#rip to anyone who used up their welfare coins

[zmeyel]

I'm mostly neutral about Space Ereshkigal, but from what I understand the new append situation is potentially pretty toxic depending on if future units/content rely on the cooldown reduction one. I think some mechanic to refund coins would have really taken the edge off this.

[fafaderf]

An Open Letter to the Revolutionist-Would Be Youngster

“Kapitalismo, inaabuso ang mga Pilipino.” “Ibagsak ang imperyalismo at ang rehimeng [insert any administration here]” “[Insert proposed bill here] IBASURA!”

Protest are often packed with these messages however irrelevant. Effigies are lit into fire. People standing on the picket line despite the blistering heat of the sun while screaming their lungs out for the government to hear their clamors.

The road is a battlefield, a struggle they should pursue for the realization of their idealogy. They dream of a nation where oppression will become a foreign word. Where equality is the rule of the men.

I am a wee lad then who is ahead of my time. Seeing them, i am often in awe for their aspirations. Cool isnt it!? Fighting for what you think could serve best your countrymen. Offering yourself selflessly as if you were the instrument for their salvation.

I remember everything. I remember how curious I was back then. Curious but idealist just the same.

I thought I’m destined to fulfill that mission. A mission where the heart is vital. A mission where objectivity dies—killed, even.

I hated that mission from the very beginning. I hated the way it was presented to me. I hated, and still hate, the blood, the deaths, the tears. I hated the injustice.

Am I just melodramatic back then? Am I just overreacting? Have I not the right to cry at the sight of a man lying down on the hot pavement to drink from the gutter? Have I not the right to weep for the family of that loving, ignorant father who fought for his rights and was killed, thrown, forgotten? Is it a sin to feel the things I’ve never experienced and the pain I’ve never felt? Maybe. It’s defying the system. It’s breaking the rules. But isn’t it heartless and immoral to hide in the security of our home while thousands, even millions, of my fellowmen suffer and die—and not just physically, mind you, but emotionally and spiritually, as well? I find it profane.

I am a victim of the system. I think we all are. We are victims of a system that alienates us from ourselves and widens the gap between people. Funny. Painfully funny.

I have too much heart to stay objective when love and hate is all around me. The battle is out there. The battle needs me. Service to my fellowmen—the kind of service that reaches out and cries the tears they cannot cry—is pure and unrequited love.

I carried on with those ideals believing I am moving towards something more important. It’s one way of escaping the system. In a time and place where achieving your goal the fastest way is a must, in a society where an individual is assessed according to his grades and salary and title, one less bourgeois would hardly be noticed. But in this battle, it could spell all the difference. Or so I think it is.

I had my belief challenged during the seminar spearheaded by a former revolutionalist. She shared her experience in an actual combat with the government troops, various missions to stir destablization. How the mountains became their haven to nurture, and promote their idealogy.

She narrated how she was swayed to join the revolutionalist. A child prodigy then in Ateneo de Manila University. It was her intellectual prowess that accelerated her to college. This achievement however soon became a drawback. Incapable of interaction with people more than her age, she seeks to join groups, and participate in activities that would prevent her from isolation.

She ended up attending a certain seminar (I wont name the organization for security’s sake). There, they were deceived, and agitated. The group apparently twisted their mind to promote their propaganda to cause distrust on the government. Feeding on their anger, they were persuaded to join the organization, and eventually, to take arms.

They were indoctrinated with Communist ideals. Though no longer in the classroom, she told us how they we’re compelled to recite the communist’ creed every morning. They were obliged to read, memorize the books propagating the said subject. They also have this anthem which is an abomination against God. (Yes, believe it or not, she even presented a video of Jose Maria Sison singing that blasphemy).

They employed extortion and threats to finance its revolution to turn this country into a freedom-less, property rights-less socialist slave pen. Other guerillas on the other hand massacred civilians attending a church (Photos were presented). A fellow woman revolutionalist who fell prey, raped, and killed on the hand of their colleague was also showed. (Documentation presented)

Soon, she began to doubt their cause. Their actions are no longer befitting for the very definition of “PEOPLE’s ARMY.” It was then that she decided to surrender, and abandon what she thought once was a seemingly noble purpose.

To redeem herself, she dedicated the remaining of her life to lead the misled, to guide the misguided. To bring clarity to the deceived. To become a beacon of light for those who are lost.

It was in that day that I saw the bigger picture of things, of the society. I became conceited and overwhelmed by my wishful thinking.

No, im not asking you to follow the government with blind approval. Instead, Stop. Look. And Listen.

Patriotism is not always manifested by your blatant refusal and disregard to the policies which you deem ripping off the poor. Patriotism could translate by voting for an additional tax to make education, healthcare and other welfare programs accessible for our less fortunate citizen.

See how the global community slowly abandon their Marxism-Leninism, Maoist, ideals as the core of their structure? Jean Jacques Rousseau once said that whatever is against the nature are doomed to fail. Communism is against the nature. It suppresses the inherent right of men to hope, to grow, and to yearn for more.

Laws passed by the Congress always has its boon and bane. Weigh its pros and cons before you march your way to Mendiola. See the other side of the coin.

“Kumpara sa ibang bansa, na ilang siglo na ang kasaysayan at karanasan sa pamamahala, bata pa ang Pilipinas, magkakamali at magkakamali yan. Parang teenager na immature pa. Di kasi tayo nabigyan ng pagkakataon na matuto ng maaga dahil sa mga Español”, said my former professor.

There is no perfect form of government. Its structure must be flexible enough to adopt with the ever-changing need of the State.

Violence breeds hate. Hate breeds war. Dont get caught on its constant waltz. Dont get caught in its cycle. Change should start from the inside. It is not something you should assert or impose to anyone when you cannot even manage your own blemishes.

[sfgooglebooks]

Cover Story by Rachel Bailey

"What sad person would want to smash an innocent gnome?"

That's right, Simon said she was the one to coin the word 'gnomicide.' "What about the neighbors? Maybe it was the result of a dispute?"

Her jaw dropped. "Good lord, no. No one around here would stoop to that level."

I rested the end of my pencil on my bottom lip as I thought. "Funny, that's what Simon said."

"You think we're wrong?" A bejeweled hand fluttered up to cover her gaping mouth.

Frankly, I couldn't blame her for the reaction - who'd want to live next door to a vandal? Especially one who picked such appallingly trivial targets. "One thing I've learned in this job is there's always more to every story. Maybe someone has a resentment they've been repressing or a... or ah... ahh..."

Dammit, I was going to sneeze. There's nothing I hate more than sneezing. So I don't. I do this funny little "fink" sound and stop it. At least I'm told it's a funny little sound - I'm not usually paying attention at the time. I'm also told I can burst a blood vessel in my brain by doing it, but hey - I like to live on the edge.

I made my "fink" sound.

"Bless you!" Dot raced to get me a tissue then hovered, looking like she wanted to tuck me into bed with chicken soup. "You poor thing, that was the strangest sounding sneeze I've ever heard."

"I'm fine. Allergies." I blew my nose and tried to recapture my professional air. "Did anyone on the street see anything?"

"I haven't had the chance to ask them all, but Valentina next door, said she and the Sinclairs, on the other side, didn't see anything." She paused and checked in the direction of the hall. "I asked Gerald, Anna's grandfather, but," she gave an apologetic shrug, "he's... not quite all there... so he's not much help."

I turned as I heard a noise behind me.

"Sorry to keep you, Ms. Fletcher, but I thought it'd be better for me to put Anna to bed and let you speak to my mother first."

As Simon pulled out the chair beside me, I noticed he looked tired and I felt that tug at my heart again. "You can call me Tobi."

He smiled and suddenly didn't look so tired anymore. "Are you getting anywhere, Tobi?"

There you go. Tugging at heartstrings leads to familiarity, which leads to flirty smiles. Not a constructive progression of events. I cleared my throat and tried to put on the professional face again. "Not much to go on at the moment, but I'd like to speak to the neighbors, if possible." 'Like' was probably an exaggeration, but I was going to write this story if it killed me.

Dot reached out to pat my arm, smiling with what was probably maternal pride. Not that I had much experience of being the subject of maternal pride myself, but I'd seen it before in other people's mothers. "I knew when Simon told me about you that you were the one." She threw Simon a satisfied smile then looked back at me. "If you come back tomorrow, Anna and I'll take you around some of the neighbors. We'll miss a few who work, but it'll be a start for you."

"Thanks, Dot, I appreciate it. Nine o'clock suit you?" She nodded as I put the pencil back in my bag and moved to get up. I could feel another sneeze coming on and I didn't want to do it again in front of Dot - she might not be able to resist the chicken soup thing this time.

"I'll be leaving then." I tried to rush, but couldn't stop the "fink" sneeze.

Simon cocked an eyebrow in amusement but I didn't give him a chance to say anything. I lifted my chin and strode out the door, oblivious to any grinning that may or may not have occurred.

"You know," he slowed his steps to look at me, "you don't have to solve the crime. It could have been anyone this side of the city. The chances of you finding them are pretty slim."

He was right, of course, but if I could just get an outcome - a result - from this absurd assignment, I might be able to salvage some pride. "I hate loose ends."

"The loose ends don't matter. We just wanted people to be vigilant and to consider the effect of vandalism on someone like Anna." Love for his little girl shone from his eyes - something I found oddly attractive. What was that about?

I blew out a breath. "Yeah, but it'd be nice to solve it, too. I... I..." I could feel a sneeze coming but managed to hold it off. I'd forgotten to take more antihistamines with dinner.

"You were saying?" We'd stopped at my car in his driveway.

"I'm sorry, I forgot." I was much more concerned with avoiding a sneeze before I could make a getaway. I could feel the pressure building behind my nose and my face starting to contort. Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. There was no stopping it; it was like a loaded freight train.

"Ah... fink."

When I opened my eyes, Simon was regarding me like some creature at the zoo. "You know you could hurt yourself doing that - maybe burst a blood vessel or something."

I rolled my eyes. "So I've been told."

He rocked on his heels, hands in his jeans pockets. "Then why do you do it?"

"Thank you for your consideration, but I'm more than capable of handling my own sneezing affairs." I tried for my steely gaze to put him off.

"You're welcome," he said, unfazed. "Why don't you just let yourself sneeze properly?"

Why was everyone so hung up on my sneezes? Surely they had other things to occupy their minds? Although, I supposed, all evidence was to the contrary.

I folded my arms. "For your information, it's not that simple. I've tried, but it's a habit now and I couldn't have a proper sneeze even if I wanted one."

His eyes danced and the corners of his mouth were turned down, repressing a smile. "Has anyone ever told you that you're uptight?"

"They have, actually, but I'll add you to the list." I turned to get in the car.

"You should let go a little." His voice dropped a note. "Relax and have some fun."

Oh, that was rich. I turned back to him. "And you're basing this advice on knowing me in a purely professional capacity for less than thirty-six hours?"

He shrugged. "You journalists haven't got a patent on observation."

Of all the conceited, cocky men... "And you think... ah... ahh... you think... ahhh... fink." Dammit. "Look, I have to go. Can you say goodnight to your mother for me?"

He grinned, damn him. "Sure. 'Night, Tobi."

I scrambled into my car and made a quick getaway. What did he know about me? I stopped at the liquor store and bought some cheap red wine - I'd show him I could relax!

"So you're not excited about the new puppies?"

Her eyes widened in shock. "Surely you can't be serious? They'll be mongrels."

Even though I wasn't a dog person, I thought that was a little harsh. I finished my green tea and set down my cup. "Thanks for the chat and the tea, I've got to get back to the office and... ah... ahh," dammit, "ahhh... fink." My antihistamines must have worn off.

Ethel was all concern. "That sounds terrible, dear, have you had it seen to?"

Not again. "No, it was just a sneeze."

She brandished a shortbread cookie at me. "That, my dear, was not a sneeze. You should see a doctor about it."

I stood, madly searching through my bag for the antihistamine packet, but couldn't find it. I'd have to stop at my apartment or a drug store on the way to the office. I made my farewells and hastily retreated to the sidewalk, still searching my bag in the vain hope that I had a spare tablet hanging around from an old packet. I was so engrossed in my task, I failed to notice which house I was passing. It all happened so fast. From the shrubs on the right, a black shape flashed toward me. Needle-tipped claws dug into my ankles, then the shape streaked off again toward number five.

I stifled a scream that was part surprise, part pain. That damn Attackcat had broken skin. I bent down and saw that he'd left five scratches, three parallel lines on one side of my ankle and two on the other. He'd also managed to ladder my stockings but, thankfully, he'd missed my trousers. Those claws would have ripped the cotton.

"Damn you, Winston, I'll... ah... ahh... fink."

Shaking my head, I rushed over to my car. I managed to get in, but before I could make a getaway, my cell rang. I glanced at the ID, groaned, then answered.

"Hi, Mom."

"Tobi, dahlin', I saw your little piece on the garden gnomes the other day. Very cute."

I gritted my teeth and made my voice even. "It wasn't cute, it was a waste of newspaper space and a waste of my time." Too late, I realized my mistake.

"Well, sugah, if you felt that way, why didn't you give me a call? What's the use of having a mother on the board of the publishing company if she can't pull a few strings every now and then? I'll just call Kevin - that's your editor, isn't it? - and tell him to make better use of my baby's talents. What would you like to write a little story about? I'm organizing a spectacular fashion show next month to raise money for sick children or something, I’ll tell him to have you cover that instead."

"Mother." Was there any use telling her that a journalist would have written countless articles by then? No, probably no. "Mother," I began more softly. "Please don't call Kevin, everything at work is fine."

"If you're sure..."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I am. I... ah... ahh," dammit, "ahhh... fink."

"Tobi, dahlin', take an antihistamine, will you? You don't want people seeing your sneezes - you know how unattractive they look."

"I will," I said through a clenched jaw. "Mom, I have to go, I'll call you later."

"Oh, if you must. Ta-ta."

I disconnected and beat the cell against my forehead several times.

"That's probably not good for the phone, let alone your head."

I whipped my head around to the source of the now familiar voice. Too wrapped up in the drama with my mother, I hadn't noticed Simon's car pull up on the street behind mine.

"The welfare of my phone is the lowest of my priorities at the moment." But I dropped it back into my bag anyway.

"Want to tell me about it?" He leaned an elbow against the roof of the car and ducked his head a little to peer down at me.

"Not really... ah... ahh..." Oh, no, not in front of Simon again, please. "Ahhh... fink."

I opened my eyes and chanced a look up at him. He was clearly amused.

"Why are you laughing at me?"

"I'm not laughing at you." But the grin didn't recede. "Why can't you let go enough to sneeze properly?"

"I don't want to." I put the key in the ignition.

"You know, they feel great. You should let yourself have one. They're one pure second of letting loose." His voice became almost imperceptibly huskier. "Don't you think you'd like that?"

I narrowed eyes that were already starting to puff up from my allergies. "Are you flirting with me?"

"I wouldn't dare to." His voice had changed back to the amused tone, which was just as annoying. "Why do you hate sneezing?"

"If you'd grown up with a pollen allergy, you'd hate springs full of sneezing, too."

"If you say so." He was smiling and the warmth in his eyes told me he was teasing, but I resented being challenged by a virtual stranger on my personality flaws, just the same.

[philaprint]

What Is the Proper Space for Hope? A Young Black Queer Millennial's Reflection on Obama

By Vernon Jordan, III

I met one of the loves of my life the night Barack Hussein Obama was re-elected into the seat of the President -  the highest office in these United States. That night, in November of 2012, a Black man won against white moderates, conservatives, and anyone claiming they were most qualified for the job. Parading with his family, Michelle LaVaughn Robinson, Malia Ann, and Natasha “Sasha”, who had already stolen our hearts during the 2008 campaign and Presidential election, President Obama was a force of joy for many African Americans, non-American Black people residing here in the states, Black people with homes abroad, in the wider Diaspora, and the continent of Africa itself. I was fresh out of high school, a first-semester freshman at Muhlenberg College and President Obama was thus the first President I had ever voted for; did I even have a choice in the matter?

I felt instant pride whenever I thought of him. You could say I even campaigned: I bought stickers and pins marked Forward, hung the “we’ve got his back” poster on my side of the dorm room, always wore my “44TH / OBAMA” shirt to the gym to spite my white classmates, and when it came time to vote, finally, I adorned that oval “I VOTED” sticker on my motherfucking face. Naturally, I argued with racist Facebook comment after Facebook comment, too -- all in the name of President Obama. I stayed up long enough into the morning to witness both final speeches by Obama and Romney and was doing so while on the phone with one of my best friends, a Black woman who then was studying at Clark Atlanta University. When I got back to my room, all was quiet. My roommate, a polite enough Italian kind of white boy and Romney voter, was asleep. A “Romney/Ryan” poster guarding his bedpost, an old historic patriotic “don’t tread on me” snake poster hanging right next to him.The morning after, he said to me, “Congrats, man.” I said, with assurance and calm, “Thank you.”  We had vowed not to talk about politics in our room, so that brief exchange was the most we talked on the matter. It was all so swift - Obama won, so I won. With a fire so many people expected to die out and be beaten, Obama’s victory in the 2012 re-election felt like an act of revenge. Now, my classmates who had so fervently been possessed by their arguments against welfare and affirmative action policies, for instance, would have to face that the leader of this country was a Black somebody. They might see “thugs” in Obama, me in Obama, and thus a “thug” in me; but they would see I’d won, and dared to be great.

Many of my associations with Obama can be said to be positive, but this positivity, this greatness, was not one that lasted long, however - and maybe I am lucky my bubble burst so early. That next semester I would take a course called Black Political Thought. I remember reading a speech given by Obama, then reading a counter piece by Dr. Cornel West (among other class readings about Liberalism, Black Nationalism, Black Conservatism, Pan-Africanism, and so on and so on) and realizing that maybe Obama could not be the answer to Martin’s dream, that Martin certainly did not “walk so Obama could fly”. Obama too deeply believed in America's capacity for rightness, righteousness, and the American Dream. I learned Obama followed a strictly Liberal course of action - the belief in individual freedoms, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness via the United States -  always with a side of hope, or change. During Obama’s initial campaign, Will.i.am and a number of celebrities and artists came together to record the song “Yes We Can”, which was another famous rhetorical slogan coined by President Obama. I was a Freshman in high school when President Obama first took office, and learned this song in the school’s choir, singing it joyously whenever I could and reveling in the sound of “Si se puede” rolling from my lips. So, I didn't know it then, but I was quite prepared to understand Liberalism and American Democracy, as I was born into it - and how many times before Obama had I sang it? Read it? Hero-ed and romanticized it? I was bluntly met with the facts that in the name of a Liberal Democracy we would drop bombs on poorer, Browner, and less Western nations; and even less prepared to see Obama as not merely a puppet, but Commander-in-Chief of this violent vessel called the United States.

Part of this role-playing President involves massive crowd control over the civilian population, an always ready indoctrination on the ideals of Liberalism -- especially in face of violence and dissent. For me, the rupture of this contradiction occurred after the death of young Trayvon Martin: for this happened under the Obama administration with little done to protect and honor and defend the life of Trayvon, who this week would be 22 years old; the ruptures of this contradiction occurred when I realized countless bombs were being dropped on Palestine, with financial assistance from the U.S. and the Obama administration; and the happy lie of Democracy cracked. It’s one thing to learn about Ronald Reagan’s War on Drugs, the strategies of COINTELPRO which ripped radical activists and groups from our communities, for instance, and learn dissent for your country; it's a peculiar place to be as a young Black American and not see the conditions for your people on the ground change when the leader of the free world looks like he could maybe be your uncle; and it’s another thing to begin to completely disagree with Liberal Democracy as it’s been enacted altogether -- it sobers you. I remember wanting to vomit when I heard Christopher Dorner would be chased by drones on U.S. soil because that didn’t sound like Freedom to me. I recalled a passage from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, where civilians are awakened by the State and compelled to watch the manhunt of the book burner, Montag, as it’s cycled live into the news:

"Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive in city. Has committed murder and crimes against the State. Name: Guy Montag. Occupation: Fireman. Last seen . . ." He ran steadily for six blocks, in the alley, and then the alley opened out on to a wide empty thoroughfare ten lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless river frozen there in the raw light of the high white arc-lamps; you could drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was too wide, it was too open. It was a vast stage without scenery, inviting him to run across, easily seen in the blazing illumination, easily caught, easily shot down. The Seashell hummed in his ear. "... watch for a man running ... watch for the running man . . . watch for a man alone, on foot . . . watch..."

Like the civilians in the book, in this case, all I could do was watch CNN for updates, watch Hope lean into Terror. President Barack Obama gracefully walked into a seat that inherits and propagates terrorism in the name of the country and State. He is a fine, swaggered out suit - in the tradition of American presidential suits - become war general.

Were we silly to think Obama would be a beacon and example of liberation against global white supremacy and anti-blackness? No. But we were certainly fooled. We were distracted -- great imagery can do that -- and it's no surprise that in a campaign so formidably led by college youth, grassroots organizing on the part of, it seemed, the whole country, we might feel a kind of euphoric haze not common here: for a moment we could feel together, feel a touch of another person, and feel recognized in the presence of Barack Obama. Obama slick and likable as he is, rolling Al Green and the ever-scary national anthem off one tongue, smiling so gently, laughing -- and making us laugh! Obama, slick and likable, perfect in his denouncing of absent Black fathers, drugs displayed on corners, (not to mention the least dangerous shit ever, sagging pants) without an analysis of how the united states have contributed to these phenomena.

He is the perfect ingredient for White supremacy: son to an educated Kenyan and continental African man & an American white woman. His story is a massive, international epic, where the son who belongs nowhere becomes King of the Democratic land to overlook all lands. His narrative is a full circle project, in a strange way; the perfect person to run the American machine is a dude come from a formerly colonized African country - the dark continent meets the brightest. I think about this often. I think about what America might look like when it is ready for a descendant of enslaved African Americans to take the role President - if it will be, ever.

There is no utopia to be found being Black here in the United States - not in total, anyway - but I would be a liar if I said pictures and small moments from the eight years of President Barack, First Lady Michelle (everyone's favourite Obama) and famed children Sasha and Malia Obama, the First Black First Family of the United States, did not provide momentary joys, pride, relief, and pleasure. I want to thank Barack Obama for that. I want to thank President Obama for teaching me, quite plainly, never to trust politicians; but to trust my 22 year old self, my Black and queer communities, and the strategies of Ella Baker, Bayard Rustin, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, Assata Shakur, and so many more who came into the world before me.

I am trying to find now the proper space for hope in my life - too much makes any person blind, and Andre 3000 said, “lean a little bit closer see / roses really smell like “boo boo oo”. I am trying to face forward, but not without complete regard for the past and its echoes, its livelihood, in the present. I am reckoning with the bodies broken and lost - memories equally contorted. I am looking a dangerous, frightening, and fucked up world in the eye, whenever I walk the streets of this country, whenever I dream of leaving this country for another. This is called being a young Black Millennial after and in the age of Obama.

https://www.philadelphiaprintworks.com/blogs/news/what-is-the-proper-space-for-hope-a-young-black-queer-millennials-reflection-on-obama