#riotous assembly

[ilcovodelbikersgrunf]

Bristol Punks durante il servizio fotografico per la copertina dell'LP RIOTOUS ASSEMBLY, pubblicato dalla Riot City Records nel 1982

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"MOTHERS' THANKS EARNED BY BUCK WITNESS THINKS," Toronto Star. July 4, 1933. Page 1 & 2. ---- Many Should Be Grateful to Communist Leader for Acts in Riot, Court Told --- ADVISED CONVICTS ---- Accused Man Accepts Deputy Warden's Explanation of "Ruse" ---- Special to The Star Kingston, July 4. - Leg-shackled, in pairs, fourteen convicts came to the court house here this morning to bear witness in the defence of Tim Buck and Adrian Vandergayt, convicts accused of rioting last October at Kingston penitentiary. Buck, who is being tried by Judge G. E. Deroche, is defending himself. He called Anthony Becker as his second witness. Becker was employed at the blacksmith shop on the day of the riot. He said that on seeing a gang of men descend to the ground from the tailor shop, via a scaffold, he had pulled the switch controlling the power in the shop. "What made you pull the switch?" asked Buck. "I pulled it impulsively," explained Becker. Buck had come to the guards and told them in a respectful manner to go to the mail bag rooms, witness said. In the mail-bag room Becker said he had seen Garceau and Behan make speeches. Buck Didn't Speak "If I had made a speech you wouldh ave heard it?" "Yes." T. J. Rigney, K.C., for the crown asked Becker how far Buck had been from the switch when it was pulled. "About 30 feet," witness said. "What was the reason you pulled the switch?" "I saw men coming.from the tailor shop so I walked over and pulled the switch." "What has the men coming down the scaffold to do with the pulling of the switch?" "I had heard rumors." Mr. Rigney pressed for an answer as to the connection. Buck objected, saying that in his estimation the question had been answered.

Mr. Rigney wanted to know what witness would do if he saw a horse coming down the street. "Well," drawled the witness, "it all depends on the horse - " he broke off laughing. The court also laughed, and Mr. Rigney changed his line of questioning.

Becker said that Buck had come into the blacksmith shop and he had asked where he was going. Buck said he was going to tell the officers to go to the mail-bag room where they would be safer.

"Was there anyone else there when Buck spoke to you?" "No, just the two of us," replied Becker. Spoke to Officers Buck had then gone to the officers and communicated his wish for their safety. The officers had spoken regarding changing their clothes, and Buck had told them they could do as they liked, witness stated.

One of the officers had changed his clothes, and the three had left to go upstairs to the mail-bag room.

After the departure of the officers Buck and witness had walked slowly along the hallway and eventually they came to the mail-bag shop, he recalled.

Becker said that Buck did not make a speech in the mail-bag shop.

"You're positive of that?" "Buck did not make a speech in the mail-bag room," said Becker in a firm voice.

Buck complained to the court that he had been taken to the north gate at 7.30 this morning to see Mr. Nickle, who is assisting him with his defence.

"They told me Mr. Nickle had telephoned that he wanted to see me there. I was kept there without breakfast until I was brought here. Mr. Nickle now tells me that he did not telephone.

"I have had no chance to see my witnesses because of this ruse and I would like an adjournment for a few minutes in order to do so. And also to get some breakfast."

An adjournment for 15 minutes was ordered by the court and arrangements were made by Sheriff R. F. Vair to have some breakfast brought to Buck.

A Misunderstanding On the resumption of court, Judge Deroche told Buck that Deputy Warden George Sullivan had explained the circumstances of the ruse.

"It was clearly a misunderstanding." stated he.

"I think it was your honor," commented Buck.

One of the men who some years ago escaped with "Red" Ryan and others, Thomas "Shorty" Bryans, was the next witness called by Buck. Bryans hobbled to the stand with the aid of crutches. Buck asked that the witness be allowed to sit down and permission was given.

Bryans said that he had heard rumors of an impending demonstration and that when the motor stopped he thought it was a signal. He had gone to the dome where Buck, Garceau and others had talked.

Buck had stated that Deputy Warden Walsh had asked him to speak to the men. Garceau, he said, had spoken to the men, telling them that he understood the boys were out for reform and better conditions.

Sam Behan, who was acquitted on Saturday, had spoken about "unity and one for all, all for one," said witness.

"Who said that?" asked Buck. "Sam Behan did."

He recalled that Buck had stooda round during the demonstration but had not spoken until after the warden had made a speech. Buck then told the men that the soldiers would not harm them as long as they kept calm and did no violence.

"You then advised them to collect water because you said the place was a fire trap." asserted Bryans.

Unsolicited, Bryans sald: "There are women and children in Kingston, in fact, in Canada, who should he grateful for what Tim Buck did that day."

"What do you mean?" inquired Buck. "Well, what you did to keep the thing quiet and peaceful," eplained Bryans.

Can't Tell of Bloodshed Mr. Rigney asked witness what he meant by the statement regarding the gratitude of the mothers and children of Canada.

"Well, for the speeches they made - and the way they put things over."

Buck wanted Bryans to elaborate on this but when witness started to tell about prison riots he had been in and the amount of bloodshed there had been the court objected.

Three speeches had been made in the dome, said Wm. McKenzie, another convict, by Garceau, Behan and Warden Smith. After the warden's speech Buck had spoken but witness was unable to say what time had elapsed. Buck, in his speech, had told the men that the warden had telephoned for troops but that they should feel no alarm as long as they behaved themselves, said McKenzie.

Went for His Cake The next witness, Clifford Hines, stood in the box and answered the questions with contrasting flashes of white teeth against the dark background of his face.

Buck asked who had pulled the motor switch. "Is it necessary that I say who it was?" asked Hines. "The man in question is quite wiling that you should," advised Buck.

"It was Becker," answered witness.

Hines said he was positive it was Sam Behan who had made the statement "One for all. All for one."

Buck had warned the men not to act violently and therefore they would come to no harm. This speech had a quietening effect on the men, Hines claimed.

Hines said he had returned to the blacksmith shop to retrieve a piece of cake which he had left there, in case of a siege.

"Are you suggesting there are thieves in the penitentiary?" asked Buck. "Yes, I knew there were some." "Did you get your cake?" "Oh yes. It was there all right," answered witness, with a broad white smile. The court smiled with him.

[multifandomme]

Smoke Signals

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Female Reader

Summary: Emily craves normality following the Doyle incident. Based on this anon request.

Genre(s): Smut, hurt/comfort kinda, (strap ons, power dynamics, praise, strap sucking, choking, pet names, injuries, mention of blood, pretty vanilla all things considered), not suitable for minors.

Word Count: 2.4k.

This piece is for day 13 of kinktober under the ‘soft sex’ prompt.

A/N: The ending will only make sense if you have watched cm 7x04.

More works from me here. || Masterlist here. || Kinktober 2024 Masterlist here.

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It was a gnawing absence that had roused you from slumber, the scrambling of your hands against the bedsheets, only to find them cold, void of Emily. The mandatory relocation to Paris had been a complicated adjustment, ripped from familiarity and thrust into discomfort. Emily was different now, a perpetual flicker of fear in her eyes. And though free of Doyle’s physical captivity, he continued to wreak havoc in her mind, despite her valiant efforts to shroud it.

The latent scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, the softened sloshing of bathwater indicating her whereabouts. You were unsurprised, this routine becoming somewhat of a new obsession for Emily. The scars that Doyle had scattered across her skin had bothered her more than she cared to admit and she would scrub mercilessly over the four-leaf clover in a vehement attempt to remove his imprint.

It was futile, the porcelain rendered raw until crimson beads breached the surface and tinged the water in the palest of pinks. And Emily would stare in bewilderment, as if you had just rescued her from a recurring nightmare, except it was not the figment of her imagination that she had hoped for it to be. It was real. 

Cautious footsteps drew you into the bathroom, the ashtray perched upon the corner of the bathtub piled high with orange tips, the skin of her chest glowing in puce. A pang of sadness stabbed into your chest at the sight of her.

“Come on,” you whispered, softly as you coaxed the sponge from her vice-like grasp, “the water’s getting cold, baby, let’s get you dry, hm?”

Emily regarded you with eyes of riotous fury, lurching forward to ignite another cigarette, grey smoke trailing until a thickened haze enveloped the space. She was still, silent, evasive.

“I know how hard this has-”

“Hard?” Emily echoed, the scoff that followed suit thrusting a sudden burst of smoke from her mouth. “Try fucking insufferable,” she flared, anger unhoused, her head shaking wildly. “I should’ve killed that bastard years ago when I had the chance."

The air grew frigid, fraught with emotion on the cusp of eruption. You sank to the ground, relinquishing to the heaviness of the conversation, the tiles like ice as they met your skin. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Emily,” you reasoned, your voice faint, cautious, “none of it was.”

A palpitating breath emitted from her, her cigarette left to bleed smoke in the ashtray as she mustered the composure to meet your gaze. Tears pooled, camouflaged slightly by the droplets that sprinkled the entirety of her body, her bottom lip cinched painfully betwixt her teeth in a bid to forestall them. It was this vision of breakage that sent the pad of your thumb to smooth over her cheek, her eyes settling to a close as she leaned into the contact, cherished it. 

“I can’t even look at myself,” she admitted, solemnly as she retreated from your touch, troubled. “What he did to me, the scars he has left on my body,” she trailed off, sighing, the fragments of a bitter smile assembling. “You… haven’t touched me in weeks.”

In an instant, you claimed possession of her chin, pinched between your fingers as you studied the pain that cloaked her. And it was visceral, all-encompassing, her irises abyssal as they flickered in aversion, in shame.

“I’ve wanted to,” you reassured, sincerely, the dampness from her forehead painting your lips as you planted a fleeting kiss. “But I wanted you to heal first,” you explained, Emily’s eyes visibly softening. “I think you’re beautiful, I always have.”

The tears that had been safely stashed away earlier sprung from their concealment, salted streams cascading without relent as you cast them away with your fingertips. Emily’s simper was quick to perforate the veil of melancholy, a breathy burst of laughter materialising when she noted the error in her judgement. A realisation that was further substantiated when you had permitted yourself the indulgence of raking your glare over her body, a body that you loved without condition, a body to be revered. 

Emily threw you a knowing look, a newfound sparkle in her eye and one that had been missing for so long that you had almost forgotten its appearance. Her palms fixed themselves to your cheeks, dousing you in tepid water, though all that seemed to matter was the welcomed proximities of her lips grazing yours. 

“This is the part where you fix it,” she revealed, her smirk scorching into you, though she remained controlled, restrained. “Ask me what it is that I want."

A hum of amusement reverberated from you, a semblance of the person you had momentarily lost gifted back to you, an influx of relief taking hold, a beacon of hope.

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want you to fuck me… tonight,” she specified, staring intently through long, black lashes, assertive in her demand. “Stop worrying about me,” she breathed, an open-mouth kiss sizzling into you, the contact so evanescent that you were robbed of the chance to react. “I want you to take control.”

A brazen smirk blossomed as you retracted from her grip, leaping up to tower over her submerged form. Emily quirked an eyebrow in confusion, her face transported into that of shock as she felt your hand enclosing moderately around her throat. The water splashed noisily as she flailed around, a dizzied beam peering up at you as she recalled the familiarity of your touch, acknowledged your clear-cut acquiescence to her request. 

“Is this what you want, baby?” You asked, a strangled whine fleeing from her, an avid nod quick to follow.

“Yes.”

Abruptly, you freed her.

“Then you’d better come to bed, hm?”

The sound of frenzied footfalls pursued closely behind you as you hastily fixed your strap on around your waist. Emily regarded you, lust flooding those beautiful dark eyes as she fell to her knees in submission, impatience, water droplets pooling below her. 

“Be a good girl and get this wet for me, hm?”

Emily obliged with a zeal unmatched, not a trace of hesitation passing over her gaze. The appendage soon became encased by her greedy mouth, sheathed in saliva as she sucked with purpose, muffled moans rumbling in the depths of her throat. Her eyes rolled into her skull, her delight depicted in every motion that she undertook, a hand secured around its base, the other clasping tightly at your hip for leverage. 

And she was a sight to behold, a discernible glimmer of innocence swirling in her orbs, despite the lewd activity she was engaged in, your fingers winding themselves into her hair only to sink further into her mouth. You yanked the brunette strands until you were certain of the visceral burn they incited, a grunt of pain-pleasure forcing her brows to sew together in union. 

“You look so pretty like this, angel,” you commented, quelling the sharpened sting with a series of gentle caresses to her scalp and earning a contended hum from Emily. “Such a good girl for me.”

Emily’s thighs clenched noticeably, and you had wondered if you had underestimated the true extent of her desperation, addicted to the ceaseless sound of her whimpering. Her eyes pleaded with you, wholehearted in her need for you as she fidgeted in place with a prospering restlessness. 

The urge to prod at her self-control was overturned the moment you perceived the adorable little smile that lifted her cheeks, so slight that it had almost gone unseen. And even with her mouth occupied, saliva tainting the corners, that simper never strayed, aimed squarely towards you. Warmth radiated, butterflies swooning in your stomach until you fizzed with anticipation, unable to prolong her exacerbation, wanting nothing more than to take care of her, satisfy her. 

In that ephemeral instance, Doyle had never existed, had never hurt her, her bruises fading until her bones were wrapped in unblemished white, her expression no longer corrupted by vestiges of terror, despair. Yes, when she smiled like that, the darkened gloom dispersed instantaneously, her light so profound it could rival the sun, hued in gold.

A palpable air of disappointment thickened as you retracted from her, fingers outstretched in a fruitless bid to repossess you. Instead, you widened the space, a mischievous smirk gracing your lips as she stilled, awaiting instruction. 

“On the bed for me, angel,” you husked, hands smoothing across the bedsheets she had left cold in her wake earlier, accelerated footsteps edging into existence. “Legs open for me. I want to take a good look at my pretty girl, hm?”

Emily’s obedience was impressively prompt, settling into position with her arousal gleaming below your gaze.

“Fuck,” you mused, a twinkle of delight flickering in your orbs in the knowledge that she was sufficiently needy, abundantly so, the tortured expression she donned enough to call your own self-control into question. “You’re soaking for me, baby.”

A pitiful mewl escaped her, teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek as a means of repressing the noise that threatened to spill. Her toes wriggled, impatience rising as she watched you with unbridled intrigue, your body snake-like in its motion. You slithered against her, dampened skin meeting your own, her nipples rigid as they poked into your chest. 

“Touch me,” she urged, her voice a mere whisper, quavering into nonexistence when your lips met her neck, her heartbeat punching rhythmically against your mouth. “I’ve needed this so much,” she admitted, “needed you.”

���I shouldn’t have left it so long,” you hummed, though the message was almost a jibe at yourself, the desire that seeped from her only highlighting your mistake, determined to rectify it. “I’m gonna make it up to you, baby,” you promised, suckling a deep bruise into her that was certain to remain, her breath hitching in response.

“That’ll leave a mark,” Emily noted, her teeth clamping at her lip in glee, a suggestive tone lurking in her voice as her arms grew around you like vines, weaving to anchor you in place, to encourage a suffocating closeness.

“God, I hope so,” you smirked, a chaste kiss pressed to her lips before you drew in, warm breath casting a breeze across her ear. “You belong to me, my pretty girl.”

Gingerly, you lined the strap on with her pussy, the gentlest stroke of your hips causing you to slide into her. A loudened hiss emanated, her brows furrowed as the toy stretched her out. The emergence of fingernails prickled into the delicate skin of your back, your lips soon merging with hers to subdue the fleeting pain that had induced. Undying lust possessed her, breathy moans fading into your mouth as her tongue flickered against yours, heated, mindless. 

“Does it feel good, baby?” You asked, pointedly, the answer evident in the way her nails burrowed deeper into you, the shameless moans that bled out into the surrounding quiet. “You’re doing so well, angel,” you praised, the precision of your movement flailing for a moment, the scene below you too much to bear. “Such a good girl for me.”

“Missed you inside of me,” she whimpered, sucking in a sharp inhale as you quickened the pace, a surge of happiness filling you in response to her confession. “I’ve been so desperate, fuck.”

Emily yanked your mouth to hers, the reconnection frenzied, feral, her teeth clashing into you with no heed paid, the world fated to dissolve into nothingness, your focus undivided upon the woman below you. Her irises glittered with darkened passion, the might of your exertions causing a salient sphere of heat to form around you. And it was a perfect reunion, albeit overdue, her velvet skin flush against you, her soft lips keeping you hostage with an enduring avidity. 

You wanted to savour the moment, snap a mental image of her beauty, how the desperation tinged her cheeks with the mildest blush. But as soon as Emily noticed your motion become languid, mellow, her head jolted in rebuttal.

“No,” she moaned, breathily, her lips tearing from you to voice her protest, “please, I’ve waited long enough.”

“You want to cum, baby?” You asked, your hand veering between your melded bodies to massage her clit, wetness clinging to your digits as Emily rutted wildly in reaction, her hips jogging sporadically in assistance. 

“Yes, fuck,” she rasped, her jaw slackening, lips swollen from the fresh bite marks she had etched into them. “Please, I want to.”

Your hips accelerated to a pace unrivalled, a hand wrapping firmly around her throat and squeezing with intent, the other working proficiently to pacify the ache of her clit. The zeal drained from her gaze, transformed into a thoughtless stare, the pleasure bewildering as it built. 

Emily floated away, half-lidded eyes flickering until you pressed a startling kiss to her lips and willed her consciousness into engagement. 

“Look at me, angel,” you insisted, softly, your hips slamming with reckless abandon, the cusp of undoing edging into sight. “That’s it, baby, cum for me,” you encouraged, your lips nestled into her neck. “All for me.”

A violent shudder ricocheted, Emily’s head thrown backwards into the pillows, her clit twitching below the pads of your fingers. The sound that ripped from her throat seemed to echo, forceful exhales following suit as she clawed to reclaim her composure. You released her throat from your grasp, a giant smile taking position on her face as she drew you into a comforting hug. 

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” you spoke, your voice obstructed slightly by the thick tresses of brunette that were pushed messily against your face. “I guess I was scared of hurting you after everything.”

Emily cleared her throat, a pang of emotion thrumming until it brimmed in her eyes, an audible gulp sounding into the brief epoch of silence. 

“I know,” she croaked, a wistful smile prevailing. “I’m still angry about Doyle,” she admitted, a flitting glint of agitation darting in her eyes. “I just wish it hadn’t cost me the team. I miss them.”

You nodded, a fleeting kiss pressed to her temple before you escaped from her hold, a little smile blossoming on your face and piquing her suspicion. 

“You’re forgetting something,” you informed, swiping your laptop from its position atop the desk, the morning light peeking in through the crack in the curtains. “Not all is lost.”

Emily narrowed her eyes, positively perplexed as you placed the laptop onto the bed and opened it before her. 

“What?” She questioned, half-annoyed by the mystery you had presented, more so by the fact that she was no closer to uncovering it. 

“It’s midnight back home,” you reminded, “and I know cheeto breath has been waiting for that rematch you promised.”

Emily could only grin widely in response. 

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@ionlylikemarvelforthewomen ♡ @agenderrat ♡ @i-write-sometimes-maybe ♡ @sugaryspiciness ♡ @chiefemilyprentiss ♡

[chdarling-tle]

The cup of tea was hot in her hands as Lily watched the milk she’d poured unfurl in a riotous blossom. She gave it a stir, gazing intently at the swirl, the storm, the eventual settling. Eternity in a teacup.

She sat alone at the Gryffindor table. Only a few other students were freckled around the Great Hall, sleepily assembling their own breakfasts. She’d come down far earlier than was her usual habit. No one would ever accuse Lily Evans of being a morning person, but she’d woken up early today. She couldn’t sleep. The frantic week prior had flitted away like a fretful spring breeze — all their planning and plotting, whispers in the corridors, owls in the evenings — until suddenly it was Saturday.

The day of the big protest.

Probably it was some combination of nerves and exhaustion that kept her staring into the depths of her tea, and she lost track of precisely how long she’d been at this before she noticed a presence behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. It was Severus.

Read on AO3.

[alchemyfire]

More extracts from the book "The Revolutionary Career of Maximilien Robespierre" by David P. Jordan

I have more excerpts to share from this fantastic book. I hope you don't mind - rest assured there's more inside and it's worth reading in full. ;-)

...From the beginning those who found his politics and his personality uncongenial were outspoken. He was accused of talking too much about himself. He was accused of intransigence. He was accused of pomposity and an annoying posture of moral superiority, of arrogance and outlandish opinions stridently maintained. This catalogue of calumny and shortcomings is as revealing of its victim as of its compilers. It is a list, not necessarily realistic, of what his colleagues feared about him...

...What authority Robespierre had in the Constituent and the Convention he brought into the sessions from outside its precincts. This popularity beyond the walls of the National Assembly Robespierre's colleagues both despised and feared. It added to dislike and distrust of the man, who appeared to represent a massive, potentially riotous, and faceless constituency...

...Robespierre had had to wait an exceptionally long time for power, and the only power he received, the only power the Revolution would tolerate, was collegial: he shared the Committee's dictatorship of the Revolution with eleven colleagues.

That this enormously popular man was kept so long from power is instructive. Whatever the specific reservations about his personality or politics, he was feared. The false accusation that he aspired to the dictatorship is ample evidence. And he was feared by the majority of his deputy colleagues, at both the outset and the end of his career...

...Even among those who later adhered to his leadership, who followed a robespierriste line, there were several who did so reluctantly...when they were eventually proscribed and forced into exile, they accepted their fate without abandoning their beliefs... some explained their adherence to Robespierre... two such reluctant robespierristes said they followed him because he offered the only acceptable line, the only ideology that led to the great goals of liberty, equality, and fraternity for which they had first joined the Revolution. Robespierre was not loved because he was not lovable. But as his adherents overcame their reservations, so even the Marais had eventually to overcome its fears. When Robespierre was at last called to power in the Convention - and he never exercised an exclusively personal power even at the apogee of his career - his authority had become necessary and irresistible.

...By June 6 the unknown provincial was being listened to, or at least there was a diminuendo in the general level of noise that greeted most speakers, so wrote a witness to his correspondent in Arras. And although his views were shared by so few of his colleagues, he gradually came to be listened to, not as an eccentric or a crank but as a man who had something to say. Indicative of his emerging stature, and there is no dramatic confrontation, no single brilliant speech we can point to as the turning point, is the space gradually given to his speeches in the newspaper, which begin to report them with accuracy and thoroughness: they even learn to spell his odd name.

...He was not, as has sometimes been argued, indifferent to economic matters. He considered them less important than ideology ...nor was he hostile to the workers, a man of the bourgeoisie incapable of budging on basic class issues, which has also been argued. He deeply distrusted all organizations capable of developing an esprit de corps, particular interests that might conflict with the general interest. He sincerely believed the interests of the working class would be best served by the triumph of the Revolution, which during the Constituent meant the success of his democratic proposals and the curbing of all old privileges and preventing new ones from emerging. On these issues he was an isolated voice, without faction or following, regularly supported only by his comrade Pétion. But the majority successfully opposed the kind of egalitarian democracy Robespierre advocated and articulated. France was to be regenerated, Robespierre believed, through good laws.

...He was the most verbally abused man in the Constituent, indeed in the Revolution, both while alive and after his death. This verbal mauling in the royalist press was a certificate of radicalism, a purple heart to be proudly worn, but Robespierre would doubtless have done without the wounds. He was able to defend himself... yet the attacks had their impact. Calumny came, increasingly, to obsess him. It gradually assumed enormous proportions in his mind as one of the chief weapons of the counterrevolution...

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 3 May 1938, British colonial police massacred construction workers striking for a pay increase at the Frome sugar factory in Jamaica. Three were killed by gunshot, one by bayonet and at least 25 were injured. They also arrested 109 workers and charged them with "riotous assembly", sentencing many to up to one year's imprisonment. But the repression sparked widespread demonstrations and strikes by other workers across the island. More information, sources and map: https://stories.workingclasshistory.com/article/10227/Frome-Estate-strike-massacre We are currently working on a podcast episode about worker rebellion in the Caribbean in the 1930s. Subscribe to our podcast today on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen to podcasts to make sure you don't miss it. Pictured: the factory https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=619704806869405&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Le repentir est le dernier profit que l'homme tire de sa faute.

François de La Rochefoucauld

Sacre-Coeur was commissioned by the French National Assembly in 1873, following the tumultuous year of the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune. It was in this period that France had suffered a humiliating military defeat, Emperor Napoleon III fled into exile, Paris itself had been under siege, and the riotous period of the Paris Commune that followed caused thousands of deaths and destroyed many buildings - including the Tuileries Palace and the Hotel de Ville. Sacre-Coeur was the initiative of Alexandre Legentil and Hubert Rohault de Fleury as the saw the defeat of France was a spiritual one. They vowed to build a church dedicated to the Sacred Heart “as reparation” (i.e. as penance for infidelity and sin) for they held that the misfortunes of France had spiritual rather than political causes.

In a still-controversial decision in 1873, the National Assembly voted to use the highest and most visible land in the city to "expiate the crimes of the Commune". The angry debate about the church was indicative of the schism in the French social order, with royalists and reactionary Catholics on one side, and democrats, socialists and rationalists on the other. The bishops of the Catholic Church supported the idea of course, but it was opposed by many others, including French president Georges Clemenceau. The work was funded from donations - in many cases modest - collected throughout France, the names of the donors being carved in the stone.

The first stone of the Sacré-Coeur, whose construction was laid on 16 June 1875. A stone extracted in Seine-et-Marne in the Château-Landon quarry, about 25 km south of Fontainebleau, which was used at the beginning of the 19th century for the construction of the Arc de Triomphe. Its characteristic ? This stone is self-cleaning. For the construction of the basilica was not chosen the limestone of Paris, extracted since Antiquity in a quarry of the Oise. The architect of the Sacré-Coeur preferred to call on the quarry of Souppes-sur-Loing, in Seine-et-Marne, and its “Château-Landon” stones. In contact with rainwater, the cullet, a thin protective layer that naturally coats the stone, secretes a white substance which hardens in the sun.

Even as the foundation stones were finally laid in 1875 ongoing political debates slowed progress. One fractious debate of 1880 called the basilica a provocation to civil war and proposed reversing the 1873 decree that granted the property rights for the church. In the end, at least five different architects were involved in completing the design; construction was not completed until 1914 - just in time for World War I. Sacre-Coeur took longer to complete than did the Parthenon in Athens.

[dconscreen]

The Powered Pup and Prosthetic Penguin Pecker | News

Unlike Penguin's prosthetic pecker, this news episode is long and kinda hard to do.

Not really, we had a blast, but we talked about a WHOLE lot:

Why It's Taken So Long to Get The Batman Part II

More 'The Batman' Spin-Off Shows in Development

Colin Claims He Wore a Prosthetic Penguin Pecker

Do Joker and Ivy Both Have Squirting Flowers DOWN THERE?

Colin Farrell and Barry Keoghan "Had a Giggle" About Their Batman Roles

'Superman & Lois' Was Supposed to be at Least Seven Seasons but Showrunners Promise a Satisfying Conclusion

Elizabeth Hestridge is Playing Lex Luthor's Daughter

'Creature Commandos' EP Tickles its Balls

NYCC Panel Will Tease the Commandos and DCU's Future

Unconfirmed: Alan Tudyk to Play Mystery Role in "Superman"

'Superman" Assembly Cut is Long Done

We Got Our First Look at Krypto The Super Dog

Gunn on Grillo's Turn at Being on Three Different DCU Projects (So Far)

Why It's Taken So Long to Get Peacemaker Season 2

Gunn Teases a Deep-Cut Character on Peacemaker

Dean Lorey Teases More Harley/Kiteman Spin-Offs!

Harley and Ivy Move to Metropolis in Season 5!

Justice for Brown Stain

Matt Reeves Still Planning 'The Batman' Trilogy

'Dynamic Duo" Announced with Momo Animation!

Bane/Deathstroke Movie Rumored to be in the Works

Gunn Calls Batman Casting Rumor Bullshit

Confirmed: We Have Our Hal Jordan and John Stewart in "Lanterns"

Unconfirmed: "Lanterns" Taps "Black Mirror" Director

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[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Christmas Reruns 2023 Day 2: A Christmas Miracle (2/3)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t!  One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia.  A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns.  So here you go!  Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

 Rating: G

Word Count: 1197

Other chapters: 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Note:  This is chapter two of my 2013 story A Christmas Miracle.  It was written just before the end of the Neverland arc and it fits within my “A Wish Your Heart Makes” universe.  References to curses and Camelot refer to that verse!

Hook adjusted the collar of his leather coat and then stepped from the hallway into Granny’s dining room. The chamber had been utterly transformed. A huge pine tree decorated with brightly colored lights, tinsel and hundreds of ornaments took up an entire corner. Red and green streamers, sprigs of holly and huge paper snowflakes adorned the wall and ceiling. Several small tables had been pushed together to form one long table elaborately set for nine.

As he sauntered into the room, Hook looked over the gathered assembly. Baelfire stood with Belle and the Crocodile, talking and laughing. Belle gazed adoringly up at the Crocodile, and he raised a hand to tenderly stroke her face. Hook waited for the familiar burning hatred to steal over him at the sight of his erstwhile enemy, but it never came. For that matter, it hadn’t come in quite some time. When had he given up the last vestiges of his vengeance?

Hook looked past Snow and Charming, busy with last minute preparations, to Emma and her lad who stood talking and laughing near the booths. Suddenly he knew exactly when his hatred for the crocodile had vanished. It was the moment he had finally let go of Milah’s memory, the moment he had fallen deeply, passionately, irretrievably in love with Emma Swan.

The lass was beautiful this evening. She wore an ice-blue tea-length gown and a matching lacy bolero sweater. Her golden hair was swept up at the sides and fell in riotous curls down her back. Hook didn’t think he’d ever seen her in formal attire, and the effect nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

As though feeling his gaze, Emma looked up and caught his eye. She colored slightly at the look he gave her, and then dropped her eyes. Hook sighed and walked forward toward his lady and her lad. Would he ever succeed in scaling that well-fortified fortress that she had built around her heart?

“Hook!” Henry called joyfully when the pirate was a few feet away. “I didn’t know you were coming too!”

Hook grinned and tousled the boy’s hair. “Aye lad; that I am.”

“Cool!” Henry beamed at him. Hook had spent quite some time with the lad during their last adventure, and he found he genuinely enjoyed the boy’s company. It gratified him that Emma’s son seemed glad to see him as well.

The diner door opened, and Regina stepped in, brushed the snow from her dark hair, and shrugged out of her coat.

“Mom!” Henry called, walking over to the queen.

Hook looked back at Emma, and she looked suddenly shy.

“You’re stunning, love,” Hook said with a soft smile. Emma’s blush grew.

“But then again,” he continued, his grin turning wicked, “I’ve no doubt you would be stunning in whatever you wore…or didn’t wear.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but he noticed she couldn’t quite stop the grin that spread over her lips.

“Please,” she said, “You are so full of it, Hook.”

His grin was pure pirate. “Full of charm, charisma, astonishingly good looks?” he drawled. “Aye lass; that I am.”

She laughed and playfully shoved his shoulder. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He was making headway, he knew it. He was starting to see a slight crack in that wall of hers.

“Ok, everyone,” Snow called from the table where she had just placed a fragrant, steaming turkey, “dinner’s ready.”

“Shall we?” Hook asked, gesturing with his hook.

Emma nodded and Hook followed her to the table. She took a seat next to Henry, and Hook seated himself on her other side. The Charmings had procured a veritable Christmas feast complete with turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables and cranberry sauce. Hook’s mouth watered at the delicious aromas. He suddenly remembered it had been hours since his last meal.

At the head of the table, Charming stood and tapped his wine glass with a knife.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he said, encompassing the whole group with his gaze. “It has been a rough year for all of us. We’ve dealt with difficulties, setbacks, danger, and heartbreak.”

Charming glanced at Regina, and the queen dropped her eyes. Hook felt a surge of pity for the woman. She had found Robin Hood, her true love, in the Enchanted Forest, and it looked like she would finally get her happy ending. Then they had found a way back to Storybrook…a way that couldn’t include Robin Hood and his little son. Hook knew all too well what it felt like to be separated from the one you love.

“But it has been a good year, as well,” Charming continued. “We’ve faced our challenges, and we’ve overcome them. We’ve succeeded in breaking not only one, but two curses, and we’ve succeeded in rescuing Henry from one of the most evil villains in any realm. Through it all, we’ve come to be a family. We’ve been able to put aside our grievances, our difficulties, even our hatred and work together toward some pretty difficult goals.”

Charming raised his glass higher and once more swept his gaze over the entire assembly. “So I ask you to raise your glasses. To family and friends and all those we love!”

Hook got to his feet with everyone else and raised his glass filled with ruby-red wine. Clinking his glass against Emma’s, he looked into her eyes. He held her gaze as he repeated “To family and friends and all those we love!”

Emma’s heart raced. She should look away, turn in the other direction, anything. But she simply couldn’t do it. His blue eyes were simply mesmerizing. That look on his face! What was she to do? There was no denying the attraction she felt toward him. After their kiss in Neverland, she couldn’t even pretend to herself that he meant nothing to her.

But he was a pirate! He flirted with anything in skirts. How could she possibly believe that he loved her and would fight for her? How could she let her guard down enough to give her heart to another man?

Besides, she was the savior, and, well, it seemed that meant she didn’t get her happy ending. She ensured everyone else had a chance at a happy ending, but it wasn’t in the cards for her. Hadn’t everything that had happened over the last few months proved that? As soon as one crisis ended another began.

“Uh, mom?” she heard Henry ask from her side.

The spell was broken; she was finally able to tear her gaze from Hook’s. Looking around, she saw that every single person at the table was seated but her and her pirate…and every single eye was on them. For the love of all that was holy, what was wrong with her? She dropped hastily to her seat and drained her glass of wine.

“You don’t happen to have an extra flask on you?” she asked Hook in a low voice.

“No, love,” he answered, laughter in his voice.

“Shame,” she said ruefully, “I have a feeling I’m going to need a whole lot of alcohol before this night is over.”

NEXT CHAPTER-->   

[let-your-chaos-explode]

I Got You, Babe

A new Dovesso work in progress! This one will have a significant number of chapters and more words per chapter. This one will be a slow burn.

Summary:

Lady Leonora Lesso is jaded with the routine and monotony of life as the Dean of Evil. Year after year, day after day, and nothing seems to change...even after the collapse of the school following Sophie and Agatha's appearance. What she doesn't know, is that wishes are truly some of the most powerful magic indeed. When she unknowingly makes a heartfelt wish, the consequences begin to feel more like a curse. If dreams are a wish the heart makes, Lesso's must be full of nightmares. She comes to find herself trapped re-living the same day over and over again with no way out.

Or: My take on the Groundhog Day / Time-Loop concept.

Lady Leonora Lesso woke early to the sound of birds chirping through the open window of her tower. The bright sunlight belied the coolness of the late-winter morning. 

Lesso groaned and blindly threw an object from her bedside table toward the window, shouting “Shut UP!”

The birdsong ceased, but the silence was broken a moment later by a series of sharp raps against the wooden door of her chambers. Knock-knock, knock-knock, knock. 

“Rise and shine Lady Lesso! It’s a beautiful morning and you are LATE for the students’ return!” Professor Dovey called from behind the door. “You have ten minutes before our school address!”

The sound of her heels clicked entirely too happily down the stone corridor. 

Lesso reluctantly rolled out of the warm cocoon of her bed and trudged into the ensuite. With a twirl of her wrist, her finger began to glow and smoky make-up was instantly applied and her riotous curls were brushed out, settling into the familiar, voluminous style. She brushed her teeth and took her time sliding into her sharp pantsuit. 

“It’s showtime.” She sighed, shaking her head against the monotony of the routine. 

Her silver tipped cane clacked loudly against the floor as she strolled along the bridge from the tower. Truly, she should wake earlier to accommodate for the extended travel times in the morning from the (former) School Master’s tower. Ever since the demise of Rafal and the joining of the two schools, her and Dovey had established a truce of sorts and taken up joint residence in the middle tower between castles. The accommodations were, if she was honest, significantly more comfortable than her previous rooms. The extra walking was a nightmare on her leg though, not that she would ever let Dovey know of the inconvenience. And really, who would be surprised if the former Dean of Evil ran late on occasion? Timeliness, after all, was a traditionally Ever trait. 

Lady Lesso dramatically slammed open the doors to the assembly hall housed in the School for Good, internally relishing in the startled jumps of students and staff alike. She sauntered easily down the aisle to the main podium, glaring at any who dared to make eye contact until she came to stand next to the Dean of Good. 

“How good of you to join me.” Professor Dovey hissed sarcastically between clenched teeth, smiling out to the throng of students attempting to find seating in the hall. 

“Better late than Ever.” Lesso smirked, shrugging her shoulders jauntily. 

A dumbfounded expression graced the other woman’s face. “That’s not at all how the saying goes.”

“Attention!” She shouted above the roar of the students, cutting her off. 

The authoritative shout merely turned a few heads. 

“ATTENTION!” She screamed once more, cracking her cane harshly against the wooden podium. 

Immediately, the chatter died down. 

“Thank you Lady Lesso.” Dovey smiled brightly. “Welcome back, students! I hope everyone enjoyed their time away from school and got to enjoy some rest and relaxation. Today will be a day of reorientation. We will resume our regularly scheduled classes after breakfast. Please refer to the schedules handed out to you before break.”

“If you lack personal responsibility, copies have also been posted in the main halls of each castle and in your personal dormitories. No excuses! Anyone who fails to be on time will spend evenings with me in the Doom Room!” Lesso added waspishly. 

Dovey sent a quick glare in reprimand before resuming her exaggerated smile. “You are dismissed! Have a wonderful first day back!”

“Get out!” 

The students scrambled and the red-headed woman shot the fairy godmother a devilish wink. 

“Don’t be late to the staff meeting after breakfast!” Dovey reminded her, rolling her eyes. 

A childish raspberry fell from Lesso’s lips as she turned on her heel, marching purposefully out of the auditorium to the dining hall. 

She doesn’t usually eat with the children and staff, much preferring the rare moments of solitude in her chambers before being required to supervise unmatched idiocy. And then there’s the pubescent gremlins to tend to. She rounded the corner a little tightly and knocked into another being in a flurry of purple and pink, sending both parties sprawling to the ground. 

“God damn it, watch where you’re going!” Lesso growled venomously as she brought herself to her feet. 

She glared pointedly at the other woman before dusting off her slacks and gesturing impatiently to her cane still on the floor. Emma Anemone rolled her eyes and thrust the walking stick into Lesso’s waiting palm. 

With much more grace, the historian picked herself off the floor and adjusted the many layers of her ghastly dress. Anemone arched a delicate, perfectly plucked brow expectantly.  

“Well, I’d apologize but it wouldn’t be genuine.” The Dean scoffed as she straightened her tie. 

Anemone simply studied Lesso’s face with a curious tilt to her head. Her keen eyes raked over her figure and Leonora began to feel acutely uncomfortable. Bravely, Emma reached out a hand and brushed some dust from the shoulder of Lesso’s jacket. 

“You know, some day, you might realize that every effort you have put into making everyone else around you feel low is because that’s what you feel. And maybe you’ll realize that not once has it done anything to lift you any higher. You are in the same place now that you were when you started. Maybe, one day, you’ll understand that some of us have been trying to simply accompany you along the way. I hope you realize that before you end up completely alone and just as irrelevant as you always feared you would be.”

Leonora could only gape at the audacity. 

“Have a good day, Lady Lesso.” 

Anemone gave a slight, mocking bow and rounded the corner. Lesso’s green eyes narrowed in the empty hallway she left behind. 

“Fucking beauty teacher…”

The Dean spun on her heel and abandoned her plans for breakfast in the main hall. She needed some well-deserved solitude before the mandatory staff meeting. 

“Thank you everybody for joining me for our quarterly staff meeting! And on time!” Professor Dovey called out from her standing position at her chair to the left of the table head. 

Eyes from both schools of discipline slid to the dour woman reclining casually in her own chair to the right, waiting to see how she would respond to the subtle dig. An off beat and a cough echoed loudly throughout the room. Lady Lesso seemed oblivious to the chastisement and continued to inspect the silver coating of her nails. 

“Anyway,” Dovey trailed, bringing the attention back. “We don’t have much to discuss since our previous meeting. Lady Lesso and I just wanted to follow up with everybody regarding the unification of classes and to problem-solve any hiccups.” 

A flurry of hands began to raise down the table and the quiet chatter reached a deafening roar as each teacher voiced their concerns. 

“SILENCE!” 

Lesso’s voice boomed throughout the chamber, shaking the windows in their panes. Her finger glowed blindingly violet against the pale column of her throat. 

“One at a time!” She sneered. “God, you all are worse than the children.”

Dovey bit her lip and coughed politely into her hand to cover the smile threatening to break loose. 

"Yuba, why don’t you go first?” She finally called, composing herself. 

Lesso sighed and resumed her disinterested expression. The droning of the gnome flitted through her ears without even a pretense at attention. Instead, she used the opportunity to study her co-dean. 

Dovey’s bronzed skin shimmered with an almost ethereal glow against the rose-gold satin of her gown. The dress itself was more subdued than what she traditionally wore. Solid, satin panels fell in waterfalls from her waist over what she imagined to be layers upon layers of petticoats. The panels were embroidered with gold, sequin appliques at the hem that trailed upward like fingers reaching for something unattainable. The sequins covered the entire bodice. The corset was laced tight and complimented her curvaceous figure nicely, pairing with an eye-catching sweetheart neckline. The sequin pattern continued on and curled like vines around her upper arms. Dovey’s golden curls were adorned with miniature red roses and a simple, leaf-like tiara. As always, she seemed flawless. But Leonora could see the tightness at the corners of her eyes and the way her smile strained. She seemed tired. 

“Don’t you agree, Lady Lesso?” 

And suddenly her sparkling eyes were trained on her. Heat radiated from her cheeks and she fought valiantly to keep the embarrassment from her face. Evil did not feel embarrassment. 

“What now?” She asked rather dumbly.

She could kick herself. 

“Yuba thinks that the joint classes are going well in the forest, so long as their grade is determined by joint success in randomly assigned pairs.” Dovey began to clarify with a knowing smirk. “Emma thinks beautification and uglification should simply be discontinued and replaced with a class on etiquette and personal hygiene. A mandatory section would be on sex education, and she wondered if you wouldn’t be the best person to cover the course.”

“Hell no.” Lesso sputtered. “I mean, no. No, thank you. I have other, more important responsibilities to attend to.”

She pinned Anemone with her most violent glare, promising the woman a most agonizing death. 

“That’s what I thought. Let’s just put that one on the back burner, shall we? Maybe we can revise for next year’s students. Professor Espada?”

“Teaching swordplay to both the Evers and the Nevers at the same time just isn’t working. They continuously break out into fights. The courses need to remain separate.” He complained. 

“You’re doing it wrong. Next!” Lesso deadpanned. 

“Lady Lesso, if we are going to problem-solve, we need to come up with a viable solution. Instead of brushing off Professor Espada’s concerns, how about you offer a way to help?” Dovey sighed. 

Deep, chocolate eyes cut over to Lesso’s and firmly held her gaze. 

“Fine!” Leonora finally caved. “I will, reluctantly, co-teach this semester with Espada. My sparring could do with some brushing up. And the students, no doubt, require a competent teacher.”

Lesso blatantly ignored the indignant outcry from the other instructor. 

“If there’s nothing else, I have lesson plans to finalize.” 

The first round of classes were agonizing. Lady Lesso taught a mixed years practical on potions and poisons for the younger Nevers. Needless to say, she was considering a complete revision of her lesson plans. Following class was lunch in the dining hall. Blessedly, the meal was uneventful. Instead of a double free period, she was now saddled with co-teaching swordsmanship before dinner and a peaceful evening. 

She decided to observe the class from a distance. It took less than two minutes before the first fight broke out. Professor Espada, likely thinking she had shirked her duties on the first day, did not act to stop the all out brawl between the students. 

“ENOUGH!” She shouted as she emerged from her lookout. 

Evers, Nevers, and Espada himself startled at the thundering reprimand that came from the Evil Dean. 

“This petty fighting is unacceptable. Save it for after graduation.” Lesso snapped. 

She scrutinized the students carefully before breaking them off into more optimal pairs. 

“Jacob, go with Malachi.” She said, pushing the Never boy toward the Ever. “Cane, you can go with Jason. Talon, you’re with Jabari. Storian, why are there so many J names? Did your parents lose a bet?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to quell her irritation at being put into this position. 

“Joshua go with…what’s your name?”

Lesso asked the last boy, pointing her cane to his chest. 

“Angus, ma’am.”

“Angus? Really? How unfortunate.” 

In the new pairs, they performed only marginally better. Lady Lesso watched the rest of the lesson from the sidelines and drank in the abysmal lesson. Espada was doing her Never students no favors. And she noticed, with a curled lip of disgust, that there were no women among them. Oh, changes to the course would need to be dramatic. 

She turned on her heel without a second glance and began the trek back to the School Master’s tower, where their new, shared office space was located. She had a free period. Might as well use it to draft up the changes to the course. 

She climbed the invisible stairs to the tower door and let herself inside. In the antechamber, the Storian remained scribbling away in a new book. As usual, she paid it no mind and pushed open the door to the office. 

At her end of the room, a polished mahogany desk was positioned with a wingback chair facing the door. At the opposite end, Dovey’s faced the window. Contrary to what others may think, her desk remained organized and free of clutter. The fairy godmother’s, on the other hand, was a disaster zone. Lady Lesso rolled her eyes at the sight of the mess and settled down into her chair to get to work. 

Before long, night had already fallen and her ink-stained hand cramped from the amount of scribbling she had completed, detailing the changes for Espada’s class. And that of her own Potions and Poisons curriculum. She looked at the obnoxiously-ornate grandfather clock Dovey kept on her side of the room and cringed, realizing she had already missed dinner. Lesso sighed with exhaustion and tossed the quill down onto the desk. She needed to clear her head. 

Lesso forced herself out into the cool air and walked aimlessly into the night. Her legs carried her around the lake and to a quiet clearing. She sat down at the edge of the water and looked up at the twinkling stars in the sky. It was a beautiful night. In the silent stillness, Anemone’s words from the morning niggled at the back of her mind. 

“Maybe, one day, you’ll understand that some of us have been trying to simply accompany you along the way. I hope you realize that before you end up completely alone and just as irrelevant as you always feared you would be.”

Lesso blew a soft raspberry at the words and scoffed. 

But the words had touched an aching nerve she had forcefully buried long ago. It was in the dreams of a lonely girl at night, making desperate wishes on all the stars in the sky to get away from the pitiful life she was living. 

‘I don’t want to be alone.’ Her heart echoed, much as it had then. 

Lady Lesso was startled from her musings by a rustling behind her. Dovey stumbled into the clearing and looked at her with clear surprise. 

“Oh! Lady Lesso…I didn’t expect to find…anyone, really.” She stuttered nervously. “Did you see the falling star?”

Lesso’s brows rose to her hairline and she turned back to the night sky.

“No, I must have missed it.” She said quietly, almost to herself. “What are you doing here?”

She turned her attention back to the fairy godmother. The tips of her ears had burned red and her dark eyes shifted in discomfort. 

Was she embarrassed? 

The Dean of Good smoothed out imaginary wrinkles on her dress and lifted her chin, pinning Lesso with a stare that challenged her to throw an insult. 

“Sometimes, I like to come out here and consult the wish fish.” 

Lesso stared at her with thinly veiled disdain. Silence stretched between them and Dovey fidgeted uncomfortably. 

“Consult?” Lesso finally asked. “What the hell does that even mean ?” 

Dovey looked like she would rather be anywhere but there in that moment. A pinched frown formed on her lips and she shrugged. 

“They show you your deepest desires.” 

Lesso eyed the softly rippling water and gave a doubtful snort. She hauled herself to her feet, muttering curses under her breath. With one last look at her colleague, she turned her back and started the journey back to her quarters. 

“Goodnight, Lady Lesso.” Dovey called out to her retreating form. 

Lesso paused and tilted her head in acknowledgement before continuing on. 

Chapter 2

[newagesurvivalist]

The modern devotion: a meditation on fate

There is certainly a need for edification, but we can only find this in the pleasant repose of friendly science, that lies somewhere in the structure of our everyday undertakings. A man can dedicate his life to God or to freedom, but he will never encounter the endless in which he has placed his trust, because he is somehow stupified (he chooses at times, and cannot unchoose his superintendence). Of course, modern thinkers shall overthink the meanings of his choices. Wisdom, or something like it, shall infest the ruminations of the wise, even as they try to stick to the rules of their good Lord. In the end, our notions of wisdom are as irrelevant to simplicity as the practical wisdom we use to be aware of the changes in the world, or even when we read the newspaper: and in this wise, we will stick to categories. Death will take us to the depths at some point, and then we will be remorseful, but we can find some kind of unfetteredness in the contemplative life. In the last analysis, our shelteredness will suppress us in some sense; or, failing that, it will support us in our decrepitude.

The thing we see in government is that the entire world is somehow just a result of the ordinary things that we try to see. We must continue to study and improve our stead, but there is a lot of vagueness in this regard, so we stick to certain rules that we can follow, that we can live by, in a sense to avoid hypocrisy, but also to leave some room for wonder. This is a clear substantivity, that moves liberally in some inordinate relation, but the phantoms of liberality will always support us in the final structure that our desire still upholds, and some clever man will always send us debauchingly into the abyss, which has no more to do with our ordinariness than any sheer resolution; therefore, we are still stuck in the repetition of sheer inordinality, but we cannot respect the machinery.

A holy man will therefore be required. Certainly, the power of this singular monolithic force shall steer us in some maniacal direction, but the wise men of the old time will always keep us in a bad way, edifying us, but never holding us at the point of reclaiming the dead waters of hope and glory, because we are sincerely the moribund glorifiers of the holy order; still hiding in the entirety of existence, an individual will not see the control-center of these variable things, because he is not a simple man, but he will, at the same time, keep his tension ready to support the new world. A good politic against the feebleness of genesis.

This brings us to that fatal flaw of academic thinking: it cannot escape from engineering philosophies into social doctrines. Verily, wise men engage in speculation from the ground up, and they do not seek to continue down a particular senseless path only to cover ground that flies below one's feet anyway. Truly, he just wishes to send missionaries unto the road and restructure time in a way that shall allow us in some bicentennial way to refurbish meaningful communication to suit particular ends, and that will send men roaringly into riotous assemblies that have nothing to do with high-tech industry, but frankly, only with arcane-minded priests and hoary old generals. The true sage must in this wise always control his mightier frontline to set up a siege against the ignorant who cannot subject themselves to the higher Lord, who is still hard to make out in the darknesses of spiritual crisis, and this is verily a maintenance that will never be returned to the control center of computer science, which is just a result of endless work: nobody will ever see things for what they are, because we are just kleptomaniacs who have no better use for knowledge than the ordinary children of the Lord who build castles in the air and keep the essence of life obscured from the villainy of proper cheerfulness, and this result of endless labour is still the meaning of life (in the last analysis). Be that as it may, there is still some kind of mystical or mythical ordination happening in the value of the Lords work, where we still see contrivances happening in the build of visceral virtuality; here, the motions of the stars are reconvened in some higher reality, whereby distinctions between collateral choices are subsumed under the rubric of pestering revolution, makings us forget the ordinary work of the best men who still want the best for the world, and sending us, headlong, into the effigies of maniacal creativity, where there are no more controllings in the totality of space and time; and people will certainly see the moribund autarky happen in the categorical ways of the old style of thinking; people only had the European framework at the time, a framework contructed around the promise of God and the power of the mind, where will only find complacency and analysis, or simple breakdowns and formulas, and this is not brilliance, even though there might be an analytic truth.

The true problem really is scholarly science. People encounter complete crafts in the professionalism of normal work, but they cannot reveal the misery of the commonplace actuaries who build the structure of actual time. A kind of vendetta exists in the search for appropriate action, and people will always discover there might be some release in the violence of relentless creation; this is still a sign of the normal times, that will suppress us and derail us in the last analysis, but will never send us forward into magnificence and will not regain superiority in the entirety of the universe: why, everybody simple ruffles the feathers of the old fathers, who make sense of the revolutionary world, but holy kings will not break the mold of vampires who construct the meritocracy of the greatest kind of heroism that will suppress us in the final way forward: and everybody simply wishes to go on and forward in the misery of ordinariness, that will somehow complain to the God of war that there will be some kind of recluse from happiness: and this is truly what we see all the time. That there is no escape from structure.

So we see that villainy is just a sign of holy writ, that combines us, in some dark way, to election and this will never support us in the confines of liberality, and the kings will not do anything to save us. The poor men of the old world who do what they can to live forget about the happy world, and this is all nothingness: nobody cares about it, and it is silly. But a wise man may come to teach us the truth about ordinariness; why, he will derail the ordinary from the set ways of yore, and move us upwards. The king of the Jews will collect us in the final days of the master. And some deep thinker will perhaps make us see the light of the mind to see in the dark. Nevertheless, supportive entities of vision cannot sustain us; we struggle and suppress, and this has no connection to the virile contours of idiocy, but we may enjoy some part of it. Ultimately, there will be repose, but it will be situated in a terrific predicament; and that will certainly cut us down.

[kunthug]

Esther Brown did not write a political tract on the refusal to be governed, or draft a plan for mutual aid or outline a memoir of her sexual adventures. A manifesto of the wayward—Own Nothing. Refuse the Given. Live on What You Need and No More. Get Ready to Be Free—was not found among the items in her case file. She didn’t pen any song lines: My mama says I’m reckless, My daddy says I’m wild, I ain’t good looking, but I’m somebody’s angel child. She didn’t commit to paper her ruminations on freedom: With human nature caged in a narrow space, whipped daily into submission, how can we speak of potentialities?

The cardboard placards for the tumult and upheaval she incited might have said: “Don’t mess with me. I am not afraid to smash things up.” But hers was a struggle without formal declarations of policy, slogan, or credo. It required no party platform or ten-point program. Walking through the streets of New York, she and Emma Goldman crossed paths but failed to recognize each other. When Hubert Harrison encountered her in the lobby of the Renaissance Casino after he delivered his lecture on “Marriage Versus Free Love” for the Socialist Club, he noticed only that she had a pretty face and a big ass.

Esther never pulled a soapbox onto the corner of 135th Street and Lenox Avenue to make a speech about autonomy, the global reach of the color line, involuntary servitude, free motherhood, or the promise of a future world, but she well understood that the desire to move as she wanted was nothing short of treason. She knew first-hand that the offense most punished by the state was trying to live free. To wander through the streets of Harlem, to want better than what she had, and to be propelled by her whims and desires was to be ungovernable. Her way of living was nothing short of anarchy.

—Saidiya Hartman, The Anarchy of Coloured Girls Assembled in a Riotous Manner, in Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"TIM BUCK IS GUILTY IN KINGSTON TRIAL: SENTENCE DEFERRED," Toronto Globe. July 7, 1933. Page 1 & 4. ----- Judge Says He Will Not Impose Maximum Punishment ---- DEFENSE COMPLIMENTED --- (Canadian Press Despatch.) Kingston, July 6 - Tim Buck, former leader of the Communist Party in Canada, was convicted today of unlawful assembly during disturbances last October, and was returned to his prison cell to await sentence on July 18. In convicting Buck, Judge G. E. Deroche said he could impose a maximum of seven years, but said he had no intention of doing so.

The diminutive radical returned to his cell, complimented on his efforts "as a lawyer, despite his unsuccessful battle to clear himself of the charges. "Your address," said a Judge, "was magnificent. You spoke for two and a half hours, but all the time you were interesting and logical. You made no extreme statements."

The Judge reviewed at great length the evidence produced both by defense and the Crown prosecutor, adding that he was quite satisfied there was a riot and Buck was a member of the unlawful assembly.

Word to Ottawa. The accused, through numerous convict witnesses, attempted to show there had been no riot, and that there had been no violence shown by the men, who, he said, were merely stag a justified demonstration against prison conditions. If word had been sent to Ottawa, instead of to the barracks, when the men left their work, there wouldn't have been much confusion, it was contended.

The only reason he had joined in the demonstration, Buck submitted, was he otherwise would have been considered a "rat"

"That seems to be something to his credit," the Judge commented, "but, of course, it is something the law cannot excuse."

Other convicts testified Buck had spoken to the prisoners milling about the buildings and had pacified to some extent their anger. Others had spoken, they said, and Buck was chosen to address the men merely because of his reputation as a speaker.

Not an Instigator. Judge Deroche said he did not believe the accused had shut off the motor in his workshop, as claimed by guards and keepers. He further said there was no evidence to show Buck was the instigator of the assembly which developed into a riot of which the Judge considered there was evidence. It probably was intended for a peaceful demonstration, he said, bus eventually it became very noisy, and damage had been done to prison property through burning locks off doors. However, he did not consider it had been as serious as portrayed in news-papers and through conversations.

"He was part of rioting crowd," the Judge concluded, "and he pleaded he either had. to take part or be a 'rat." Meanwhile, in another court, Frank Regan, K.C., charged Convict Mickey McDonald was indicted for his part in the riot because of private trouble he had with Guard Neddow. He also claimed the Crown Prosecutor had threatened to "go after the accused." Following the trial of Buck, George Peters was placed on trial on a charge of rioting and doing damage. He pleaded not guilty, and proceeded to conduct his own case. Keeper George Nolan and Instructors Dunford and Whiteland had been called as witnesses when court adjourned.

Frank Regan, K.C., counsel for McDonald, requested General D. M. Ormond, Superintendent of Penitentiaries, be called as a witness. Judge Madden said Convict McRae had asked for Hon. Hugh Gathrie, Minister of Justice; Inspector Gilbert Smith, ex-Warden J. C. Ponsford and others to be called, but his request had been refused, because such evidence would make an investigation of the internal administration of the prison, and this was not the purpose of the trial. Judge Madden refused Mr. Regan's request.

Desire for Referm. In his defense, Convict Buck spoke of the feeling among the men in the penitentiary, their desire for reform, and their efforts for a change in the institution. It was not a spirit of destruction or riot. "In most of them." he said, "It was the only way to draw attention to their grievances, the entire atmosphere. Inside those walls you're within a world inside a world; it has every thing except its own hopes. I had men in the box who had never been in court before sent to the penitentiary; men as good as the average man. They got to feel there is no hope, more or less conflicted with criminal psychology. No man can live there, subjected constantly to the grapevine system - an everlasting struggle between the rats and the men. The fuel for the blaze had been piling up a long time, and very few of the men realized Just what that spirit really was."

Convict Buck, dealing further with the spirit at the penitentiary, said that the very first day he arrived at the penitentiary, the first convict conversation he heard almost frightened him.It gave him an idea that trouble was imminent.

The accused said that Oct. 17 he saw no notes passed about, but he was convinced there had been notes circuklating. Like a Signal. "As late is twenty to three on Oct. 17," said Buck, "I really believed that the rumored demonstration would actually be held. When the men came:down the scaffolding, it was just like a signal. The men, most of them young and impulsive, just walked out and didn't seem to realize they were leaving their work. "I believe is possible to point out there is a difference in my position as regards to my presence in the disturbance. In the position I am in, I might see trouble brewing and still be helpless; an inmate can be either a rat or a man, and to be a 'rat in the penitentiary is something terrible. I did not choose to be a 'rat!"

In the dome a man was in a peculiar position: If you left the dome you were in danger of being shot; if you stayed there you were in danger of landing in this court. Circumstances decreed that I should be there. I was convicted of being a Communist, and I was not in the machine shop of my own volition, therefore I was there when trouble started.. I was in that position when, if I had not assisted those who were in a jam, something very serious might have happened. "I changed with doing things which I certainly did not do. I am not trying to evade, but I want to point out that there were many things which I did not do. One would think the pulling of the switch in the machine shop started everything. I don't think i had anything whatever to do with the trouble."

Convict Buck reviewed the story of the happenings of the afternoon."They were like a bunch of schoolboys, carefree and full of fun," he said. "But still there was a danger. I went out because I was keenly interested in what would happen. And I believe that Deputy Warden Matt Walsh perforced a masterstroke in getting Garceau to secure the co-operation of the older men in holding back the cool heads. It was certainly a wise move and Mr. Walsh did save what could have become a critical situation."

Buck said there had been no question of danger until the troops came. With the exception of Mr. Walsh, not an officer tried to restrain the men.

"Eighty-five per cent, of the ment in the dome," said Buck, "were there merely as 'listeners.' It is true that when the troops were sent for no one was in control, but they were not out of control. Mere Boys "I think it would be safe to say a clear majority of the men in the dome were mere boys. The belief was that they should get out into the yard. At any rate a situation developed that was hanging by a thread. Up to this point I had not said one word or associated myself in any way with the trouble. I knew Garceau and his efforts to retrieve himself. In the penitentiary we are looked on a convicts. To me these men are a study, being, as I am, a student of sociology. When he asked me to speak to the men I hesitated, but not through fear. I didn't know what to say to them, but Garceau said: Tell them anything to keep them from running amok! I knew I had to give them something to do and I told them to go ahead with the barricading and to get water, for the place was a fire-trap." It may have been wrong in law, but when I look back at what might have happened. I don't think anything better could have been done."

"I spoke once, and once only, yet prosecution evidence had me making speeches everywhere." Convict Back sold he did not in any way use the language that was attributed to him by Guard Hull. "I want to say that it is no secret. Guard Hull is not liked in the institution, and has a record there," said Buck. "I don't believe he heard anyone say: 'We'll kill the screws." At any rate I certainly did not say it."

"When Gilbey told of the fight in the stone shed, you would think lynch law had broken out at my behest. The first I ever heard of it was when Gilbey told it." "Dime Novel Fantasy." "I must confess that the stories of some of the guards as to what happened in the mail-bag department sounded like a dime novel fantasy."

Convict Buck said his address in the dome and his suggestion to the officers in the machine shop that it would be safer in the mail-bag department constituted his participation in the trouble.

"I knew the attitude toward me. I knew I was pointed out as an agitator and I knew an atmosphere had been put around me, and I know that officers were told I was dangerous.

"Frankly, I think the evidence that the men coming into the machine shop were armed is merely a figment of their imagination.

"I knew that this blue uniform is a disadvantage, but I will say that those inmates who gave evidence are as reliable as any one. Why was not Sagel, the third officer in the machine shop, brought here by the Crown?

"It is true he has left Kingston, but he could have been brought here. "I want to say that I did not order Henderson out of the stone shed, and the man who did it did not use the language attributed by Guard Henderson.

"I have tried to speak with restraint, because I want to be cleared of implications of dime novel sensationalism. I want to be clear of a certain implication of hoodlumism and blackguardism. I submit my actions were right. I solemnly believe nothing better could have been done than that which I did; not merely because I did it myself.

"I think it will be agreed that under the circumstances, I could not do otherwise. I played no part in the condition and I had to choose between trying to help the situation or quitting, and I must say I do not regret it.

"This is a court of law. If any quality was strained in the case against me it certainly was not the qualities of mercy or sportsmanship. I am compelled to ask, Is it because.of the protests against my being in prison that attempts are being made to justify my being placed in that Institution and to brand me as a hoodlum and a blackguard?" Crown Counsel's Address. T. J. Rigney, Crown counsel, addressed Judge G. E. Deroche, presiding at the trial.

Mr. Rigney pointed out that the trial had created unusual attention.The question of authority had been involved, but only involved Buck as one of a number. There was also the question of the ideas of the convicts as to prison management, and the rules and regulations.

Mr. Rigney held that the convicts had constituted themselves as an unlawful assembly, and from that developed a riot in which damage was done, and in which the accused had participated. Evidence of unlawful assembly had been established. The Warden forced his way into the assembly. This had been established. He addressed the men and advised them to go back to work. The War-den had attempted to leave and was prevented from so doing, and was a prisoner of the convicts, which in it-self was an unlawful act.

[thequietabsolute]

Saul Bellow // Humboldt’s Gift 1975.

I’m rereading this masterpiece and at least one or two phrases a page make me sigh or gasp or sniff or guffaw with baffled wonder or riotous laughter; with awe, above all else: awe. Marvel, for example, at this exquisite set-piece on Art and Culture in a modern society:

— At this point Humboldt generally spoke of Antonin Artaud. Artaud the playwright, invited the most brilliant intellectuals in Paris to a lecture. When they were assembled there was no lecture. Artaud came on stage and screamed at them like a wild beast. "Opened his mouth and screamed," said Humboldt. "Raging screams. While those Parisian intellectuals sat frightened. For them it was a delicious event. And why? Artaud as the artist was a failed priest. Failed priests specialize in blasphemy. Blasphemy is aimed at a community of believers. In this case, what kind of belief? Belief only in intellect, which a Ferenczi [Nb., Sándor Ferenczi, Hungarian psychoanalyst] has now charged with madness. But what does it mean in a larger sense? It means that the only art intellectuals can be interested in is an art which celebrates the primacy of ideas. Artists must interest intellectuals, this new class. This is why the state of culture and the history of culture become the subject matter of art. This is why a refined audience of Frenchmen listens respectfully to Artaud screaming. For them the whole purpose of art is to suggest and inspire ideas and discourse. The educated people of modern countries are a thinking rabble at the stage of what Marx called primitive accumulation. Their business is to reduce masterpieces to discourse. Artaud's scream is an intellectual thing.”

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

FEMSLASH FEBRUARY 2024 #15: In which Cameron and Donna give a presentation

[CN: food/cooking mention] . . When they were asked to be the keynote speakers at an inaugural conference for marginalized groups in tech at a large and prestigious research university, Cameron agreed on the condition that Donna do most of the talking. “I will gladly stand up there with you and chime in where necessary,” she’d said, while stirring a nearly ready risotto, “but you’re better at this sort of thing, so it should mostly be you.” Donna didn’t want Cameron to be sidelined, but reluctantly agreed to this.

Cameron convinced Donna to be inspired by her own poolside speech from the night Cameron was supposed to leave California indefinitely, to focus on how partnerships evolve over time, and make the work worthwhile even when they eventually dissolve. Eager to contribute equally, she also made the slide show to go with their remarks.

The slide show began with childhood photos of each of them, and their remarks started with short biographies of the both of them. Donna described her upbringing in 1960s Dallas, and her awkward teen years, and her discovery of computer engineering. She told the audience that Cameron wanted her to tell them that she was a former beauty pageant winner (she had used her Little Miss Perfect portrait in the slide show), and that she had called Donna a bitch the first time they’d worked together, all to appreciative laughter from the audience. After that, Donna talked the audience through decades of their careers, while Cameron clicked the slide show through photos from Cardiff, COMDEX, Mutiny, AGGEK, Atari, Symphonic, Comet and Phoenix. After explaining her personal belief that partnership is about finding a new project to work on, in both our professional and personal lives, she and Cameron shared a short, final montage of photos from outside the office - pictures of them, and also Haley and Joanie, and Gordon, and J0e, and Bos, and Diane and Risa and Tanya and Dr. Katie Herman and Lev and Yo-yo and their families, at barbecues and camp grounds and birthday parties and graduations, and one final photo of Cameron and Donna on their wedding day. Cameron found herself tearing up over it, even though she’d spent hours assembling it.

After which Donna made her concluding remarks: “Being a woman in STEMS is hard. I know. It sucks. Being queer in tech, and feeling like you should be hiding something about yourself is hard. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a scientist of color, and to see so few people who look like you and understand where you come from every day at a job that you love, where you’re trying to build something for people. But you are here. You’re here to work, and you’re also here to live, and I know that you can do this. “You won’t necessarily get to have it all, and you might not even want it all. But if you are very lucky, and you work very hard, you can get what you need.” The end of their presentation was met with a standing ovation and riotous applause, which was followed by a brief q and a.

Most of the ‘q’s were from young women, who asked Donna and Cameron which of their accomplishments they were most proud of, what they would do differently, and what new policies and practices they thought might be most helpful for young software and hardware developers with limited resources. The whole thing was a lot more pleasant than Cameron had expected, until the next to last question.

Alexa Vonn came up to the microphone. “My question is for Cameron.”

“Hello, Alexa,” Cameron deadpanned.

“Do you think that you’re easy to work with?” Alexa asked.

Cameron fought the urge to burst out into hysterical, self-conscious laughter. “No.” The audience laughed again. “That’s why I’ve worked with Donna for most of my life. She’s very aware of my limitations and where I struggle to communicate.”

“Okay,” Alexa said, “then my question for Donna is, do you actually like working with Cameron?”

Donna grinned at her. “Honestly? I’ve loved every minute of it.”

Alexa pressed, “Even with all of the ‘ups and downs’ you glossed over in your presentation? The two of you were famously estranged for many years, weren’t you?”

“‘Famously’ feels like an overstatement,” Cameron said.

“How did you come back from that?” Alexa asked.

With a hint of irritation in her voice, Donna said, “Well, you start talking. Maybe because something terrible happens, like your ex-husband dies suddenly and tragically young. And you realize that some things are more important than petty grudges. So you keep talking. Does that answer your question?”

Before Alexa could answer, Donna said, “Great! It was very nice to see you Alexa, thank you for your questions. I’m sorry that you and Cameron didn’t get to fully realize the project you worked on, it sounded really interesting.”

After the final question (“favorite app?”), Cameron and Donna went into the ladies’ room for a few minutes. Donna went over to the sinks, put her hands on the counter, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Cameron waited for a second, and then said, “So that mostly went really well, right?”

Without opening her eyes, Donna snorted, but didn’t say anything. She took another deep breath.

“The way you shut Alexa down? Hot.” Leaning against the wall, Cameron said, “I kind of like it when you’re a bitch.”

Donna grinned at Cameron, an arched an eyebrow suggestively.

“Still,” Cameron frowned. “We kinda deserved that after some of the shit we’ve pulled at other people’s presentations, huh?”

Donna looked over at Cameron, and then started to laugh, a real, deep belly laugh. The sound of it made Cameron smile, and think, there’s literally nothing better than this.

[enkisstories]

Hank makes sure to talk to all kinds of people: humans and aliens, locals and visitors both from other parts of Batuu as well as off-world.

None of these, even the most outspoken opponents of First Order rule (as outspoken as can be, given this was the First Order district) strike the spy as anarchists. Heck, most of them are not even unreasonable in their arguments!

Stormtrooper: "Hey! That's way too close to riotous assembly - disperse immediately!"

Man in rebel coat: "Why not wait for one more to join and arrest us all for actual riotous assembly, hm?"

Hank: "Because that wouldn't be order, but willfull despotism."

Bith: "You find something nice to say about everyone, don't you, traveler?"

Hank: "I do? I think I need a drink now.”