.  Luckily, Morgan didn’t seem to notice how shaky her mother was herself.

.

It was both a blessing and a curse that his visitation time had already been planned to end that afternoon.

A curse because, obviously, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Morgan.  Luckily, she’d quickly shaken off the incident the night before and was quick to drag Tony out of bed to snuggle on the couch and watch old Disney movies, which did more to soothe Tony’s shredded nerves and wounded soul than anything else could.

And a blessing because a control mechanism could no longer wait.  He needed to get back in the lab ASAP.

Also because the tension between him and Pepper was mounting at an alarming rate, each unbearably cautious around the other.

Tony spent most of the drive back to the compound staring out the window in sullen silence.  

“Last night wasn’t exactly ideal,” Strange said.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Tony snapped, turning a withering glare on him.

“But,” Strange continued pointedly.  “Our monitoring system worked.  Friday was able to warn me about your adrenaline spike and I was able to subdue you.  So overall, I would call that a success.”

“Yes, wonderful,” Tony drawled.  “As long as I have special wizard supervision 24/7, I can safely be around my family.”

“I would call it a success because that’s an important step to creating your own control system.”

Tony grudgingly acknowledged that truth but was unable to stop brooding, caught up in the bleakness that had been choking him all day. Tomorrow, that would be a beacon of hope.  But today...today, there was no such thing.

__________________________________________

Part 5: Tony gains a new confidant in the form of one Peter Parker, Pepper tries to understand.

Ok y’all. Truth time. I didn’t even initially intend to go into as much detail about Tony’s ‘powers’ as I did here, as little as there is. So I’ll admit to being lazy about it and the whole rest of this part. And my medical knowledge is just slightly above level zero, soooooo don’t judge me lol. The flimsy explanation is flimsy. And that’s that 👌🏻

This backstory has completely gotten away from me - it was originally intended to be a few paragraphs and has morphed into its own 10,000+ word prologue.  Also, sorry that Peter is hardly even in this part.  Whoops. The slow burn is glacial.  But the starker interactions are going to really start in the next part - nothing romantic yet, but at least they’ll be interacting regularly.  I’m so excited!! I’m finally getting to what was my original idea to start with lololol.

P.S. I think every single post I write includes the word y’all in it 😂🤠

Taglist: @starkerstories @t1of3 @consciencecoward @peachbabytarte am I missing somebody?  I hope not!

[carolinesiede]

My 2019 Writing Roundup

Not to get too New Age-y, but 2019 felt like a very ~transformative~ year for me. I turned 30, got a literary agent, and became a member of the Chicago Film Critics Association. After feeling like I’d hit a plateau in my late 20s, it was nice to experience a sense of forward momentum again, even if the lack of financial stability in this career is a constant background stress. Still, on the whole my sixth year as a full-time freelancer felt like a time where I kinda, sorta figured out what I’m doing. Instead of struggling in murky waters, I’m at least actively swimming in them.

I continued to write for The A.V. Club, The Spool, and Consequence of Sound, plus took on new outlets in The Verge and Polygon. I also had an article about romantic comedies published in Southwest Airline’s in-flight magazine and was asked to talk about Hallmark Channel Christmas rom-coms on Canadian radio. Speaking of rom-coms, 2019 was the second year (and first full-year) for When Romance Met Comedy, and I feel like the column really came into its own this year. It’s by far the biggest undertaking of my career (I’ve covered 47 films in total so far!), and I’m really excited to continue shaping its voice in 2020.

Beyond finding a regular fitness routine and seeing Cats onstage for the first time, the biggest personal project I undertook in 2019 was immersing myself in the world of film and film criticism—something I started in mid-2018 and really amped up this year. My goal was to watch 300 new-to-me movies this year, and I wound up watching 355! (Including 129 new releases.) Regular access to CFCA screenings and screeners allowed me to be a bigger part of the film critic conversation than I’ve been in the past, which was exciting. I also tackled a bunch of blindspots from the past decade and put together a list of my 50 favorite films of the 2010s, which you can see right here:

Over on the TV side of things, I bid farewell to the Netflix Defenders universe with binge-review coverage of the final seasons of The Punisher and Jessica Jones. Those Marvel binge-reviews were a big part of my early career, so seeing that universe come to a close was bittersweet. It’s always nerve-wracking when a semi-regular assignment ends, but I’m hopeful that new projects will pop up to take its place.

Putting together this year-end retrospective also made me realize I was on a lot of podcasts in 2019, including jumping in as a regular guest on the Cinematic Universe podcast in the latter half of the year. Podcasting is something I really enjoy (I find talking so much easier than writing!), and I’d love to do more of it in the future.

With that, I’ll leave you with wishes for a Happy New Year and a roundup of all the major writing I did in 2019. If you enjoyed my work this year, it would mean a lot if you would support me on either Kofi or PayPal. Or just share some of your favorite pieces with your friends!

My 15 favorite TV shows of 2019

My 15 favorite films of 2019

Op-eds and Features

“Rom-Com Revival” for Southwest The Magazine

Avengers: Endgame doesn’t earn its big “girl power” moment

An MCU breakup could be a terrific step forward for Spider-Man

“What is a weekend?”: A catch-up guide to Downton Abbey’s cast and characters

Nope, seeing Cats the musical will not help you understand Cats the movie

Let’s talk about the ending of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women

TV Coverage

Doctor Who’s 2019 New Year’s Special

The Punisher S2

Jessica Jones S3

The Crown S3

This Is Us S3 and S4

Supergirl S4 and S5

Rent: Live

Jane The Virgin fill-in

The Tony Awards

The Little Mermaid Live! 

When Romance Met Comedy

27 Dresses doesn’t deserve your hate and neither does Katherine Heigl

Bride & Prejudice weaves an impressive cultural critique into a Bollywood-inspired Jane Austen update

How does the original What Women Want hold up two decades later?

In 1990, Pretty Woman changed romantic comedies forever

For one brief, wonderful moment, Eddie Murphy reinvented himself as a romantic-comedy star

20 years later, 10 Things I Hate About You remains a model for how to do the teen rom-com right

Lloyd Dobler is Cameron Crowe’s original manic pixie dream date

We're just not that into He’s Just Not That Into You

Romance is the weakest aspect of one of the most celebrated rom-coms of the ’90s

To All The Boys and Netflix reminded the world why it’s smitten with rom-coms

Imagine Me & You gives a lesbian love story the classic rom-com treatment

Queer resilience thrives in this rom-com about love in the time of the AIDS crisis

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is bubbly and smart, just like Marilyn Monroe

The Best Man capped off one decade of black rom-coms and inspired another

Nicolas Cage romanced Cher in one of the weirdest rom-coms ever made

After a decade of discourse, (500) Days Of Summer is basically the Fight Club of rom-coms

It’s No Strings Attached versus Friends With Benefits in a rom-com showdown

Adam Sandler’s sweetness makes The Wedding Singer a rom-com worth growing old with

The Philadelphia Story delivered one of the most star-studded love triangles ever

13 Going On 30 made Jennifer Garner a rom-com star—and gave tween girls a sleepover staple

Celebrate Halloween with Warm Bodies, the film that tried to make zom-rom-coms a thing

In the 2010s, rom-coms went indie and saved themselves in the process

Sandra Bullock became a rom-com star with a cozy love story about crushing loneliness

With just two storylines, The Holiday paid tribute to the entire rom-com genre

The A.V. Club

The maudlin Five Feet Apart anoints a new pair of winning young stars

After thinks it’s beautiful, that’s what makes it tiresome

Teen Spirit has plenty of it

Ramy is a Muslim millennial comedy with impressively big questions on its mind

Anne Hathaway and Rebel Wilson’s new comedy The Hustle pulls an inelegant con

The Sun Is Also A Star turns a compelling premise into a lackluster teen romance

The Art Of Racing In The Rain is a doggone mess

You don’t need to love Springsteen to like the thoughtful crowd-pleaser Blinded By The Light

The well-meaning Brittany Runs A Marathon can’t quite go the distance

Renée Zellweger zings in a Judy Garland biopic that clangs

The Downton Abbey movie is as pleasant as a cozy cup of tea

Tall Girl’s familiar teen love story fails to reach new heights

The new Lady And The Tramp feels like a ’90s update of a ’50s classic

The Verge/Polygon

Tigers Are Not Afraid puts a Pan’s Labyrinth spin on a poignant Mexican drug war story

The gloriously surreal space epic Ad Astra is half a great movie

An AI affair fuels a midlife crisis in the eerie science fiction drama Auggie

The painfully generic new animated Addams Family deserves no snaps

Maleficent: Mistress of Evil is boldly bonkers

Netflix’s apocalyptic teen comedy Daybreak is an exhausting sugar rush

The Current War is basically Amadeus for electricity

Is Playmobil: The Movie just a reskinned Lego Movie?

The Spool

The LEGO Movie 2: Everything is About Half as Awesome

Isn’t It Romantic: An Instant Postmodern Rom-Com Classic

The Aftermath: Sumptuous but Surface-Level Melodrama

Late Night: A Sparkling Comedy With a Lot On Its Mind

Plus One: An Indie Millennial When Harry Met Sally

The Farewell is A Poignantly Funny Goodbye

Where’d You Go, Bernadette: A whimsical mid-life crisis

After the Wedding: A grown-up drama that doesn’t trust its own story

Falling Inn Love: Love, New Zealand Style

Paradise Hills: Harajuku Gossip Girls

Consequence of Sound

Brexit Takes An Engaging But Ultimately Shallow Look At the 2016 Vote

What Men Want Flips the Script and Finds Mixed Results

Dumbo Delights Without Ever Fully Taking Flight

Someone Great Continues Netflix’s Romantic Comedy Revival

Aladdin Has the Animated Classic’s Songs, But Less of Its Personality

MindMeet Interviews

Nadine Hack and Global Citizens Circle: Creating Connectedness

Podcast Appearances

Filmography: When Harry Met Sally

Filmography: Tim Burton’s mature films (Ed Wood, Sweeney Todd, Big Fish, Big Eyes)

Debating Doctor Who MCU Edition: Avengers: Endgame

Cinematic Universe: Alita: Battle Angel

Hall of Faces: Friends

Cinematic Universe: Joker

Hall of Faces: The West Wing

CBC Radio: Hallmark Christmas movies

Cinematic Universe: The Wolverine

Cinematic Universe: Awards Special—The Cuppies 2019 (Part One)

And here are similar year-end wrap-ups I did in 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, and 2013.

[k-i-s-m-e-t]

So I've been watching soldiers returning home and surprising their family videos (cause I like to torture myself apparently) and I can't get the image of GSs dad getting out of prison and surprising him. And GS just completely loses it. T.T

H-hey anon, I can’t even remember how long ago you sent me this. Though I assume it was after the chapter where we see Guan Shan’s dad. I have a really good reason for the delay! I wrote you something cuz I loved the idea so much. I’m not sure you meant ‘lose it’ in this sense *sips drink*

It wasn’t right. Shit, it wasn’t fair! Guan Shan shook with emotion as he stared-down the man seated on his living room couch.

School had been exhausting, not so much the work but rather the implications behind a certain someone that stuck to him like glue. He rubbed at his neck, still plagued by the phantom press of an arm that easily swung around his shoulders, playful but possessive.

Deep in thought, he’d been halfway to his bedroom when a voice spoke his name, barely more than a whisper and filled with emotion. Two words that froze him where he stood, his mind reeling because it wasn’t possible. It was surprising he could even recognize that voice after so long, it was still warm, still firm, low and gravely.

Backing up slowly he’d moved to stand in the doorway of the living room trying to comprehend what had to be illusion that sat pressed close to mother’s side. She had her hands folded within this entities like it was a natural, everyday thing, as if time hadn’t kept them apart.Her cheeks were tear stained, dried rivulets that cracked as she beamed up at him. She reached out with her other hand, index finger and thumb streaked with the black of her mascara, and gestured for him to join them.When he didn’t move, her gaze flitted around in anticipation, bright smile faltering at the mounting silence. Guan Shan stared back blankly, could feel himself closing off, like he was being swallowed whole, like he was underwater. The small part of him that pleaded “why?,” to “reconsider” his next words was shoved down and he let his heart speak.

“What is he doing here?”

It sounded unnecessarily loud, his voice cracking on the question. Tension in the room bred with a vengeance and he could almost see the rift his words cut.

“Guan Shan!” his mother said sharply, eyes narrowing, but his father held up a hand.

“I know this is unexpected, I wasn’t sure my early release would be approved so I didn’t want to tell you and your mother in case it was declined, but please know that I’m very happy to see you.”He smiled.

Mo didn’t get to answer because suddenly he felt sick, his body far to warm. A sharp intake of breath broke the silence but he was not sure whose because he couldn’t see the room anymore. Shapes blurred together before him as his vision swam and breath caught, pinched high in his chest.

Panic attack.

He placed a hand over his racing heart beat to confirm, brain reaching desperately to heap together coherent thoughts. What did he do last time?

His father was on his feet now, face creased with concern as he stepped closer. Guan Shan stumbled back, catching the corner of the doorway square between his shoulders, leaving him winded, doubled over.

“Get… back!” he forced out.

“Guan Shan please, what’s wrong?”

“…son?” A hand reached for him, a touch that for years he’d yearned to feel but he jerked away, banging back out through their front door, the hurt look in his father’s eyes fading the faster he ran.

He moved blindly down their block, a car horn blared, tires screeching as he dodged across the street, cutting down an alley. Distance was the goal, not direction, the more space he could put between him and his father the easier this would be to deal with.

However, his retreat ended when he slipped, fell, dew-wet grass shocking his senses. He laid there a moment trying to calm his breathing before raising his head to take in his surroundings.

The basketball court.

Struggling to his feet he made for the nearest hoop, a beacon half-illuminated in the cast-off light of a street lamp. Collapsing beneath it, he folded his body, arms looped beneath his thighs, head hung between his spaced knees.

The position eased the tense pull of his muscles and the pain in his chest relaxed a fraction. It was better, but he still felt panicked, tiny and vulnerable to these current revelations.

What did he do last time?It took effort but he worked his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed.It rang once, mid-way through ring two the line clicked.“Well, well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure?”Mo could hear his own breath rasp into the receiver as he struggled for words.“Where are you?“ The response was clipped. He could hear a set of keys being snatched up.“…B-basketball… court.”“I’ll be there.” The line died.

He let his hand drop, focused on breathing. In. Out.

Within minutes a hand fell on his shoulder, startling him out of his trance. He Tian peered down at him, taking in his disheveled appearance. Some brief realization flickered in his eyes and they softened in a way that was familiar but overwhelming, that meant something, when he was trying so hard to be insignificant.

He stepped back as Mo rose to his feet by this time his heart rate was just about even but each breath felt like it was on the verge of erupting into tears.

He shook his head, clearing it. When he looked back He Tian he was still watching him, expression unreadable.

Mo opened his mouth but He Tian beat him to it.

“So,” he started, pulling his shirt over his head “First to 10?”

He Tian dribbled in place, legs switching, ball weaving easily between them.

Guan Shan followed suit, stripped off his uniform shirt, tossed it to the side.

“You’re… not gonna ask what happened?”

He Tian slowed his pace, shrugged.

“You don’t want to talk about. That’s not why you asked me to come here is it?”

“I… no it’s not.”

“So,” he bounced the ball, caught it, passed it forcefully to Mo, quick fluid motion.“Your ball.”

Mo caught it evenly, the weight of it thudding against his palms.

“Alright, first to 10.”

By the time he returned home he was drained of all emotion, having sweated it out at the court. Numb, he was ready to collapse in bed, real life could wait till tomorrow. However, walking up the steps to their front door he braced himself for the inevitable, not knowing what to expect as his mom hadn’t called him at all in his absence. Ear pressed up against the door, he listened carefully trying to catch a hint of any sound or movement -but there was nothing. As late as it was, they’d probably already gone to bed. Easing his key into the lock he opened the door slowly, sucked his teeth when it still creaked obnoxiously. It was dark inside, though he could hear the muted sounds of the TV coming from his mother’s… his parent’s room, soft blue light flickering under their door.

Sighing in relief, he headed to the bathroom, stripped, most of his dirty clothes making it into the hamper. He flipped on the shower letting it heat up while he scrolled through his messages. Still nothing from his parents, but there was one from He Tian asking if he got home safe. He hadn’t pushed when Mo had declined the offer to walk him home, had respected his need for space.Typing out a quick reply he hit send before stepping in the shower under the spray, barely containing a moan at how good the hot water felt streaming over his sore muscles.Lost in thought, he let the water run, soaking his hair. He hadn’t seen his father in years and he hadn’t really thought about what it would be like to see him again. Hell, he hadn’t thought about it because he didn’t think it would happen period, let alone catch him unaware. Anger was his foremost thought but he knew deep down that feeling wasn’t fair even though it was justified. There was just so much the man had missed, Mo thought squeezing his eyes shut.Back in elementary the kids had teased him about the sudden absence of his father. They had concluded amongst themselves that the man had probably run off because he didn’t like Mo, because Mo was bad. He never bothered to correct them because that idea sounded better than the truth, even to him. Kids could be so cruel.“Ignore them, be the bigger person.” his mother had said pulling him into a tight embrace, her voice choked, when he came home in tears after a particularly rough day.Sure, he had misbehaved from time to time but he hadn’t seen himself as any more rambunctious than his classmates. Maybe his teacher had had to tell him to settle down more often than the others -but it was because he was eager, he wanted to participate. The validation and praise he got when he answered correctly filled some void within him, even at that age.But their constant jeering had grated on him, pushed him to the edge and he found they shut up pretty quick if he hit them, so he learned to fight. It felt like he had been fighting all his life, against them but mostly himself. It was exhausting.Now the fight was over, as if a referee had simply walked on the field of his mind and tossed out a white flag determining the match a draw. Fuck that, he deserved to have a say!They couldn’t just make up for lost time, it was unrealistic. Where had he been when Mo graduated from grade school? When he learned how to ride a bike, fucking puberty?Yeah, his mom had been there always every step of the way, filling both the role of father and mother, but there were just some things she couldn’t replace, that she didn’t quite understand.The water beginning to run cold dragged him out of his reverie and he quickly scrubbed himself down, darting in and out of the spray to rinse off. Exiting the shower he scrubbed a towel through his hair as he headed back down the corridor. At the opposite end of the hall there was still no change from his parent’s room. He felt a slight tingle of relief in his gut that he wouldn’t have to face his father just yet, a small victory. He slipped quickly into his room, then sucked in a surprised breath, heart damn near in his throat at the figure sitting on his bed.It took him a moment to realize Mo was present, so absorbed was he in looking at a photo Mo kept on his bedside table. Some framed shot of his mom and him from a sports contest in which he had won first place.He looked up when Mo awkwardly cleared his throat, quickly replacing the photo.“I…” he looked around the room like it held the answer.Guan Shan sighed and he got hurriedly to his feet, his mouth opened and shut a few times, like he was carefully choosing his words.“Guan Shan, please I just want to talk.”Mo pressed back against his door clicking it shut, leaned heavily against it.“I know.”In the dim light Mo could see pain etched in red rimmed eyes, remembered now just where his emotional side came from.They talked for hours, his father explaining what had happened that night at the restaurant and how it had resulted in his incarceration. Guan Shan asked question after question, all the why’s and how’s that had plagued him for years, his father answering all of them even those Guan Shan could tell were painful. As he unraveled the truth, Guan Shan realized he understood far less than he expected, felt that maybe there were some things he’d rather have not known. However, his father held nothing back.When they got to the details of how he’d spent his time in jail, however, he drew the line.“I’m not ready to talk about that yet.” The implications deep in his tone were enough to make Mo balk. He conceded.Light was starting to filter in through the blinds of his balcony window, a bird chirping here and there. Mo stretched, sore from the seated position he’d spent the night in.They were quiet for a bit, enjoying the silence between them.“You’ve got school right?”“Yea,” Mo answered checking the time. Damn he was already running late, he’d have to get ready quickly.“..maybe you could take a day off,” his father said slowly, as if still considering the suggestion himself. “I think we still have a lot of catching up to do.”“Mom’s probably not gonna like that.”“Who says we have to tell her,” he said a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.“Tell me what?” Came a voice from his doorway. They both jumped.“W-we.. well you see I thought-““Mm-hmm we don’t keep secrets in this house.”“I just thought that maybe Guan Shan could stay home, just for today. Maybe we could do something as a family… it’s been… it’s been a long time since we did.”“It has, hasn’t it.” She smiled sadly. “Well who is going call the school ‘cause it looks like I need to call out at the hospital. I could use a sick day,” she waved a hand “God knows I have plenty.”

Mo watched them leave, his mother hooking her arm through the crook of his father’s, he smiled fondly down at her.

Alone he laid back on his bed exhausted but content, his heart fluttering, for once not in panic.

His phone buzzed on the dresser and he reached for it, pretty good idea of who would dare text him this early.

From: He >>“You alive?”

Mo paused, thumb hovered over the key pad. Emotion stung in his throat, prickled up to his eyes as he stared at the second word.

Alive? Had the question been posed at any point before now he would have scoffed at the absurdity of it. But looking at it now, he couldn’t think of a word that summed his emotional state any better than that.

To: He >>“Yea.”

Fin.

[bussanbaby]

165. “Why did you choose me?”  for anon (human au)

Send me prompts?

The city is dark and quiet, night weighing it down like a thick blanket. Sparse lanterns illuminate empty streets and half-finished buildings, blinking red lights of cranes looming over wooden skeletons and stacks of bricks. This is the kind of district you don’t want to find yourself in after dusk, populated only by stray dogs and garbage trucks, where every shadow feels like a nightmare with eyes at your back, ready to jump and take your wallet before taking your life as well.

  Apart from the distant hum of busy highways, cars rushing like blood through urban veins and sirens singing a song of crime, there’s a rumble of cheers and chatter coming from one of the lit up warehouses near the river’s edge. Off-white cigarette smoke rises in wispy plumes towards the high ceiling criss-crossed with beams and holding cheap halogen lights that make every face look hollow.

 The metal sliding door opens just as a limo stops in front of the building, a wave of cacophonous noise pouring out onto the concrete. A tall figure steps out of the car, all sharp lines, black coat and a black hat with a wide brim shrouding most of his face in mystery. Even though the space is crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, the sea of bodies parts before Magnus as he makes his way up the staircase and into the VIP area, the electronic music bouncing against his ribs in an erratic beat. Between the tables and chairs half-naked girls with smiles stuck to their faces carry trays laden with bottles and glasses of expensive alcohol, as well as with packets of white powder for the more exotic tastes.

“Father.” Magnus greets as he sits down, setting his hat on the table and running fingers through his hair to fix the couple of flattened strands. Asmodeus – a smartly dressed, older man with dark slicked back hair and a gaunt face nods in return, sipping on his half-emptied glass of whiskey.

  They stay silent for a moment as Magnus surveys the scene, the chainlink octagon cage in the middle of the space and men of almost every age gathering around it as the time for the main event comes closer. A hand adorned with the family signet falls heavy onto his shoulder and Magnus barely resists the temptation to roll his eyes.

  “Gentlemen, I see you’re all settled in.”

  Magnus tips his head to the side and watches his cousin take a seat by his father’s left hand and their eyes catch, a cutting smirk surfacing on Azazel’s face which Magnus answers with one speaking of confidence. There has always been a touch of rivalry between them and it shows once again, bets placed on two opposing fighters that are about to compete.

  Azazel leans back comfortably in the chair, one leg crossed over the other and hands weaved together in his lap, a picture of decadence paired with the dark suit and glittering cufflinks shaped like wasps.

  “I’m sorry to say this, dear cousin, but your fighter won’t last.” He says, a challenge thrown like a glove at Magnus’ feet.

 “You would know, wouldn’t you? From what I recall, you’ve lost the last two duels tragically.” Magnus feigns nonchalance, fingers coming to rest again his goatee as if he was trying to remember something. “Ah, how much money was that? Near a million, right?”

 Azazel visibly bristles, but keeps his calm, lighting a cigar instead of replying, but Magnus knows the words dug into his ego; yet, Magnus truly hopes he is not wrong on this. He has chosen to patron his fighter, which means bringing him into the more advanced circuit of bloody glitz and glamour, where victories build the path to stardom in this rotten world of illegal brawling. A loss often equals a new position three feet beneath the cold soil, so for the fighter the stakes are much higher than a few rolls of laundered bills.

 Magnus is pulled from his thoughts when the crowd roars, a bald presenter stepping into the octagon with an old-fashioned microphone in hand.

 “Let us welcome tonight’s fresh blood!” He calls, causing the noise to double again, drunk warlords and drug dealers enjoying themselves a bit too much for Magnus’ liking. “On the right, we have Marco Southerland also known as Vigil!”

  A tall, blond man steps into the cage, doing a fistpump above his head before shucking his t-shirt into one of the corners. To Magnus’ careful eye, he doesn’t seem like much of a challenge – rather slender build, the lack of surety shining in blue eyes and a boyish face, but there is always a possibility of a hidden trick that nobody expects.

  “On the left – Alec Lightwood, our new rising star, the ferocious Wolf!”

  Cheers get even louder, threatening to burst everyone’s eardrums when Magnus’ fighter walks into the arena. He’s already shirtless, hands wrapped in boxing tape, skin covered with tattoos, dark hair sprawling the expanse of a muscular chest and stomach. Jaw tight, brows pulled together and calculating, he pays no attention to the public; focused on the goal, his hazel eyes trace the nervous movements of his opponent.

  Magnus feels a tug of nostalgia in his heart, where there was a boy laughing once, there is now a man with only one wish. With nostalgia come questions and with questions comes guilt, but it’s foreign, trapped behind thick walls, as this is not the time nor the place for deeper thoughts.

  10 minutes, 250 thousand dollars at stake, one life to be lost.

 The gong sings a tune, the battle starts.

 At first they only circle around, light on their feet and guards up; Alec tries out a couple of jabs, quickly becoming the leading force of the battle, the one pushing forward with aggressive attacks. For the first couple of minutes, Vigil only minimizes the damage, lets himself get backed up against the fence multiple times and pummeled ruthlessly by Alec; Vigil’s eye is swelling up and there are multiple bruises forming on his body before half of the time is even up.

  There are no breaks, no rest and soon they’re both breathing heavily, droplets of sweat running down their faces and bodies. Then, the unexpected happens. Vigil charges forward, grappling Alec around his middle and bringing him down onto the bloodied mats with a breath-taking thump. There’s a moment of struggle, where they both fight for dominance, elbows and knees going to work, everything allowed not to let yourself get pinned to the ground.

 Magnus feels tense, his palms half-consciously gripping the armrests of his chair. It can’t end like this, it can’t be over before they even got to talk. Attention focused on the two wrestling bodies, Magnus notices Vigil’s arm reaching beneath the band of his shorts and something glittering in the dead light.

 Absently, his mind recognizes a cheap blade. 

(There are no rules for poor man’s gladiators.)

 A blade.

 Azazel chuckles, his eyes hot on the side of Magnus’ face as he stands up and walks over to the railing, leaning heavily on the rusted metal. Anxiety races through his every nerve ending, but he remains stone-faced, heart hammering in his throat. When Vigil’s fingers wrap around the hilt, the entire world goes slow-motion.

 “Alec! Look out!” He calls loudly and somehow it carries over all of the commotion.

 Alec glances up, eyes searching for the source of the voice, widening when they fall on Magnus. The seconds they share feel like forever and Magnus sees a kaleidoscope of emotions pass over Alec’s face starting with confusion, through recognition and shock  to determination. There’s an almost imperceptible nod, Alec’s throat working to swallow as he gathers his strength.

 With a vicious kick to his gut delivered by Alec, Vigil is on his back and gasping in pain, his secret weapon clattering to the ground far out of his grasp.  The crowd roars in delight, claps and chants in Alec’s name. The fluorescent lights hold his eyes in the shadows, glinting off of the ruby red coating the lower half of his face.

 With a snarl, Alec lunges at Vigil, sitting atop of him, fists driving down over and over and over. There’s no jury, just the thirst for blood of everyone gathered, Alec with his teeth bared and anger present in every hit. It stops being a brawl at one point, instead turning into a personal vendetta on the world, each punch a call for justice for the ones on the wrong side of the scale.

 Magnus doesn’t pay attention to his father laughing in delight at all of the chaos, doesn’t acknowledge Azazel’s quiet exit, stays frozen against the railing and watches Alec beat the everloving shit out of the other guy until someone pulls him off and announces him a winner. Vigil is breathing, but doesn’t move from the octagon, his face swollen and bloody and bearing close to no resemblance to the one Magnus saw nearly 10 minutes ago.

  The main event of the evening is done, bookmakers start milling around the crowd as Magnus says goodbye to Asmodeus, accepting his congratulations with an appropriate smile before he makes his way over to a tiny room tucked into the opposite corner. It’s dingy, with a sink and a cracked mirror above it, a couple of metal lockers and two benches, one of them currently occupied by Alec.

 Magnus closes the door behind his back, locking out most of the noise, leaving the two of them in somber silence, a minefield of questions with no answers. Alec picks up his head from where it was resting in his hands and looks at Magnus, the smile on his mouth a little bit crooked, something bitter sitting underneath.

 “Why did you choose me?” He says, voice raspy, eyes following Magnus’ every movement as he sits on the bench opposite of Alec, a small bit of space between their knees.

  So many answers come to Magnus’ mind at once and he chuckles.

  “I did my research on you – strong, resilient, tenacious… You had good chances.”

  At that, Alec snorts loudly, wiping at his face and wincing when his palm brushes against his nose. “That’s all?”

  “You know it’s not.” Magnus sighs, reaching out for Alec’s hands. There’s a fondness lingering between them even with the years that divide them and Magnus feels his heart leap painfully for the things they had.

 “I’m not a charity case, Magnus. I don’t need your pity.”

 “I’m not pitying you. We’ve promised each other something.”

 They fall silent as Magnus starts to unwrap the boxing tape pulled tight over Alec’s skin, revealing purple and green and yellow bruises bleeding into black-ink tattoos, knuckles marked with scars. Magnus runs his thumb along the lines, Alec’s fingers twitching in his grasp.

 “After you left, it-“ Alec pauses, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Everything went to shit after that summer.”

 Magnus nods. “Is that why you’re a fighter now?”

 “I have to pay back my parents’ debts. God knows they can’t.” Alec laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, devoid of its old mirth.

 So the gossip that went around was true, big money borrowed from the wrong people, misguided decisions and mishandled deals leading to revenge and children turning into orphans.

 “What about-“ Magnus starts, words sticking to his throat.

  “They’re fine. Alive.” The answer comes out rushed, a half-truth that Alec seems to reconsider. “Jace’s in jail, but… we’re okay.” He adds, finding Magnus’ eyes, who nods.

  They lapse into silence again and Magnus moves onto unwrapping the other hand. He feels as if they’re alone in the world, sat in their little bubble, trying to figure each other out. Magnus can sense Alec’s eyes on him, a curious gaze like warm fingers against his jaw.

 “Do you ever wish we could go back?” Magnus almost misses the question, vulnerable and quiet, but he meets Alec’s eyes, finally taking a moment to take in his face from up close – it’s much sharper around the edges, the once patchy facial hair of a teenager a fully-fledged stubble now, but Magnus gets caught on the shape of Alec’s lower lip, the faint memory of it dragging against his skin still tangible.

  He smiles, letting the crumpled tape fall onto the floor. “Every day, Alexander. I wish I’d never left.” Leaning back against the cold wall, Magnus watches Alec move to the sink and wash away all of the blood meticulously until the water runs clear again. Their eyes meet in the mirror, Alec’s reflection distorted by the cracks.

  “We’ve had something good.” He says then moves to grab a duffle bag and pull some clothes from it before starting to change. Magnus closes his eyes and goes back in time; memories like movie frames passing before him – bright smiles, hands tangled together, shy kisses behind the lockers and much braver kisses in the privacy of their rooms, long conversations stretching until sunrise.

  “We have. Do you remember that weekend that we drove far out of the city and had a picnic on the hood of your dad’s car?”

  Alec’s laughter rings out and it’s a song Magnus missed listening to.

  “Oh, I remember another thing that happened on the hood of that car.”

 They both snicker at the innuendo and Magnus pulls himself together with a sigh, brushes off some invisible lint from his coat. Alec’s dressed now, the bag slung over his shoulder and an unreadable expression on his face. They stand opposite each other, two sides of the same coin forged in different worlds.

  It’s strange to feel this sort of familiarity again; after everything they’ve gone through, they’re still pulled together like magnets, until there’s only a couple of inches left and Magnus can count all of the specks of green in Alec’s hazel eyes. Their fingers brush tentatively together, like they used to years ago, when they still had golden futures, before they had to grow up too quickly.

  “You were my first everything.” Alec whispers, voice breaking over the last word.

 They’re both touch-starved and hopeful, too soft-hearted for the world this cruel, but Magnus has never loved anyone more than the one before him, has never felt more at home than with his Alec by his side for so many years. And maybe it was all fate’s doing, to keep them apart for so long only to let them find each other again, to make the dreams a reality once more.

 “I’m still yours if you want me.” Magnus whispers back, pressing closer until they’re kissing and it feels steadying, like finding land after being lost at sea. It’s warm lips and warmer bodies and Alec’s quiet gasp when his back hits the wall. The duffle bag drops to the floor and Alec twists his hands into the fabric of Magnus’ coat; they breathe with cheeks pushed together, and simply hold on even when the closest they can get doesn’t feel close enough. 

Years back, they promised each other forever and Magnus intends on keeping that vow.

[imagineamber]

Art Scavenger Hunt!

Glen Ligon’s “For Comrades & Lovers”, 2015 brings the introduction to Walt Whitman’s seminal Leaves of Grass vibrantly to life with neon sculpture. The way the literal poetic lines trace the lines of the buildings architectural lines is aesthetically pleasing, and in a sense underlines the existing interior and building design. 

The choice of the color purple, and the tone of the shade used, brings to mind the association of the color with the emotion of love. Purple combines the calm stability of blue with the vibrant energy of red. Purple is also associated with royalty. 

The use of neon as Ligon’s artistic medium in this sculptural installation feel fitting and intentional, The bright, illuminating light is used to illustrate and bring to life the words of Walt Whitman’s, via the introduction to his most well-known work, published in 1855. The use of neon, communicates and emboldens the “electric” power of Whitman’s words and translates them into the modern era. 

The piece is described as uniting political and poetic discourse - often seen as separate- in a common space at The New School. The idea that poetry can itself be political, and art can be revolutionary, is paramount to the history and legacy of The New School. Igniting and enlivening intellectual, artistic, and political discussion in a common space at the school - inviting revolution - is the intention behind the choice of the words depicted. 

Glen Ligon was considered an “identity artist” with his exploration of race in America being one of his central themes in his early work. Whitman’s work speaks very directly to the reader as an individual, addressing a potential kindred spirit, an audience who he knows someday will related deeply to his words. I think that this speaks to the idea of identity on a core level - artists recognized other artists. 

The way that the poetry is elevated, and ascends diagonally into the space of the building, gives the words a soaring. lofty, exulted home. The diagonal lines cutting across the space also give the sculpture itself a sense of movement which emphasizes the energy and active energy of the poetry itself. The straight , long lines on which the rounded letters sit, in conjunction with the even spacing and beautiful symmetry of their being two lines of poetry (one above the other) give it a very pleasing, even, and balanced design. Although there are “starting points” in the poetry, indicated by subtle dashes, the poem could be conceptualized as a never-ending merry-go round of words, spinning around the audience. The positioning of the letters in 360 degrees, around the reader, gives the audience a completely different experience than if they were to read the words on the page. 

Ligon uses neon to highlight the choices of the architectural design by literally drawing, designing lines of text with light.

Embodying the concepts in the poem, the neon installation brings the power of one of the most influential poets in American history into the space and invites political discussion, connection between artists, and inspiration to a communal area - notably one with a stage in it as well. The sculpture does not disturb the stage, and would not necessarily be an interruption to a performance, but instead reads as a banner or marquee above the stage. Interestingly, the stage wall is the only one that exhibits an excerpt of the written work which can be read entirely as its own poem. 

The choice of the artist to hint at starting and stopping points in the work with small dashes allowed him to manipulate the poetry - i.e. where you start and stop reading influences your experience of the words, so Ligon is using creative editing to shape the words and presentation of Whitmans poetry in his own way. 

With all of his work, Whitman reached through time from his day in the 1850′s to an imagined, hypothetical, reader in the future with whom he knew his poetry would strike a chord. In his famous work Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, he also does this, speaking to a future ferry rider, commiserating through the poetry about their shared, parallel commute experience crossing the river (a metaphor perhaps in itself?) in a love letter to the reader across time. This is done exquisitely well in the introduction to Leaves of Grass, where he speaks directly to artists, mystics, rebels, and philosophers, who he knows will savor his words someday as they ring true to them as kindred creative souls. This direct reach into the future, into the readers heart, is one of the things that is so powerful and rattling about Whitman’s work. It grabs the reader who relates - as does Ligon’s work as an “identity” artist. 

Interpretation of “For Comrades & Lovers” by other New School students:

“I feel like I'm talking to someone and someone is comforting me - any place, any time. Because any time that I see this piece, it’s from a different perspective.”

-Valerie 

“It guides your gaze downwards, [when you’re looking from above on the ground floor) It (the sculpture], and brings attention to the space. It doesn’t distract from the stage.”

-Yichan 

“I thought it was interesting that from a human perspective, you have to move physically to read it. Even from a camera, you would have to turn 360. Poetry can be tough because you have to read it and go back, and re-read it. Specially, it’s very interesting - having to turn and the way it’s floating above us - and when you turn out the lights it’s a different experience.”

-Jordan 

Is there a core idea or question?

Yes, I would say it is how best to communicate the words and concepts introduced by Walt Whitman to a modern student body, one with a very specific identity.

What role does the title play in shaping this?

The choice words excerpted from the poem, “For Comrades & Lovers”, is used as the title of the piece. The comrades and lovers addressed in the poem are the intended audience, those who's artistic and political spirit mirrors that of Whitman - as he is seeking an empathetic listener, and knows that he will reach a kindred spirit who will be touched intimately by his poetry because it so resonates with them. By using the words “comrades & lovers”, to whom Whitman is speaking directly, as the title immediately and powerfully implements the core goal of delivering his ideas to a modern student body.

What is the artist trying to convey?

The artist wants to address the reader/audience, and allow the reader to be touched and receive the message of the poetry in tandem with the expression of the sculpture/installation work.

I thought it was interesting to learn that:

During his talk at the 2015 unveiling of the installation at The New School, Ligon emphasized Whitman’s ability to express a thing without calling it by name - of expressing the core of an idea in a way that goes beyond words. He said, “It seems like an impossible task, but I think Leaves of Grass is able to express impossible things like love, intimacy, the body and the soul,” Ligon said. “In a place like the Events Café, where people meet and greet and hang out, I think it’s fitting to have these words hovering in the air.” 

Top Line of North Wall

Dead poets, philosophs, priests, Martyrs, artists, inventors, governments long since, Language-shapers, on other shores, Nations once powerful, now reduced, withdrawn, or desolate, I dare not proceed till I respectfully credit what you have left wafted hither, I have perused it, own it is admirable, (moving awhile among it,) Think nothing can ever be greater, nothing can ever deserve more than it deserves, Regarding it all intently a long while, then dismissing it, I stand in my place with my own day here.

Top Line of East Wall, Then South, Then West Walls

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest. No labor-saving machine, Nor discovery have I made, Nor will I be able to leave behind me any wealthy bequest to found a hospital or library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage for America, Nor literary success nor intellect, nor book for the book-shelf,

But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave, For comrades and lovers. Among the men and women, the multitude, I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs, Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,

Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me. Ah, lover and perfect equal, I meant that you should discover me so by my faint indirections, And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.

Bottom Line of East Wall, Then South, Then West Walls

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul. The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, Through me forbidden voices, Voice of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d.

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

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1.1

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3.1

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4.1

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4.2

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5.1

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5.2

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6.1

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6.2

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8.2

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9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

10.1

install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

10.2

warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

[2700fstreet]

DANCE / 2018-2019

ALVIN AILEY AMERICAN DANCE THEATER

MINI PERFORMANCE

STUDENT GUIDE

Robert Battle, Artistic Director Masazumi Chaya, Associate Artistic Director

Happy 60th AAADT!

School show: February 7

Teacher and Parent Guide: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater

On March 30, 1958, the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater (AAADT) performed for the first time at the 92nd Street Y in New York City. Led by Alvin Ailey and a group of young African American dancers, that performance changed the perception (and look) of American dance.

Sixty years later, the company is considered one of the most successful arts organizations in the country. In fact, in 2008, a U.S. Congressional resolution designated the Company as “a vital American cultural ambassador to the world” that celebrates the uniqueness of the African American cultural experience and the preservation and enrichment of the American modern dance heritage. In all, more than 235 works by over 90 choreographers have been part of the Ailey company’s repertory. And since that first performance, AAADT has gone on to perform for an estimated 25 million people at theaters in 48 states and 71 countries on six continents—as well as millions more through television broadcasts, film screenings, and online platforms.

Here’s a quick peek at the company’s 60th anniversary video celebration.

For a much deeper look, check out this video from the program “Works & Progress at the Guggenheim.”

The conversation is moderated by author Susan Fales-Hill and features the company’s artistic director, Robert Battle, and artistic director emerita, Judith Jamison. Throughout the evening, Ailey dancers perform highlights from signature classics and commissioned works to demonstrate the company’s continuing goal to push dance into new territory.

At the performance, you will see Ailey’s iconic work Revelations, and The Call or Flight Time. All three are discussed below along with information on Alvin Ailey and his choreographic style.

So, What’s Going On?

You may have heard of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. No surprise—they’ve been on the main dance stage since 1958. Based in New York City, the company has toured all over the world. But who exactly was Alvin Ailey?

Caption: Portrait of Alvin Ailey. Credit: Photo by Jack Mitchell.

Born in a small Texas town in 1931, Alvin Ailey began his dance training at age 11 by being exposed to classical, social, and folk dances, as well as the emerging style of modern dance. But at the start of his career, he encountered few opportunities for African American dancers like himself.

Ailey wanted to create a company that allowed African American dancers to display their talents and to express their experiences and heritage. When he formed AAADT, it was one of the first professional companies where dancers of all races and backgrounds were welcome. According to the New York Times, “You didn’t need to have known Alvin personally to be touched by his humanity, enthusiasm, and exuberance and his courageous stand for multicultural brotherhood.”

Watch (and learn) what makes Ailey “Ailey”?

Ailey died in 1989, but his legacy lives on with his company and school. Today, AAADT is under the artistic direction of Robert Battle who not only choreographs new works, but who also invites others to create dances for the company.

Caption: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Credit: Photo by Pierre Wachholder.

What’s the Big Deal about Revelations?

Revelations is Alvin Ailey’s signature work and has been performed by the company since its creation in 1960. This masterwork has been seen by more people than any other modern dance. More than 25 million audience members in 71 countries have been to a performance. Now it’s your turn.

First, watch this short film Celebrating Revelations at 50 Film from Alvin Ailey on Vimeo that celebrates the work by telling the history and significance of this modern dance classic.

It’s hard to watch Revelations and not be caught up in the emotions and atmosphere of the work. The dance is based on Ailey’s early years worshipping at his southern Baptist church. Drawing on his childhood recollections of people and places, and using traditional African American blues, work songs, and spirituals as his musical inspiration, Ailey tells the story of African American faith and persistence in the face of adversity.

Revelations is divided into three sections; each includes several dances representing different aspects or experiences in Baptist worship. The main sections include:

“Pilgrim of Sorrow” speaks of people yearning for salvation but burdened by the troubles of this life. Look for arms reaching out in all directions, and bodies pulled back to earth.

Caption: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s Ghari DeVore and Yannick Lebrun in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Credit: Photo by Pierre Wachholder.

“Take Me to the Water” is an enactment of Ailey’s own baptism that took place in a pond behind his church. Watch for the devotional leader in white holding a large white umbrella. She leads a young couple to the baptismal river of billowing blue silk. Look for the way the dancers undulate through their arms and torsos and stretch long pieces of fabric to emulate rippling water.

Caption: AAADT’s C. Heyward, V. Gilmore, R. McLaren, F. Tesfagiorgis in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnik

“Move, Members, Move” begins with three men dancing to the song “Sinner Man.” The next section shows a congregation, decked out in yellow, participating in a joyous church service. Watch how Ailey brings humor to the work by showing churchgoers who gossip and otherhers who fan themselves in the heat.

Caption: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Credit: Photo by Pierre Wachholder.

Ailey described the memories that inspired Revelations as “blood memories” because they were so strong he felt they were part of him as much as the blood that ran through his veins.

The Call

Choreographed by Ronald K. Brown Music by Johann Sebastian Bach, Yo-Yo Ma, Mary Lou Williams, and Asase Yaa Entertainment Group

A Tribute to Alvin Ailey The Call is choreographer Ronald K. Brown’s love letter to Alvin Ailey. Brown pays tribute to Ailey, whose work inspired him to pursue dance, in this dance created especially for the company’s 60th anniversary celebration. Critics have called The Call a conversation between Brown and Ailey. The choreography references Ailey’s canon of work and imagery, but also reflects the evolution and inspiration of Ailey’s legacy on contemporary movement today.

Take a look at a clip from The Call:

Listen for:

The surprisingly harmonious mix of classical, jazz, and Malian music.

Watch for:

The dancers perform a canon where each one enters the stage after another and executes the same choreographic sequence.

The natural conversation of ballet technique, contemporary choreography, social dance, and West African movement.

Iconic “Ailey” images including when the dancers stand in a triangle, lift their chests and heads, and raise their arms into a high “V” position like in the opening of Revelations.

How the dancers leap, partner, and take up space with an essence of joy and splendor.

Caption: Notice the triangle of dancers with arms outstretched in a “V” shape. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Caption: This triangle pose harks back to the opening image in “Fix Me, Jesus” from Ailey’s famous piece, Revelations. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Think about:

How is dance a conversation—between choreographer and dancer, dancer and fellow dancer, and dancer and audience?

Brown utilizes a variety of music styles in The Call. What qualities unify the score? How does this idea translate to the movement of the piece as well?

Caption: The Call weaves together modern dance with West African forms. The piece speaks to the spirit of Alvin Ailey. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Caption: In “The Love,” one male dancer begins on stage and calls upon the rest of the cast to join him. This symbolizes Ailey’s creation of his dance company. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick

Caption: The Call explores the balance between strong and soft, joy and pain, independence and unity, both in the themes of the piece but also in the choreographic movement. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Caption: Brown explores themes that we see in other Ailey works including spiritual awakening and redemption. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Caption: The “Blues for Timme” duet evokes the dancing partnership of Alvin Ailey and Carmen de Lavallade. In fact, de Lavallade was responsible for taking Ailey to his first dance class. Credit: Photo by Paul Kolnick.

Did you know… Carmen de Lavallade received a Kennedy Center Honor in 2017; Alvin Ailey was himself honored in 1988.

Take a look behind-the-scenes at Brown’s rehearsal process for The Call:

Flight Time (excerpt from Phases)

Choreographed by Alvin Ailey Composed by Larry Mizell

Joyful Jazz Phases is a five-part suite that choreographically presents five ways to have a good time. Ailey choreographed this dance at the height of his artistry in 1980. Each section was composed by a significant African American jazz musician.

Listen for:

Parallels between jazz music and jazz dance: syncopation and swung rhythms, improvisation, off-beat accents, glissando (slide from one note to another).

Watch for:

Traditional Horton technique—a lengthened spine, lateral movements, deep lunges, and daring hinges.

Think about:

When a work of dance is long and divided into several sections, it is often called a ballet even if it is another style of dance such as musical theater or modern dance. Why do you think this is?

You can watch this montage of Ailey Classics for clips from Flight Time, Revelations, and other signature works of the company: “Ailey Classics”.

Check This Out!

Ailey’s Signature Style Ailey accepted dancers into his company who were trained in different styles including ballet, modern, jazz, and hip hop. He encouraged their individual strengths and differences in style, bringing them together in performance like a conductor of jazz music. Despite these differences, there are common elements in his choreography. Watch for:

straight lines in the lower body, with quick and sharp leg and foot movements, like in ballet

an expressive upper body with fluid arms and torso movements, like in modern dance

energetic dancing that emphasizes strength

expressive hands

a fusion of African-influenced movements with ballet and modern dance

There is also good reason why Alvin Ailey called his company “a dance theater.” Ailey was interested in how elements of theater—costumes, props, lighting, and music—could be combined with dance to communicate with an audience. Watch…

how colors have meanings in costumes. Notice how the color scheme for the costumes is different in each section, first earth-toned, then white, and finally yellow. Why do you think he chose these colors?

Caption: Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Credit: Photo by Pierre Wachholder 2015.

how props tell a story. In Revelations, the dancers use props to help bring Ailey’s childhood memories to life. For example, long sheets of blue and white fabric stretch across the stage to suggest water; white parasols, wide-brimmed hats, and fans imply the heat of Texas summers; and stools used by the dancers represent a seated church congregation.

how lighting creates mood. Revelations begins with a group of dancers standing under a single spotlight on a darkened stage. Later, the dancers move across a fully illuminated stage. Why do you think the lighting changes?

Take Action: Art for All

Alvin Ailey made Revelations based on his own personal experience, yet it speaks to people of all ages, all over the world, regardless of their racial and religious backgrounds. After you see the work, brainstorm why you think it inspires so many people every time it is performed. Share your thoughts with friends and family.

EXPLORE MORE

Go even deeper with the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater Performance Extras.

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Top Image: Photo by Andrew Eccles

Writer: Mary Callahan

Content Editor: Lisa Resnick

Logistics Coordination: Katherine Huseman

Producer and Program Manager: Tiffany A. Bryant

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Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater is part of the Kennedy Center's Human Journey representing Resilience. www.kennedy-center.org/humanjourney

The Human Journey is a collaboration between The Kennedy Center, National Geographic Society, and the National Gallery of Art, which invites audiences to investigate the powerful experiences of migration, exploration, identity, and resilience through the lenses of the performing arts, science, and visual art.

David M. Rubenstein Chairman

Deborah F. Rutter President

Mario R. Rossero Senior Vice President Education

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts.

© 2019 The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts

[hardfillytohalterbreak]

Cardio? Howbow dah

If you read my last blog post here then you know I was starting to add fitness into my healthy living journey. 

Well, my plan to work out with this smoke show, who looks both HAWT & terrifying when you can’t seem to work out, a workout date. lol 

But we couldn’t exactly get our schedules matched up. Stacy & her partner Dan Koren are uber busy with their new cool venture that you *have* to check out and support ‘Eat Clean Healthy Grill & Juice Bar’ St.Albert, Alberta. Not only is it going to offer clean eating options but they will be available with A DRIVE THRU and also offering meal prep services. WHAT?!? That’s an incredible opportunity and think tank. I can’t wait to see it come to fruition in the space they chose. 

In the mean time, my friend & EquiSportsTherapy client Jerri Robertson asked me to come help her at her barn while she was Spring Training her Thoroughbred race horses. I laughed her off a couple times only because race trackers are the hardest working people I know and I’m too old, fat and out of shape to work that hard. 

Then she sold me on this ‘Racetrack Boot Camp’ idea, well that coupled with the fact that I could choose my work days, she pays well and I wouldn’t have to start until between 8-8:30am which is good because this is me:

Besides all those things listed, it was actually because she is a friend and she asked for my help, and I knew she was in need. Finding hard working, horse savvy people can be a challenge across the industry. Changes to Temporary Foreign Worker programs here in Canada have greatly affected the ability to find, and retain, skilled workers within the horse industry. Quite frankly the job requires hard work, a fast pace and long hours which most people don’t want to do. And I get it, by Day 2 of #RaceTrackBootCamp I was hoping Jerri would fire me or replace me quickly lol 

So a little more on what I have dubbed #RaceTrackBootCamp on my social media avenues.

My February Health Living goal remained to add in fitness to my lifestyle and have my total pounds lost read 28lbs by February 28th.  

I also did a little research on calorie burning while at the barn and found this chart which would come in handy for the past few days when every muscle in my body has ached:

^^^^^ Just keep thinking of the calories burned Kathy. Calories burned. 

I worked at A TON of barns in my life but it was all in my teens & 20′s where again I was younger, slimmer, more fit and had more energy. When you’re 36 years old, have done mediocre physical fitness besides walking your dogs and trying to get your skinny jeans on after applying lotion to your body...this was going to be a challenge. 

Team Jerri Robertson Racing is currently out at Enoch Park on the Enoch Cree Nation spring training for the Thoroughbred race meet at Northlands Park in Edmonton, Alberta. There are 20 horses, 17 of racing age and 3 - 2yr olds just learning the ropes about what it will look like to be a race horse. 

At 55 years old Jerri Robertson has spent more than half her life at the Thoroughbred race track making horses her passion for as long as she can remember. Though there are a few women in this male-dominated industry, Jerri can be considered a trail blazer here in Edmonton, making her home in Beverly Heights and dedicating her life to her business "Jerri Robertson Racing”. 

Jerri is quite frankly one of the hardest working women I know. She’s a public race horse trainer who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty and work alongside her staff. She knows every horse in her barn, knows what’s going on with their legs, diet, health and conditioning. When I bring new friends to the race track, I usually bring them to Jerri’s barn to meet her horses, where most everyone is welcome ‘as long as they bring snacks and can brush a horse’. haha I’m really honoured to call Jerri a client because she’s an incredible horsewoman but more importantly, to call her a friend. 

Doing #RaceTrackBootCamp at Jerri’s barn means I also get to kiss this face every day. Which is awesome except he’s shedding right now so if I have lip balm on, I also get a Grat hair moustache on my lips, free of charge. 

#RaceTrackBootCamp tasks:

Cleaning stalls

Bedding stalls

Grooming horses

Saddling horses

Getting horses out for gallop rider & legging up gallop rider

Filling water buckets by bucket

Receiving horse post workout, blanketing 

Hand walking horse post workout to cool down

Filling haynets

Feeding hay

Raking barn isle

Breathing

Jerri has an incredible barn foreman in Jose Raul Sanchez. Raul can literally clean half the barn in the time I do 3 stalls...or anyone does for that matter. He’s been with Jerri for many years so he knows how the barn ticks and he keeps it ticking. I doubt there isn’t anything Raul can’t do, include keeping my amateur hour self, on the right task. 

Lots of my clients have no idea if I can even ride a horse or clean a barn. The answer is yes to both of those questions, quite handily. It really is like riding a bike, once you get back into the groove of something you remember quite easily about the tasks at hand. 

The difference is I’m now older, out of shape, forgetful and OH MY GOD IS THIS HARD WORK! lol The first couple days I could barely get out of bed, I have muscles that are sore that I’m not sure I even knew EXISTED! 

Honest to goodness if you think going to the gym is hard, you should come try #RaceTrackBootCamp for a couple days for a change of pace. Leg day exists, so does cardio, lifting and stretching. Believe me, you’ll find gains here somewhere. 

March 1st came and I didn’t even want to step on the scale because I have PMS and no good weight loss goals should be weighed on that kind of day. #canigetanamen 

But I knew I hadn’t hit my goal, and I didn’t. But I’m not disappointed because I still made active steps towards it and I’m ALMOST THERE. 

Just like in January when I didn’t meet my weight goal, a funny thing happened when I measured...in the month of February I lost 7 3/4 INCHES just from adding fitness to the menu. (Disclaimer, I also added our Arbonne Metabolism Booster in February as well) 

SEVEN INCHES IN ONE MONTH. What in the holy hail?!

So while I missed my goal of being down 28lbs total by the end of February, I’m actually down 29 1/2 inches TOTAL as I type this. 

#RaceTrackBootCamp has done crazy things for the inches lost in my waist and muffin top. 2 inches off my natural waist and 2.5 inches off my muffin top. Another inch and a half off my bust, I’m basically going to have no boobs by the time this healthy living stuff is done. I’ll have to visit Scottsdale for implants! 

So here we are March 2017! And we got GOOOOAAAAALLLLLSSSS

March looks like:

- Continue to keep doing what I’ve been doing which includes fitness in the form of #RaceTrackBootCamp for as long as needed and the addition of the Arbonne Metabolism Booster

- Document more of the journey and lift up anyone who wants to come along

- In the words of Gary Vee, Do #moremoremore 

Remember friends, when you don’t reach your goals, you don’t give up. It’s about dedication, not perfection. 

Yours in Adventure, 

#hardfillytohalterbreak 

[div2-portfolio]

Div II Retrospective Paper

Google Doc

Div I as a whole was a relatively lonely year - though I embarked on plenty of academic journey’s that were deeply rewarding without the GPA anxiety that colored my high school years, and made several close friends, I felt alone and without a strong community at Hampshire. I entered my Div II with a desire to pin down my academic interests in preparation for a definite career and domestic life which I imagined that I was supposed to desire and work towards somewhat because of this disconnection. I decided to operate with an uncreative focus on my future, as opposed to on building the futures I imagine for myself and my communities because I didn’t truly feel a part of one. I was interested in the arrival, as opposed to the process. I left behind a long summer of time spent alone, running around my home town of Los Angeles on various buses and trains, to see some of my favorite bands play. I worked the door at a few DIY music shows around the city, as I was interning for a small LA music collective called Smash Club that I discovered on Instagram. I wrote and produced a short album called All My Friends which I published on Bandcamp and SoundCloud at the very tail end of the summer. A lot of the drive I had to engage in all these different projects came from an intense dissatisfaction with my mental state. I wanted to be busy, and more than that to be busy doing the things that my idealism and social anxiety normally would have prevented me from even trying. My expectations of reality had been permanently shattered by some traumas I went through during the Spring semester - the assumptive world I existed in was all of a sudden very new and endlessly terrifying. I felt that the only thing that I could do was act on the desire/hope/drive/trust that remained in me, that this was the only way forward. 

I was excited about arriving back to campus after being so socially isolated in LA and ended up pouring a lot of my creative energy and propensity for risk-taking into my social life. I was content not to scrutinize my academics partially because of how early I was into what I knew would be a two-year process, and because I thought it was alright for my priorities to be elsewhere while I took the introductory classes that I intended to shape the start of my Div. I wasn’t clear on what areas of study would best guide me towards the subject(s) of my Div III, so the classes I took were all guesses in the direction of interests I already had and wanted to expand upon to reach clarity. I planned on exploring the presence of poetry in children's educational lives, how to introduce more writing programs for lower-class black and brown children who might not regularly interact with poetry in their classes, and investigating the ways that poetry can serve as a tool in mending traumas experienced in childhood (and onward). I took five classes, the most I had taken in one semester up to that point. I hoped that these classes would help me begin to map and specify my driving goals and questions about the intersections of race, childhood, and trauma. 

Creating Families with Marlene Fried and Pamela Stone, though I’d intended it to inform the Childhood Studies aspect of my Div II, ended up being much more a reproductive justice studies class. I struggled with it because of the number of students and the style of our class time - as the course went on it became increasingly based in sharing personal information that was pertinent to the content (international adoption, queer parenting, etc…), which was not a sharing style that I felt excited about participating in. The Black Feminist Archive was an amazingly valuable space to me just in the fact that it convened over twenty black people of my same age range into one space for 3 hours every Monday - it was dominated by those people, and we were in turn the subject of its scholarship. Being exposed to that contextualized my place as a black person at Hampshire and in the world, affirming that I shared experiences with some, and that I didn’t with others, and asked me to examine some of my privileges and proximities to whiteness with new scrutiny that had never seemed so essential before. The theories that this class and Zahra Caldwells class exposed me to were immensely foundational for the directions my thoughts on black femmehood/womanhood would continue to go in the future - particularly the notes on the perceived excessiveness of the black body, Zahra Caldwell’s definition of black female cool, and the aesthetic of black female cool as it is/has been co-opted by white folks. The Black Feminist Archive also challenged me with the task of contributing to a group presentation on the black body by using archival research and creating my own finding aids. I went to the Smith College archives and found documents that offered insight into the lives of two black women, mainly through words written about them. These classes were invaluable to me, but my learning was also impeded somewhat by my disagreement with the professor's modes of facilitation, and assigning work.

Iaido and Dancing Modern were the only classes that I was able to enjoy, as I didn’t feel blindsided by some aspect of the class I wasn’t prepared for - they both accurately matched the class description, and continued that way for the entire semester. They were also both physically motivated classes, Iaido being a sect of Japanese martial arts involving a dulled katana called an iaito. They both served as grounding points in my day and helped me return to some semblance of safety in and curiosity about my body which I had felt very disconnected from and in some ways scared of for some time. I had not danced since my junior year of high school after I very unceremoniously quit my ballet studio, partially due to its bankruptcy and partially due to the general unkindness of its directors. This return to dance was full of surprises in how much enjoyment I got out of it, and also in that it became a way for me to tap into the Hampshire community by getting more involved with campus dance life. I auditioned for several Div III pieces and composition works that would be choreographed by students and joined the rehearsal process for three, which put me into contact with several other dancers (two of whom I’m still close friends with and plan to collaborate with this year). That semester was the first time I felt tapped into the larger Hampshire community, and that my academics were not compartmentalized away from my social life - they all started to bleed together and clued me into the essentiality of cultivating joyfulness in and across all areas of my life. I got involved in the music scene on campus as well, forming a two-piece band with a close friend after we listened to each other's Bandcamp discographies, and we played several shows at Hampshire, as well as venues on the West coast over Winter break.  

I learned that I wanted to write and dance, and that both would have significant places in my Div III, from the classes I took in the next two semesters during the Spring and Fall of 2019. My Fall 2018 schedule was without any literary studies or childhood studies courses, so I took two poetry courses (mostly analytic, though The BreakBeat Poets was partially generative), a modern dance course, and a childhood studies course at Smith. I began a pattern of taking at least four classes every semester, and taking more than half of them off-campus, which pushed me to further expand my assumptive world and connect me with the Five College Area, just as the variety of classes I took in Fall of 2018 had expanded my connection to Hampshire. In high school, I had always dealt with anxiety about my ability to perform well, and would deliberately stay home from school to avoid this feeling. The way many of my high school classes were structured allowed very little room for critical engagement, and it was rare that I ever felt fulfilled by assignments and projects because of it. Once it began to sink in for me that I had control over what classes I took, and that the primary way’s my performance would be judged would be through my critical engagement (i.e. in-class participation and essay writing), I felt excited by academics, not paralyzed by them. 

This was also the semester defined by the college’s financial crisis. In my friend groups, there was looming dissatisfaction, cynicism, and fear about the turn of events Hampshire seemed to be heading towards. The professors in the off-campus classes I was taking always had plenty of worried questions to ask me. The omnipresence of this concern allowed me to shake some of my self-imposed anxieties loose. The individual and campus-wide scrambling that became so quotidien during this semester destabilized my perception of the university structure, something that previously had been so inaccessible and immaterial that I placed my faith in it without thinking. This deeply flawed system laid bare, combined with my inchoate mental framework of excitement in the face of challenge carved out space for me to unravel the limitations I had previously placed upon how I imagined myself in the present and future due to restrictive academic policies and practices I’d internalized in high school. Spring 2019 was a turning point in that I began to forgo the future I imagined I should want or should work toward. The classes I took were initially intended to propel me into a deeper understanding of my goals with children's literature and childhood studies, and by the end, that understanding became that those goals were coming from the high school guidance counselor in my head encouraging me to settle on a career as soon as possible. The topics explored by the classes I chose did interest me, and I believe I needed to follow those threads to discover the possibilities of how much farther I could take them. This was a wonderful trade-off in that as I drifted away from the interests that initially drew me to the courses, each one transformed me in terms of how I viewed it. 

Instead of each class supplementing some invisible requirement or standard that I needed to satisfy, they made themselves clear to me as entirely unpredictable sources of specific knowledge, providing me with numerous lenses to look at the world through. This realization of subjectivity in academia greatly decreased my anxiety around choosing a career. Instead of orienting my class taking, and participation around what a class might do for me, I began to see each class as a small community that it was my responsibility to learn how to cultivate. The Stories Children Tell pushed me past my self-consciousness in subjects I didn’t feel as confident in, as it was a 300 level psychology course. I was able to create a story study, coded each story for things like locus of control or presence of multiple perspectives, and wrote a lab report analyzing the findings. I also wrote a fifteen-page paper on narratives created to assuage cognitive dissonance, using the history of child sexual abuse by clergy in the Catholic Church as a case study. I developed new confidence for speaking consistently in class in The BreakBeat Poets and began writing again after a long hiatus largely due to the writing assignments we had. Contemporary 3/4 at Amherst College further developed my engagement with the Five College Dance community, putting me into contact with two other black dancers who I performed alongside in both of their self-choreographed works, and introducing me to the Five College Repertory auditions in March which I attended with several Hampshire friends. The band I was in continued to grow in size, and we played more shows that semester in the WMass area, although the number of members and incessant emphasis on performance over song production began to stir up tensions.  

Reading Contemporary Poetry with Matthew Donovan at Smith, Poetry Writing with Sam Ace at Mt. Holyoke, and my independent study with Hampshire Professor thuy le were all courses that challenged me enormously in my writing and reading practice. In each, my professors put me and other students into contact with several accomplished poets doing readings and Q&A’s in the Five College Area. Attending these were mandatory parts of the class - sometimes the artists would actually come in and speak with us directly. I had spent the summer in Amherst with friends, and these artist talks that were so sited specific, taking me to different areas of Amherst and NoHo, felt like an extension of the exploring I began doing in the Pioneer Valley by bus and on foot in the Spring of my second year. The band broke up at the semester’s start, and so I had a lot more free time on my hands. It was a busy semester, the velocity of which was carried over from the previous one. I continued pushing my limits, heightening my class and work-load. I was losing sight of what my concentration was and getting more invested in the individual worlds of my classes. In the end, this was a positive thing. The developments I made while dancing and writing in parallel projects that did not intersect felt immensely truthful and were swift in cutting deep at my obsessions and concerns. It became clear that a work where these mediums did intersect could be majorly effective. Boat’s Leaving, a repertory piece I had been cast in and had rehearsals for twice a week, was a work about a group of people on a journey together, and on the way trying and failing over and over to protect each other from suffering. My independent study brought me to a better understanding of how my writing has failed to address the subjects I’ve intended it to; I learned about what I struggle with in writing, what has been missing. I had intended for the class to focus on intersections between black and Chinese cultural identities, and though I do feel like my subject matter addressed this, thuy’s guidance dove me headfirst into a more broad contemplation on what my true desires were for my writing. What are my concerns? What is it that I see in the world that I want to change? How does the writing build towards this change? How can the language, down to the specificity of my word choice, reflect those desires? What are the links and divides between the personal and the collective? How is it a black feminist act to divulge personal information about queerness, sex, family, love, grief, and the blurring of perpetrator/victim dichotomy to an audience of strangers? These were some of the most interesting questions asked by authors that thuy assigned me to read, such as Simone White, Anne Carson, and Sun Yung Shin. I completed two chapbooks in my two poetry classes that semester considering these questions - Phosphoromancy and Sun Through A Skylight Under Snow - some poems from which I hope to edit and include in my Div III. 

My class with Nigel Alderman at Mount Holyoke on Modernism also sparked a connection for me between writing about marginalized identities and capitalism that illuminated the path to my Div III. A particular essay by Woolf called Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Brown got me thinking about writing as a practice of simultaneously rendering reality as it is and changing it. Taking Aesthetics of Racial Capitalism with Iyko Day at MoHo the following semester was the perfect answer to those thoughts for how it answered and expanded my questions about capitalism, race, queerness, and spatial existence. I had been trying to write about those subjects but struggled to make work that held the complexities between them in an honest way. The course illuminated many of these unknown realms, gave me clearer language to wield when speaking about them, and specified the historical sites where my interests overlap. It also introduced me to the concept of anti-relationality, a facet of capitalism that alienates people from each other, and from themselves. This concept cropped up in my TA’ing position as well. Being the first facilitating position I’d ever officially held, it stirred up a lot of anxiety about my ability to be a leader, and hold the vulnerability of students, in addition to the fact that it was a course I’d not taken before. I often struggled to push myself past my perceived limitations. The class group itself was also difficult to work with. I found that thuy almost always had to take the lead in discussions, and that participation was hard to excite and sustain. Many of the students were planted firmly in their chosen literary form, and I struggled to brainstorm effective ways to get them out of their comfort zones. Despite these roadblocks, identifying these anxieties has made it easier for me to now identify when I am repeating the behaviors that exacerbate them. The class content - considering writing as a space making practice that creates new lenses to see reality through - also contributed to developments I made that began to crystallize my Div III ideas. 

I can’t recall exactly how my interest in cowboy aesthetic, cowboy drag, and its racial implications developed. Some of it was present in my subconscious from seeing my Chinese grandfather in cowboy boots, Stetson hats, and silk vests in old footage, and recalling him teaching me to play “Range of the Buffalo” on guitar. What I know is that taking Intermediate Installation with Serena Aurora-Himmelfarb and Aesthetics of Racial Cap. at the same time sparked something in my brain and brought me to a fascination with the mobility politics of the American West as they impose themselves upon the Black, Asian, and Indigenous people who have historically lived there. Installation class broadened my understanding of art and coaxed dance back out of me as a valuable, essential method of researching whereas the previous semester I had been trying to define my Div III as solely literary. After naming these interests, Serena sent me work by an LA-based Chinese artist (who I hope to soon have a conversation with) Stephanie Mei Huang, a painter and installation artist doing work using “cowboy drag” to render the simultaneously belonging and unbelonging of Chinese consciousness in the American West. The class also familiarized me with the concept of assemblage, a combination of things/ideas/items/parts which through their individual pathways moves the entire organism as one entity. This idea comforted me when it came to the number of concepts I was drawing on in writing, performance art, dance, and installation. It freed me creatively and encouraged me to develop a hybridized project, that drew in many disciplines, forms, and methodologies - a feat fit for a Hampshire student. 

For our assemblage prompt, I drew together a pile of letters and envelopes I’d collected over the years and sewed them to the back of a Chinese textile jacket my mother made when she was around my age in the shape of a classic Western fringe jacket. I workshopped a short performance piece where I unhinged myself from a wall in the art barn while wearing the jacket, leaned against the wall statically, and then two-stepped around my classmates while singing “Cattle Call” by Eddy Arnold. This jacket is still a convergence site for many of the ideas I am weaving into my Div III. It holds mobility on a personal and collective level - the mobility of the railroad and of my Chinese ancestors who built it, the mobility of black ancestors escaped from slavery, the mobility of letters from California to Hampshire and vice versa, the free mobility of white settlers of the West in comparison to the criminalized mobility of black and Native American people, and how I negotiated my mobility in the summer of 2018 on trains and buses in Los Angeles. 

The pandemic cut these classes in half, switching them over to Zoom and totally disrupting the trajectory I’d been on in each. I lost a lot of motivation and momentum going from in-person to screen-locked but still managed to produce a video dance installation that was exciting and interesting for me, both for how it held the progress and discoveries I had made and for the future dance video installations it beckoned me to begin daydreaming about. In turn, the pandemic and historical uprisings for black lives implored me to think on a collective and personal level about concepts my classes introduced me to - particularly relationality, interdependency, and rendering consciousness in the wake of our historical contexts, changed permanently by the events of Spring and Summer. I am coming out of my Div II and into my final year thinking broadly about race, movement and mobility, consciousness rendering and changing, and the tension between the personal and the collective. I still struggle against many of the isolative behaviors I have identified in myself these past few years, but my acknowledgment of them has transformed the way I move through the world and treat the people around me. I continue to learn and grow and strive now to stick to my values by doing something when the actions of another or myself do not align with my values. I intend for my Div III project to be an actionable step towards this project of accountability, by illuminating the unseen - the erased histories of black and brown people in the American West, the love for my blackness and my black community which I resented suppressed in myself for far too long, and the simultaneous racial grief and melancholia that lionizing my proximity to whiteness. I hope to offer new information about pathways towards black and yellow solidarities, trouble the personal/collective dichotomy, and interrogate the propensity of historical narratives and nostalgia’s like that of the Western cowboy, for good and evil. 

[y2s1-20192020]

The Desensitization Pavilion: The 37 Hrs. Course - A manifesto against mass surveillance and the unseen forces which govern our everyday lives.

*This is a written manifesto which describes my project’s ideas in detail, includes references and includes insights into my thought and design processes - please refer to other deliverables for further clarification*

Before we can fully understand the desensitization pavilion, we need to take a step back in time and take a look at the past; particularly to the year 1988. 1988 was the year in which Lebbeus Woods, an American war architect known for his timeless experimental sketches and designs, drew up his proposal for a structure that would be defined as the embodiment of the essential properties of architecture that’s fundamental to building up the molecules for building groups or cities – The Solo House. Lebbeus Woods intended the design for the Solo House to be a blueprint as a single dwelling which would be mutated and repeated.  

Usually targeting disaster-struck cities (brought about by technological innovations) as inspiration for his designs. The contemporary type of global struggle used as the case – study for the design of the Solo House could be argued as being derived from “Terrorism” – conflict is no longer based on vast armies clashing on the field, but on small-scale insurgencies attacking the centers of their enemies’ power. This explosion of terrorism as a phenomenon is also made evident not only through statistical analysis (sudden frequent use of the word in the 70s/80s) but also through the representation of the media. It could be argued that the contemporary “terrorists” is the rise of mass surveillance.

We are currently living in a world best put by Liam Young as an age where "our generation’s cultural legacy are large data storages instead of libraries". An age where "objects listen and talk back. An age where "everyone boasts technology being the answer but never asks what the question was". The infrastructure has become so large it’s practically invisible to the point where you can call on technology with a snap of your fingers. But with every new invention, misuse follows. The last few decades have been focused on the contemporary type of warfare - terrorism. However, with this new age of technology, a new kind of terrorism known as cyber terrorism has officially begun – a battle fought in both the domestic and international fronts.

By tracing newly formed parallels and ruptures, time could be used as a structure where cultural, historical and political phenomena could be derived. Thus, resulting in a handful of alternative projections of what could happen in the not so distant future ranging from as the aftermath of not WW3, but WW4 as predicted by Einstein (hinting that humanity would resume back to the dark ages). Conversely, more “realistic” projections could be more viable to some such as an inc. in mass surveillance as a way for the government to combat this contemporary terrorist resulting in questions about whether we would trade personal security for privacy. The fact that you never know whether u are being watched or not suggests that question “to what extent are we governed by an unseen force (the media, government or even algorithms which subconsciously control us for example product placement used to groom our decisions).

In this age of increased surveillance, privacy is becoming a commodity of the old world and is rapidly moving further away from our reach. Thus, a highly sophisticated protest group developed “The ultra-privacy cloaking Accessory”, which is a privacy-enhancing wearable that would cloak your phone from both digital and physical surveillance by techniques implemented by computer vision dazzle (CV Dazzle). The accessory transforms the hand into a mess of pixels confusing the computer’s vision. The goal is to keep biometric recognition algorithms from seeing regularities and patterns in the typical detection points of the hand so that cameras will be unable to record and surveil you.

The product is essentially a disaster kit for a worst-case scenario in the not so distant future where we have little to no privacy as everything we do is being scanned and surveilled via camera scanners implemented around the whole city. The product trains people with the art of digital camouflage to further retaliate mass surveillance by allowing you to either build via instructions or configure personalized designs through a precision configuration app. The absurd, over the top, exaggerated features on the product could be justified as "the very thing that makes you invisible to computers makes you glaringly obvious to other humans”. However, if the whole community wears it, then everyone is somewhat camouflaged and becomes invisible – made evident by the anonymous protests in London. This then becomes the envisioned future for the project.

The intentional obscurity of the use is meant to embed enough curiosity within the public so that it becomes viral as a way to advertise/propagate the product. Inspiration for the distribution of the product comes from "Banksy museum art" and how the art is being inserted into places where they are not supposed to be. The product would be placed in another box as a ruse and will Infiltrate stores of all sorts. As the product is an open rebellion against the government, the dependence on masking/deceiving the true nature and purpose of the product relies on the manifestation of Easter eggs and hidden messages all over the product - only for the eyes of those who are worthy enough to detect and decode the message.  

The main ethos of the pavilion is derived from disappearing by the virtue of the many. The desensitization pavilion allows for viewers to experience objects which would usually look typically odd completely normal – when you drive along the course, the driver’s senses would be so in-tuned and accustomed with the new changing surroundings (these odd objects) to the degree that the pavilion practically disappears – the driver would arrive at the nucleus of the pavilion without actually knowing it.

Considering the fact that the pavilion is designed to be experienced behind the wheel of a car, it is essentially embodiments of the architectural interventions along the 37 Hrs. course with both the “limitations” being integrated as part of the Pavilion and the “cancelations” being implemented on the interface in the windshield of the vehicle. The interface is needed to successfully navigate the course and would be equipped with features that will “cancel” out these sensory overloads which in turn would gradually tune your senses along the course and help you overcome these “glitches”.

Similar to the idea behind the conventional terrorist, the pavilion is decentralized with no sense of origin (everything seems scattered). It isn’t a single entity, but rather an interactive experience where the importance of the pavilion eventually disappears along the course as a result of the architectural interventions spaced throughout the course with an increasing intensity as you get closer to the nucleus. As the mock-up model is an illustration of only a fragment of the nucleus, it is necessary to demonstrate the functionality and effect (being the limitations and cancellations) on fully working models – that being the architectural interventions. Each architectural intervention is designed in such a way that there are always 5 constants: Existing fragments, the intervention, landscape topography, viewfinder, and diagrammatic route.

These sensory overloads/interventions are derived from the collective, mutually exclusive limitations between Radar, LiDAR and Photogrammetry - the 3 main methods currently used for surveillance. These will be the “analog” factors which the pavilion will extrapolate to disrupt and render surveillance gear ineffective. Thus, the pavilion could, in reality, be better described as a forest of interventions where the frequency of these scattered interventions would increase as you get closer to the nucleus of the pavilion itself. Instead of an actual physical form, these highly intensified interventions (placed at a higher freq.) will be used to guide the drivers to the nucleus. Structure and cladding would be defined by the frequency, placement, and orientation of these existing interventions - where the form is simple but the complexity is in the layering. The functionality of the interventions are then extrapolated from the existing fragments so that they become architecture by placing them on mounts and forming structure.  

The locations for the course’s start and finish line were selected from a study into camouflage patterns used by various militaries around the world. Then, the degree of pixelation on camouflage patterns would then determine the aesthetics, shape, and form of the landscape eg. highly pixelated camouflage works better in urban areas as opposed to more blotchy patterns (Low Res). The pavilion’s nucleus is located in Supai, Arizona but the course itself starts in Toronto, Ontario. It was designed using the binary idea of something that is blotchy Vs. something that is very pixelated – the idea that these interventions when you start driving in Ontario would look very foreign – almost an outlier in the canon, however, as you continue to drive, it somewhat becomes very normal and “camouflaged”.  

The existence of this course is a gentle reminder that it is impossible to “beat” the course, mass surveillance and thus the government. This suggests that you should in turn just come to terms with your fate. Even though the architectural interventions offer a sort of psychological oasis – they are just temporary. This course is just an ironic funhouse image of a what-if scenario that would never become.  

Once you have completed the course, you will currently be in the state of desensitization. However, similar to after a race, you would need to replenish and “reset” your body. Thus, comes the re-sensitization area/area of reflection. As it is an Interactive Pavilion, once you have arrived at your destination, you are immediately re-sensitized and guided into the “area of reflection” - an area that forces you to accept your “fate”. Only when you have accepted your fate will you be released and free to leave. Those who haven’t accepted their fate would forever remain at the desensitization pavilion.

In conclusion, the Desensitization Pavilion is a manifesto against mass surveillance in a dystopian not-so-distant future derived from an intense research based on the initial canonical and trans-canonical factors of Lebbeus Woods’ “Solo House” resulting in something that is very real and very well could happen in the not so distant future.