#seeing art of this thing without context is what drove me to play it

[twobellsilence]

i wonder what the mutuals that arent familiar with mouthwash think it's about. Like, just based on the stuff i reblog. like you guys probably don't interact with the text posts (very valid and i recommend you dont for your mental wellbeing) but i assume you Have seen the art............. and i can only imagine at least one of you must be confused as to why these madmen are eating bloody cakes and unironically drinking mouthwash and this girl that looks like Shelley Duval has a gun

[stxleslyds]

Jason doesn't show up in DC's animated series (though the does "spiritually" show up as Tim Drake in Season 2 of Batman the Animated Series).

Jason has a strong presence in the video games, though. So what is your opinion on Jason's characterization for Arkham Knight? He is a DLC for the Injustice games as well. Judy be warned that I did watch some clips of Arkham Knight and the torture was too gruesome for me.

RED HOOD IN VIDEO GAMES.

Hey there friend, thank you for the ask!

INJUSTICE 2.

I had to do some research on Red Hood’s appearances in the Injustice games because I was never really in touch with that story. Here is what I knew about it, there are two games for PC, one of them is Injustice and the other is Injustice 2, the games also have the comic books that give context/background to the lore of the game.

I used to play Injustice: Gods Among Us on mobile phone, and I had Jason as a playable character there, I also found out way too late that “Nightwing” wasn’t really Dick Grayson, it was Damian because he took on the mantle after he and the rock killed Dick in the comic (forever mad at that ridiculous death and the kinda scary art that comic had).

I looked for information about Red Hood’s backstory in wikis and all that because I refuse to read an alternate universe book written by Tom Taylor, there are things that I am just not willing to do.

All in all, I think that this Jason was in surface level, the same as his canon comic counterpart up until the time of his resurrection. Given that the world was at war and the League of Assassins wasn’t working openly, he and the others had to live in the shadows, he seems to have been trained proficiently by both Batman and the LoA so he is a very hardcore opponent. There are some bits of his story with Damian and a place called Gorilla City that I do not understand because I haven’t read the comics but I am fine without it.

The thing is that this Jason is pretty cool, he sticks to his morals and fights for what he believes is right, he doesn’t look like the kinda guy that takes sides in this war which is probably the best idea. Both Batman and Superman seem to be on the wrong side of history with they ideals.

What I did see and I loved eternally was the ending to Red Hood’s story, I will link the video here! But I will also copy and paste all that he says there because I think it’s really important and where I was able to see more of his characterization.

"That. Felt. Good. Titanium composite hollow point bullets with a C4 kicker. Fastest, most explosive ammo in the world. I made them myself. With the invasion over, Bruce and Superman started fighting again. I wasn't down with either of them. On the one hand, the Regime's right. Scumbag murderers and rapists deserve to die. But on the other hand, I'm no fan of government authority. Especially the dictatorial variety.

So, while the world's finest fight each other, I fight for the people. The weak. The innocent. Anyone who can't protect themselves. When they cry out for a saviour, I'll answer. As for the criminals that threaten them? They need to know that their actions have consequences. That the Red Hood is coming for them.”

This is excellent, I absolutely love this, this Jason knows his morals and doesn’t bow down to anyone and in the end, he is truly a hero to the people that need heroes the most.

Him saying that he believes that some criminals have to die but that he can’t really join Superman’s side because he cannot associate with it because he isn’t a fan of dictatorial ideas, I love this man.

I feel like this is a fair characterization for Jason, I believe that if something along the lines of what happens in Injustice happens in current continuity then Jason wouldn’t join any sides, he wouldn’t be neutral per se but he will fight for his own ideals. And his ideals in most universes are protecting people and I think that’s great. I love to see a world where Jason is seen as more intelligent and put together than the Batman.

Something that I find quite funny and interesting from this game is the dialogues that characters have with each other when they fight, I found this video compilation where you can see all the dialogues between Red Hood vs Robin (Damian Wayne), they are so fun and I love the animations too.

BATMAN: ARKHAM KNIGHT.

Oh, ArkhamVerse Jason, my beloved.

He is, to me, the epitome of this meme.

I have actually watched the whole game playthrough, several times, and Jason had a DLC as the Red Hood for that game (Nightwing has one too and I will talk about it later because I love this version of him). And, yes, the torture scene is very gruesome, it was incredibly sad and it made me feel bad. But I also think that they made it that way so it could support the kind of storytelling they were going for.

The reality is that this Jason suffered his whole life, and was constantly introduced to lifestyles that he never wanted to be part of. The world around this Jason wasn’t kind at all to him and there is a long list of people who did him wrong.

Although ArkhamVerse Jason didn’t die, like his comic counterpart did, he suffered the most. And his suffering really drove him to be the best version of an unhinged Jason Todd. But it’s clear, his brutality and murder intent isn’t laced with his Red Hood persona or at least not on the same level as it is with his Arkham Knight persona.

This Jason’s characterization works to perfection, but it only works that way because he was well developed within the game lore and the comics. This Jason was extremely well trained, he is probably the smartest version of Jason, his mind and his level of preparedness are unparalleled when it comes to other Jason Todd variants (a little MCU Loki talk right there).

I would go as far as to say that this Jason would be an excellent match to peak Dick Grayson from before New 52 in comics. Those two would clash so immensely, but man, it would be one hell of an intellectual and physical fight. Two Kings doing what they do best.

Anyway, for now take my word for how well characterized Jason is in the ArkhamVerse, I will make a post were I deep dive more on his character both in game and comics. There is so much to say about him, he is truly interesting and very complex.

Now, I will be a little cheeky and I will use this ask as an opportunity to talk about my man, ArkhamVerse Nightwing aka Pretty Boy.

I love him so much! In the game when you get to meet him (I will link the video here! it’s five minutes long, and worth the watch) you get to see both Nightwing’s and Dick’s personalities. Nightwing is fun and relaxed, he is a little bit cocky and doesn’t let Batman be a pain in his ass, he is truly a beast. Although he is never seen without the mask in a moment when he is alone with Bruce you can really see Dick’s personality shine through. He obviously has had issues with Bruce in the past but there is also this palpable respect coming from both of them to the other. Bruce wants to protect Dick but he acts like a jerk instead of telling him what is on his mind. Dick wants to help Bruce at all costs, he refuses to leave Gotham until they solve something that he was already working on before Bruce needed his help.

There is also this sort of goodbye scene between the two (I will link it here!) that is extremely sad because Dick doesn’t believe Bruce when he tells him that he is proud of him. Dick cuts him off just when Bruce was trying to open up and I think that scene speaks volumes about how rough their relationship was. Dick never finds out that Bruce was “dying” after being infected with the Joker’s blood/gas, so it’s very bittersweet.

There is also the Nightwing DLC, where we get to see Dick being the best of the best, he is so skilled and funny and smart. It is amazing how much this game made me love their Nightwing even though he doesn’t appear much, his dynamic with Penguin is just perfect, Dick literally makes Penguin’s life very difficult. All of the people working with Penguin kinda fear Dick a little bit, some of them are even impressed by his skills.

Oh and, when Nightwing gets captured at some point in the game, Penguin’s men are saying something along the lines of “I was sure Batman will come in” “how come?” “what’s tied up downstairs and getting the crap beat out of it?” “Oh yeah, Nightwing” and that is so true, if I were Batman, I will also risk my life for Nightwing.

I just love Nightwing, he makes me so happy! He is the best here!

Anyway, enough of me loving Nightwing uncontrollably, I will make a separate post where I only talk about ArkhamVerse Jason so, yeah, be ready for that one because I love that Jason too, he is hot.

[animeniacss]

A Palette of Emotions - Artist!Taehyung x Teacher!Reader - Chapter 29 - Make A Decision About Your Decision

Synopsis: Taehyung dreams of being a professional and famous artist one day, but finds that the sea of creativity can be lurking with blood hungry sharks, as well as bland, motionless starfish. Swimming through the sea of opportunities somehow washed him up onto the shore of Bright Star Preschool, as an art teacher. This wasn’t where he expected to be 4 years into his career, but anything to get his big break though, right?

Feat. BTS, TXT, ITZY, Jisoo (BlackPink), Taeyong (NCT)

Genre: Romance, Slow Burn, Love Triangle, Drama, School Setting, Working!AU

Length: approx. 5k words

Chapter 29 - Make A Decision About Your Decision

“Namjoon, I need to talk to you-.” You began, shifting slightly. Namjoon watched as you smoothed out the sides of your skirt, fixing your apron as your eyes lifted to meet his again.

“I was just about to say the same thing to you.” He responded, putting his hands in his pockets. “Would you like to go first? You look more flustered than I do.” Quickly, you covered your ears, trying to see if you could feel the heat rising through your cheeks and to the tips of your ears. Namjoon chuckled a bit. “Sorry.” He added quickly.

“I just wanted to talk to you about the whole… you and Taehyung thing.” You admitted. Namjoon nodded, his small and amused smile straightening out into an unreadable line. You hummed, pressing your hands together in front of you. “I…made my choice.” When you stopped speaking after that, Namjoon’s smile quickly returned. He gently placed a hand on your shoulder, and you looked up. The smile on his face had you wondering what he was thinking, and if it differed from the truth, how would you tell him without hurting his feelings? “Namjoon, I-.”

“You choose Taehyung, didn’t you?” he asked curiously. You didn’t respond right away, so Namjoon only continued. “I could tell the minute you said his name because you looked away.” All you could do was respond with a nervous chuckle. “It’s okay. I kind of had a feeling this is what would happen.” That was a lie, and Namjoon on the inside was crumbling. However, the last thing he would do is showcase that in front of the woman he loves, much less in front of his son’s preschool. “Have you told him?”

“Oh well…uh, about that.” You sighed. “I don’t think I will tell him.” You confessed. Namjoon cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “When I went to tell him, he told me about this huge opportunity he has at the Korean University of Arts…” Namjoon nodded. “And it’s pretty far away. So, I’m worried if I tell him that it’ll…keep him from going.” A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “Saying that out loud makes me sound a bit narcissistic, that the idea of being with me is enough to keep him around.”

“I would do it,” Namjoon said quickly. “So, it’s not a totally unimaginable thought.” A breathy chuckle escaped your lips, stomach fluttering as if a handful of butterflies were trying to escape up and out of your throat. “Besides, there’s a lot here that I’m sure is making his decision tougher than normal.”

“And I don’t want to add it.” You added. “I waited too long and that’s that. I just wanted you to know because…I thought it would be unfair if I didn’t.” Namjoon nodded.

“I appreciate it.” He said. He watched as your head turned towards the school, where Hoseok and Taehyung shuffling the students into a line, some being more unruly than others and requiring Hoseok’s stern voice to get them in line. You smiled a bit. “May I ask you a question, though?” You turned back to Namjoon at the sound of his question. “I was going to ask you this with different intentions but…regardless. My company is having a party and I wanted to invite you. Originally, I meant to ask in the context of a date, but-…” he chuckled, but time, you could feel the pain coming from it. “But, if you’re comfortable, I’d love for you to come just as a friend. I think it would be fun, and maybe clear your head.” For another moment, you didn’t respond. “Only if you want to. I’ll understand if you don’t.”

“That’s not it.” You admitted. “I…think it would be fun. Besides, I know a few people at your job. Like Jimin.” Namjoon smiled, nodding his head. “Just…let me know when it is, okay?”

“Right.” Namjoon had to admit, he was stunned you agreed right after the conversation the both of you had had, but maybe it was your way of coping, your way of dealing with the tidal wave of emotions suffocating you. However, you choose to perceive this evening out with Namjoon, he would make sure you had nothing other than a good time. “I’ll let you get to work.” He spoke. You nodded, waving as Namjoon slipped into his car. He watched as you headed back to the line, hopping behind the students as they disappeared behind the front doors. Ryujin was quick to look up at you as the doors closed behind you, shielding Namjoon from your view. For a moment, Namjoon sat back in his car, closing his eyes and running a hand through his face. A part of his brain told him to cry, but his eyes refused to do so. He was devastated that despite everything, despite knowing you and loving you longer, he lost. All he could think was What did I do wrong? Where did I mess up?

After a few moments, Namjoon let out a deep sigh, started up his engine, and drove down the street. The day had barely started, and he already wanted it to be over.

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Have fun at your meeting. You remember saying to Taehyung at the end of that day. Taehyung grinned at you as he finished packing up. See you in a few days.

I’ll be back soon, so don’t miss me. It’s only an orientation with the CEO to finalize everything.

Yeah, but you’re leaving me with the art duties until then. You remembered Taehyung’s deep, amused laugh that erupted like his chest, and you remember the forced giggle you had to give to keep the mood light. That was already two days ago, and Taehyung would be gone the rest of the week, visiting the campus, filling out paperwork, signing up for classes, and cementing the fact that he would be going there starting the fall. It was as if it was a void that was stuck right in the middle of Bright Star Preschool, and no amount of silly songs and games, or hours of free play with Yoongi outside were enough to keep the kids from thinking about Taehyung.

“Teacher…” Lia said softly, looking up at you. You glanced down, watching as Lia scribbled with some brand-new crayons onto a once-white piece of paper. “When is Mr. Kim back?”

You sighed, smiling softly. “Soon, Lia. He’s doing some important artist work now. So, Mr. Hobi and I are still going to be your art teachers for a bit. How’s that sound?” Lia smiled a bit, nodding her head. “Okay.”

“I made a picture of Mr. Kim and me. I wrote ‘Miss you.” You glanced down at the picture, and where she pointed to the words, some of the neatest preschool words a 4-year-old could create, yet still somehow hit by the hand of a toddler. “And my name.” her name was a bit neater to read. “Mr. Kim likes gray…so his shirt is gray.”

“Very nice. He’s going to love it.” You said happily. Lia’s eyes sparkled, nodding her head. As you continued to walk around, monitoring the kid’s free activities, you couldn’t help but feel off. This was the time the kids usually spent with Taehyung, working on some amazingly intricate craft or colorful project that never fully turned out right, but the creativity from the kids was just as apparent as the creativity from Taehyung. Arriving back at your desk, you sank into your seat, spinning towards your computer and taking the time to search up some children’s nursery rhymes. Hopefully, some background noise of the kids belting out songs would make you feel at ease. When that thought crossed your mind, you knew you must have finally hit rock bottom.

When one of the children’s favorite nursery rhymes, Morning Glory, began playing, you could hear a few of the kids gasp, joy filling their lungs as they began to sing along to the best of their ability. Resting her chin in her hands, she silently watched the kids play for the last bit of time they had to do so before it was time to return to work.

Hoseok slipped into the classroom moments later, the sound of the nursery rhyme filling his ears. A grin formed on his face as he watched the kids singing.

“Oh, I love this song.” He gasped. Quickly, he began singing as well, a few nearby kids giggling at the man but continuing to sing with him. You had only glanced up for a moment, giggling softly to yourself before turning back to your computer momentarily. Hoseok walked farther into the classroom and glanced over at where you sat in the room. He could immediately sense the solemn feeling that surrounded you, even though a smile was painted delicately on your face. He watched you for a moment, as Beomgyu hurried over to you, alerting your attention in his direction as he held a picture up in your direction. The small smile on your face widened as you took the picture into your hands and examined it. The song playing and the kids singing made it hard to make out your conversation with the child, however, he watched you both talk. Beomgyu turned to the wall plastered with pictures created by the kids, obviously begging you to hang the photo up. You nodded, standing up from your seat, the picture still in your hands. Beomgyu jumped up and down in excitement as he followed you to the wall, where you taped up the picture exactly where he requested, beside a previous drawing he had made in Taehyung’s class using paint.

Glancing down at the child, you patted his head and sent him on his way, the child grinning in delight. Once he was gone, you smoothed out your skirt and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Hoseok took this opportunity to approach you, smiling the closer he got.

“You okay?” he asked curiously, alerting your attention towards him. “Normally you’re singing the nursery rhymes the loudest.”

“I’m just a bit tired today, I guess…” you said softly, pressing your hands together.

Liar. Hoseok immediately thought, but still, he offered a small smile. You turned towards the wall above the board, which housed the dolphin painting you had gotten. It seemed like so long ago now, a present from Seokjin. You remember coming in Monday morning, just as Seokjin had asked. However, instead of sticking it in the hallway, you hung it right up in the room above the board. It was the first thing you saw every day when you walked in. Hoseok, following your gaze, stared at the picture as well. Shuffling closer, he gently took your hand in his, out of view of the children, who were too distracted to notice anyhow. You turned to look at him, and he leaned down slightly so he could whisper to you: “Let me take you out to dinner tonight, okay?” You seemed a bit hesitant, but Hoseok wasn’t done. “Nothing fancy. Let’s go to the bar, have a few drinks, and relax. You deserve it…” Gently, lovingly, Hoseok squeezed your hand in his, smiling sweetly at you. “It’ll be fun…”

“…Okay.” You said softly, offering your friend a smile in return. Slowly, Hoseok removed his hand, putting it on his hip as he turned back to the kids. He quickly hurried over to the kids again, continuing to sing the next song that came up on shuffle, The Tomato Song, a classic. Now, you noticed, Hoseok had a slight spring in his step. Clapping your hands together, the kids turned to you, and you closed the music down. “Okay class, let’s start cleaning up.”

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“This place is even better knowing I’m going to come here.” Taehyung hummed in awe, turning to Jimin. His friend laughed a bit, nodding his head in agreement. The duo had spent the day getting another full tour, being briefed on what the scholarship could entail, and looking over possible courses that Taehyung would take to start his career. It was a long day, a stressful day, but Taehyung was beaming in ways he had never before. Each new thing revitalized him as if he was never tired at all. He spent hours chatting with Mr. Oh about the school, the classes, and the overall path he wanted to take in his artistic career. Mr. Oh listened intensely, smiling all the wild as they chatted.

“Mr. Kim, I must admit, each minute talking with you makes me feel even more excited that you’ve agreed to this.” Mr. Oh said.

“Thank you, Sir, I feel the same way,” Taehyung said.

“I’m amazed you haven’t found success sooner. Surely, you’ve attended various art shows before mine.” Taehyung nodded.

“Yessir, I have. I hadn’t had much success, though. They were either small-scale events or…” Taehyung trailed off, thinking back to almost a year prior, at the art show of Mr. Oh Min Jae. He remembered how furious he was that night, how humiliated he felt knowing his work was dismissed for opinions and not constructive facts. He most likely scowled thinking about it, because a had patted his shoulders. When he looked over, Jimin offered him sympathetic eyes. He knew exactly what was running through Taehyung’s mind, possibly even better and clearer than Taehyung did. The male coughed into his hand. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’ve just had…very unfortunate experiences of people dismissing my work.”

“I can tell by your face.” Mr. Oh hummed. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve experienced that. However, art involves peaks and valleys, high and lows, positives and negatives. You’ve got something special, and I think that your time here will reflect that.” Taehyung nodded, smiling a bit.

“Thank you.” He responded softly.

“With that, I’ll give you the list of classes and let you get on your way. Look it over and I’ll see about setting you up with one of our class representatives to prepare your classes for the first term. If we can’t do it before you have to leave, we can do it over the phone.” Taehyung nodded, both he and Jimin standing up to bow to the man.

“Thank you again,” Taehyung said.

“Yes, thank you.” Jimin nodded. The man smiled, waving to the boys as they excused themselves from the room. They exited the building of the CEO, neither speaking for a few moments. They strode across campus, passing by some straggler students who were making their way between classes, books full of supplies and canvases stacked high in their arms as they made their journey. Jimin was the first of the two to let out a deep sigh when they got off-campus property, headed down the street to their hotel. “Well, that was something.”

“You think I looked too scary before?” Taehyung asked curiously, pursing his lips. Jimin cocked an eyebrow, so Taehyung clarified: “When I thought about Oh Min Jae, I didn’t realize how visibly frustrated I got.”

Jimin chuckled, patting Taehyung on the shoulder. “I don’t think he thought too much into it. He already is practically shoving the scholarship at you. Just don’t worry about it.” Taehyung nodded. “I’m exhausted, can we go back to the room to nap before we get something to eat?”

When the duo arrived in their room, Jimin plopped down on the bed, sighing in relief as comfort overtook his body. Taehyung sat on his bed, turning the TV on to allow some faint noise in the background. As Jimin got himself comfortable, preparing for what could be the best sleep of his life, Taehyung reached into his bag and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was a bit torn, bent in the corners as if it had been moved around and touched several times. Gently, Taehyung opened it, glancing down at the picture inside. It was one of his earliest sketches of you before you had known about and before all of these weird romantic feelings began brewing up inside him. He stared at it, admiring the sketch as if it were a real picture.

I wonder if I’ll ever get to put a real picture of her in my wallet…Taehyung thought to himself. He gently folded the picture back up, slipping it back into place. This will do for now. Taehyung turned to look at Jimin, who was laying under the covers of his bed, watching the TV silently. Taehyung could see his eyes closing a little with every passing second. He could fall asleep any minute. “I should probably get some sleep too…” he mumbled to himself. Slowly, he curled himself under the covers, pulling out his phone to set an alarm around dinner time. The last thing either of them wanted was to wake up late and be starving. Closing his eyes, Taehyung tried to fall asleep.

It took several moments of blackness, silence other than the faint TV which he had already turned down even more as he got under his covers, the fading light of the outside curtain drifting off with every passing moment. He couldn’t sleep. Taehyung threw a tired arm across his eyes, hoping it would only block the light out further, and he let out a frustrated sigh. A lot was on his mind now, and it was racing. School, his friends, and family, his job….

….you.

Didn’t you say you planned to leave once you hit your ‘big break’? Jimin’s voice rang through his mind, and it only frustrated him more. When he turned to look at Jimin, he saw his friend was peacefully sleeping. Jealousy surged over him at the idea that his friend was so peaceful while he was up suffering. Quickly, Taehyung grabbed one of his pillows and tossed it in Jimin’s direction. It missed Jimin, hitting the side of the bed, but it was enough to stir the man awake.

“Hm? What?” Jimin asked, eyes fluttering open. Taehyung quickly turned his head, crossing his arms as he stared at the ceiling.

“You deserve that for keeping me awake.” He said simply, his anger laced with playful fun despite it all. Jimin raised an eyebrow, watching as Taehyung closed his eyes. The shorter boy was quick to hop out of bed, shuffling over to his friend’s bed and pushing him aside. Taehyung didn’t protest, simply cocking his head to see his best friend cling to him, like a sloth. “You haven’t done this in years.”

“Well, you haven’t really needed me too in years,” Jimin said. “What’s on your mind?”

Taehyung was silent for a moment. Where should he start? Jimin waited quietly, his arm thrown over Taehyung’s stomach and his head nestled in the pillow beside him. It was a level of comfort they established long ago and never intended to move from. Taehyung only shifted to make himself more comfortable. “…Do you think she made her decision yet?”

Jimin blinked. He thought back to his conversation with Namjoon a few days prior, about his desire to take her to their company party as a date. He remembered the solemn look on Namjoon’s face when he was asked about it the next day by another coworker, to which he only replied I’m bringing a friend of mine…

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “Why?”

“I want to ask her, but I don’t want to be pushy.” He sighed. “But also…I’m going to leave soon, and it’ll kill me if I don’t find out.”

“…Will it make that big of a difference?” Jimin asked curiously. Taehyung sighed, pursing his lips together as he thought about the question. Would it make a difference? How big of a difference could it make?

“I don’t know. I’ve wanted this opportunity more than anything, but…I didn’t expect to have anything that could possibly keep my home when I got it.”

“Hey.” Jimin pouted, and Taehyung only laughed.

“You know what I mean…” he said. “I don’t know what to do, and as much as I want this so bad, it’s on my mind. Would she do a longer-distance relationship? Would she wait for me? Am I even still in the running anymore? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Maybe you should talk to her,” Jimin said. “You’re finalizing all of this scholarship money and classes in the next few days. If you want to make a decision, you should do it sooner rather than later…”

Taehyung knew his friend was right, he often was with matters like this. Letting out a deep sigh, Taehyung nodded. “Let’s not worry now. Get some rest so we can go get dinner.”

“Alright…” Taehyung said. After a minute, Taehyung shifted, glancing over at Jimin. “Uh…Jimin?” he hummed.

“Hmmm?”

“Shouldn’t you…go to your bed?”

“Nah, this is comfortable. I might just go to sleep.” With a yawn, Jimin’s eyes fluttered closed. Taehyung laughed a bit, slipping Jimin’s arm off his stomach and rolled to the other side of the bed. He starred at his wallet, seeing the small corner of the sketch paper poking out a bit from the top. He felt his eyes get heavy, the exhaustion of the day finally starting to overtake him, and he fell asleep wondering what the rest of the week would bring.

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“Are you sure she wants me to come too?” Yoongi asked, looking at Hoseok as he set his phone in his pocket. Hoseok ran a hand through his hair, looking back towards the door. Hoseok had dipped out of the school a bit early, claiming it was to get a table for the two of you at the local bar, giving you some privacy away from being smushed arm and arm at one of the bars. However, Hoseok actually hurried to Yoongi’s high school, meeting him by the front door and practically dragging him along.

“Of course. She doesn’t hate you or anything.” Yoongi laughed, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, I know that.” He assured. “But I figured you’d want to take her out alone the first chance you got.” A thin line crossed Hoseok’s lips, and he set his beer down. Folding his hands together, he rested them under his chin.

“I know.” He said simply. “But I told her this wasn’t meant to be a date. If you’re here with us too, I think she’ll feel a little better.” A small, yet sad smile formed on Hoseok’s face. “I just want to cheer her up. She’s looked upset these past few days since Taehyung told her the news about the scholarship.” Yoongi nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, I know.” He said simply. After another sip of his beer, he heard a voice behind him, one that made both men jump slightly in surprise.

“Yoongi, I didn’t know Hoseok invited you too.” When Yoongi turned around, he saw you standing there, fixing the purse on your shoulder. “Not that I mind, of course.”

“Hey.” Yoongi smiled, watching as you slid into your spot across from the boys. A waiter walked over, and you put in an order for some water.

Hoseok leaned forward a bit, smiling. “Give her an order of what I’m getting too, okay?” he asked the waiter. He smiled, nodding his head before stepping away to retrieve the drinks.

“Hoseok, you know I don’t drink on school nights.” You sighed softly.

“I told you I wanted to take you out for drinks tonight. At least have the one, I won’t tell Mr. Kim.”

“I might,” Yoongi smirked, glancing up at you. You chuckled at his comment, but the smile on your face didn’t last long, soon returning to a neutral stare as your eyes wandered around the packed bar. The waiter returned with your drinks, and you thanked him. After a moment, you looked up at Hoseok, who was also finishing his beer.

“I want to talk to you,” Hoseok said, glancing up at you. Immediately, the frown on your face deepened. You hated that sentence, and you knew the power of anxiety it had on people because you saw the fear in the eyes of your students whenever you would use it. Hoseok hummed, ruffling his hair as he looked at you. “Yoongi-Hyung and I are going to elope in Seoul at the end of the month.”

“WHAT?!” You gasped; eyes wide. Yoongi immediately began choking, slamming his beer on the table and covering his mouth. Hoseok grinned, looking over both of you.

“Nobody else was saying anything and you looked so upset I just had to say something to cheer you up.” Hoseok teased. You passed Yoongi one of your napkins, which he took to wipe his mouth, his coughing slowly subsiding as he patted his chest. Hoseok giggled. “Sorry, Hyung, I didn’t see you take a sip.”

“You filthy liar.” Yoongi gasped, shaking his head. “She would probably date you faster than I would.” Hoseok’s eyes widened his mouth ajar at the man’s quick response back. You covered your mouth, a giggle escaping it though you tried desperately to keep it hidden.

“Oh, I’m glad my sad love life makes you laugh.” Hoseok pouted. When he took an angry sip of his drink, you could only laugh harder, reaching your other hand out to take one of his, and squeeze it tightly.

“I’m sorry that’s not why I’m laughing, it’s just-.” Your sentence got cut off by another giggle. “-that was so unexpected I just had to laugh.”

Yoongi cocked an eyebrow. “But the elopement joke wasn’t unexpected?” He snickered a bit. Hoseok looked down at your hand, which was still grasping hold of his own. When he set his glass down, he held your hand tighter. He smiled gently as he heard you finish your little giggle fit, finally lifting your glass and taking a sip of the drink Hoseok had ordered for you.

“I’m glad you’re laughing, at least.” He admitted softly. “Even if it’s at my expense.” Again, you had to chuckle.

For a while, the three of you chatted normally as friends do over dinner and drinks. It was nice, something none of you had done in a long while. You made sure the beer lasted a majority of the night, not wanting to get any more after that. However, just as you finished it off, setting it beside your empty dinner plate, Yoongi spoke up.

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Another random elopement announcement?” you asked. Yoongi shook his head.

“Hoseok told me about everything with Taehyung in detail while we waited for you to get here.” He said. You glanced at Hoseok, who blocked his response by stuffing a bite of rice into his mouth. “What do you plan to do?”

“Nothing.” You said simply. “He had a good opportunity and I don’t want to hold him back with my indecisiveness.”

“But is it indecisiveness if you already made your decision?” Yoongi asked curiously. You sighed. “I know you just don’t want to feel like you’re holding him back.”

“I know.”

“But he’s waited this long. Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

“I don’t think it’ll change much of anything, Yoongi. He’s decided to take this scholarship and…that means he’s moving away. I don’t know if I can handle a long-distance relationship, I’ve barely ever had a close-distance one…And it would be unfair to put him through that for my sake.”

“So… everything you did these past few months have been for nothing,” Yoongi asked. You looked up at the man as he leaned forward a bit. “Okay, okay. Let’s go with what you’re saying and decide you’re not telling him for his sake. What about you?”

“Me?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. Hoseok looked over at Yoongi, who had on as neutral of an expression as he always did.

“Yes, you.” He said simply. “You always say you do things for other people. What do you do for yourself?”

“Hyung maybe that’s enough-.” Hoseok said softly. He just wanted to cheer you up with some drinks, not have an intervention.

“I…I don’t know what you mean.” You responded.

“Listen. Both you and Taehyung are my coworkers and I really care about the both of you, as individuals and otherwise. You’ll only make yourself more depressed and upset if you keep this to yourself, and not only that, it’ll make Taehyung upset that he never gets a straight answer for you.”

“Even if I did decide to tell him, Yoongi, he wouldn’t stay just because of me.”

“Would it be so bad if he did?” Yoongi asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you both could figure something out; you act like it’s one or the other. You talk like him staying around to be with you is such a bad thing.”

“I-.” You sighed. Quickly, you thought back to Namjoon a few days prior, outside the school.

I would absolutely do it, so it’s not a totally unimaginable thought. But I’m sure there are other things keeping him here as well.

Yoongi was right, and you knew that. Taehyung had a right to know how you felt, and whatever happened from that was destined to happen from the beginning. You glanced to the side, eyes following around your waiter as he moved from table to table. Yoongi sighed.

“Listen, I know this is something on your mind and I don’t want to make you feel guilty or pressure you. I just thought you should see it from different angles, like ours or even Taehyung’s, I-.”

“Don’t worry.” You said softly, glancing at him. “You make very good points. I have a lot more to think about than I thought I did.”

Hoseok, who could sense the slight panic, the slight nervousness rising in your voice with every word you said, reaching out and took your hand in his once again. You glanced over to him next, smiling a bit as he squeezed your hand.

“We only want you to be happy, you know. And we both know you not saying anything will just…keep you unhappy.”

“…I know…” you said, squeezing his hand tightly in your own. When the waiter approached, you immediately called him over, pointing to your empty beer glass. “Can I get a refill on this, please? Maybe two?”

Return to Masterlist

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[kingjasnah]

Is there the full list of brandersons favourite games reposted somewhere?

i dont think so? or not that ive seen. u can literally just sign up for the newsletter on his website but screw it ill just post them for u. it sure was a TRIP scrolling past these to get to the interlude though. undertale is on this list.....im shakign at the thought that adolin was based off ff10 tidus but i cant get it out of my head now

#10: Katamari Damaci

I love things that make me look at the world in a new way. Katamari did this in spades. It is an imaginative, bizarre vision with unique gameplay. It is like nothing else in the world and I love it for all its strangeness and occasional lack of gameplay polish.

I was transfixed the first time I played it, and have looked forward to it being remade and rereleased on multiple different consoles. I love the cute—and somehow creepy at the same time—storyline. It feels like a fever dream more than a game sometimes, and is probably the closest I’ll ever get to understanding what it’s like to do drugs.

#9: Undertale

This is an oddball on this list because I think it’s the only game that is not a franchise from a major studio—but is instead an indie game, which I believe was originally funded on Kickstarter.I loved how this felt like a novel as much as a game. It was one person’s vision; a single story told really well, with a huge amount of personality. The humor was just my kind of wonderful/terrible, and I was instantly enamored with the characters.That probably would have been enough, but it is a nice deconstruction of video games as a medium—and has not one, but multiple innovative gameplay mechanics. Together, the package left me enamored. This is a work of genius that I feel everyone should at least try, even if it ends up not being for them.

#8: Fallout: New Vegas

I have played all of the core Fallout games, and I was one of the (it seems few) who was really excited when it moved from turn-based tactics to first-person shooter. While Fallout 3 was good, it didn’t have the charm of the first two.New Vegas delivered on everything I was hoping to see. The charm was back, the writing sharp, the quests imaginative. The gameplay was engaging and branched in a variety of directions, the gunplay was solid, and the atmosphere immersive. I of course love the first two games in the series—but New Vegas combines everything I like in gaming into one package. (As a note, I own the Outer Worlds, and am looking forward to digging into it. Consider this item on the list a recommendation of other Obsidian games—like Knights of the Old Republic Two—regardless of genre, as I’ve found them universally to be superior to their contemporaries.)

#7 Super Mario World

When I was eleven, I flew (alone, which was very exciting to me) from Nebraska to visit my uncle Devon in Salt Lake City. Before I left, my father gave me $200 and told me to pay for my own meals while on the trip—but of course, my uncle didn’t allow this. At the end of the trip, I tried to give him the money, which he wouldn’t take.I mentioned my dad would take the money back when I got home, but that was okay. Well, my uncle would have none of that, and drove me to the local mall and made me spend it on a Nintendo Entertainment System. (This uncle, you might guess, is an awesome human being.)Since that day of first plugging it in and experiencing Mario for the first time, I was hooked. This is the only platformer on the list, as I don’t love those. But one makes an exception for Mario. There’s just so much polish, so much elegance to the control schemes, that even a guy who prefers an FPS or an RPG like me has to admit these are great games. I picked World as my favorite as it’s the one I’ve gone back to and played the most.

#7: The Curse of Monkey Island (Monkey Island 3)

I kind of miss the golden age of adventure gaming, and I don’t know that anyone ever got it as right as they did with this game. It is the pinnacle of the genre, in my opinion—no offense to Grim Fandango fans.This game came out right before gaming’s awkward teenage phase where everything moved to 3-d polygons. For a while after, games looked pretty bad, though they could do more because of the swap. But if you want to go see what life was like before that change, play Monkey Island 3. Composed of beautiful art pieces that look like cells from Disney movies, with streamlined controls (the genre had come a long way from “Get yon torch”) and fantastic voice acting, this game still plays really well.This is one of the few games I’ve been able to get my non-gamer wife to play through with me, and it worked really well as a co-op game with the two of us trying to talk through problems. It’s a lovingly crafted time capsule of a previous era of gaming, and if you missed it, it’s really worth trying all these years later. (The first and second games hold up surprisingly well too, as a note, particularly with the redone art that came out a decade or so ago.)Also, again, this one has my kind of humor.

#6: Breath of the Wild

I never thought a Zelda game would unseat A Link to the Past as my favorite Zelda, but Breath of the Wild managed it. It combined the magic of classic gameplay with modern design aesthetic, and I loved this game.There’s not a lot to say about it that others haven’t said before, but I particularly liked how it took the elements of the previous games in the series (giving you specific tools to beat specific challenges) and let you have them all at once. I like how the dungeons became little mini puzzles to beat, instead of (sometimes seemingly endless) slogs to get through. I liked the exploration, the fluidity of the controls, and the use of a non-linear narrative in flashbacks. It’s worth buying a Switch just to play this one and Mario—but in case you want, you can also play Dark Souls on Switch... (That’s foreshadowing.)

#5: Halo 2

Telling stories about Halo Two on stream is what made me think of writing this list.I’m sometimes surprised that this game isn’t talked about as much as I think it should be. Granted, the franchise is very popular—but people tend to love either Reach or games 1 or 3 more than two. Two, however, is the only one I ever wanted to replay—and I’ve done so three or four times at this point. (It’s also the only one I ever beat on Legendary.)It’s made me think on why I love this one, while so many others seem to just consider it one of many in a strong—but in many ways unexceptional—series of games. I think part of this is because I focus primarily on the single-player aspects of a game (which is why there aren’t any MMOs on this list.) Others prefer Halo games with more balanced/polished multiplayer. But I like to game by myself, and don’t really look for a multiplayer experience. (Though this is changing as I game with my sons more and more.)I really like good writing—which I suppose you’d expect. But in games, I specifically prefer writing that enhances the style of game I’m playing. Just dumping a bunch of story on me isn’t enough; it has to be suited to the gameplay and the feel of the game. In that context, I’ve rarely encountered writing as good as Halo 2. From the opening—with the intercutting and juxtaposition of the two narratives—to the quotes barked out by the marines, the writing in this game is great. It stands out starkly against other Halo games, to the point that I wonder what the difference is.Yes, Halo Two is a bombastic hero fantasy about a super soldier stomping aliens. But it has subtle, yet powerful worldbuilding sprinkled all through it—and the music...it does things with the story that I envy. It’s kind of cheating that games and films get to have powerful scores to help with mood.The guns in Two feel so much better than Halo One, and the vehicles drive far better. The only complaint I have is that it’s only half a story—as in, Halo 2 and 3 seem like they were one game broken in two pieces. And while 3 is good (and Reach does something different, which I approve of in general) neither did it for me the way Two did, and continues to do.

#3: Final Fantasy X

You probably knew Final Fantasy was coming. People often ask if the way these games handle magic was an influence upon me. All I can say is that I’ve played them since the first one, and so they’re bound to have had an influence.On one hand, these games are really strange. I mean, I don’t think we gamers stop quite often enough to note how downright bizarre this series gets. Final Fantasy doesn’t always make the most sense—but the games are always ambitious.Ten is my favorite for a couple of reasons. I felt like the worldbuilding was among the strongest, and I really connected with the characters. That’s strange, because this is one of the FF games without an angst-filled teen as the protagonist. Instead, it has a kind of stable happy-go-lucky jock as the protagonist.But that’s what I needed, right then. A game that didn’t give me the same old protagonist, but instead gave me someone new and showed me I could bond to them just as well. Ten was the first with full voice acting, and that jump added a lot for me. It has my favorite music of the series, and all together is what I consider the perfect final fantasy game. (Though admittedly, I find it more and more difficult to get into turn-based battle mechanics as I grow older.)

#2: Bloodborne

Those who follow my streams, or who read other interviews I’ve done, probably expected this series to be at or near the top. The question wasn’t whether Souls would be here, but which one to pick as my favorite.I went with Bloodborne, though it could have been any of them. (Even Dark Souls 2—which I really like, despite its reputation in the fandom.) I’ve been following FromSoftware’s games since the King’s Field games, and Demon’s Souls was a huge triumph—with the director Hidetaka Miyazaki deserving much of the praise for its design, and Dark Souls (which is really just a more polished version of Demon’s Souls).As I am a fan of cosmic horror, Bloodborne is probably my favorite overall. It really hit the mix of cosmic and gothic horror perfectly. It forced me to change up my gameplay from the other Souls games, and I loved the beautiful visuals.I am a fan of hard games—but I like hard games that are what I consider “fair.” (For example, I don’t love those impossible fan-made Mario levels, or many of the super-crazy “bullet hell”-style games.) Dark Souls is a different kind of hard. Difficult like a stern instructor, expecting you to learn—but giving you the tools to do so. It presents a challenge, rather than being hard just to be hard.If I have a problem with Final Fantasy, it’s that the games sometimes feel like the gameplay is an afterthought to telling the story. But in the Souls games, story and gameplay are intermixed in a way I’d never seen done before. You have to construct the story like an archeologist, using dialogue and lore from descriptions of in-game objects. I find this fascinating; the series tells stories in a way a book never could. I’m always glad when a game series can show off the specific strengths of the medium.In fact, this series would be #1 except for the little fact that I have way too much time on Steam logged playing...

#1: Civilization VI

This series had to take #1 by sheer weight of gameplay time. I discovered the first on a friend’s computer in the dorms my freshman year—and I can still remember the feeling of the birds chirping outside, realizing I’d been playing all night and really should get back to my own dorm room.That still happens, and has happened, with every game in the series. I have a lot of thoughts on this series, many of them granular and too specific for this list. (Like, it’s obvious AI technology isn’t up to the task of playing a game this complex—so could we instead get a roguelike set of modifiers, game modes, etc. to liven up the games, rather than just having a difficulty slider that changes a few simple aspects of the game?)I’ll try not to rant, because I really do love this game series. A lot of people consider IV to be the pinnacle of the series, but after V unstacked units—and VI unstacked cities—there was no way I could ever go back. If for some reason, you’ve never played this grand patriarch of the 4X game genre, it’s about starting with a single stone-age settler who can found a city—then playing through eras of a civilization, growing your empire, to try to eventually get offworld with a space program. (Or, if you prefer, conquering the world.)It’s a load of fun in the way I like to have fun, and I feel like the series has only gotten better over the years. My hat is off to the developers, who keep reinventing the series, rather than making the exact same game over and over.Now, about that request for difficulty modes...

there are runner ups but for the sake of anyone whos on mobile and cant get past a read more (first of all omg im SO sorry) ill refrain. anyway he thought WHAT loz game was the best before botw?

[aruviwrote]

[MIRROR] Titillation and perversion: the cis lens of Super Deluxe

Posting a mirror of this: original at http://theworldofapu.com/super-deluxe-critical-analysis/

Super Deluxe (2019), directed by Thiagarajan Kumararaja, has been a polarizing film in my queer circle. To those convinced of its brilliance, it is nothing short of a cinematic revolution. However, to the rest of us, it is difficult even to describe how depraved the moral center of the movie is, surrounded as it is by an aura of big names lauding it as years ahead of its time. This becomes an especially difficult matter when the narrative of the film is praised for being trans-inclusive. Many see it as Tamil cinema’s big favour to transgender folks, which makes it that much harder to argue that the film is transphobic to its core.

Structured as a set of four seemingly disconnected storylines, which eventually converge in unexpected ways, Super Deluxe is a potpourri of things that sound like Really Cool Movie Ideas—shower thought after shower thought thrown at you, plot devices that may well have come from that one college friend obsessed with Quentin Tarantino. The cult success of Aaranya Kaandam (Kumararaja’s previous and first film) led to a breathless build-up around Super Deluxe, and that resulted in a movie so convinced of its own hype, that it never stopped to consider the fact that these Cool Movie Ideas may not fit coherently. The movie is always smugly convinced of its own brilliance, all the way from the titillating title sequence to the ending that featured a bizarre exposition (aliens give you cash! morality is relative!), revealing the film’s sheer contempt for the viewer’s intelligence. Leaving aside the gratuitous violence and the rampant transphobia, Super Deluxe is a drab movie at best.

To begin with, Super Deluxe is not kind to its cis women. It opens with Samantha playing an archetype of a modern woman that has plagued Kollywood since time immemorial. Her character, Vaembu, speaks about sex in a way that is reminiscent of a schoolboy’s fantasy, calling herself an ‘item’ by way of introduction. We see a neat correlation being drawn, between the sexual openness of the character and the trouble she is in. Later on in the movie, a weak attempt is made to subvert this portrayal, along the predictable lines of the How Many Partners Have You Had conversation. By that point, the plot seems to have lost any semblance of life. The less said about Leela, the better—Ramya Krishnan makes a brave attempt to authentically portray one of the most ham-fisted stereotypes of Sex Worker with a Heart of Gold I have seen yet from Mysskin (one of four writers credited on this movie).

However, the violence that registers most is the one that comes disguised as empowerment. The character of Shilpa, a trans woman, is played by actor and cis man Vijay Sethupathi. Shilpa’s story is the detailed recounting of every single way in which trans women can be humiliated. My favourite critical review of the filmmaking on display here comes from the blog The Seventh Art, where Srikanth Srinivasan notes that the camera and the soundtrack share the point of view of the aggressor time and again. We rarely see Shilpa’s plot from her own perspective; it is always the perspective of a condescending observer or a crying wife. One such instance of this voyeuristic framing and subsequent othering is the scene where Shilpa is shown draping a saree. She dresses herself in front of a mirror while her wife stands and watches, sobbing. The soundtrack is giggling out Maasi Maasam Aalana Ponnu, a song from the 1991 film Dharmadurai, mockingly dissonant from the context. The camera zooms into Shilpa smoothening her wig, and she has the slightest moment of genuine euphoria that she looks good for her walk. The camera, of course, makes fun of this vulnerability all along—titillating noises from the sex song still running, it switches over to the sobbing wife who says, “I don’t know what’s harder, having lived so long without a husband or having to live with a husband like this.” This is the point of view the camera wants you, the viewer, to have. It wants you to watch while ‘something like this’ gets humiliated. This is supposed to be the progressive portrayal of a trans woman in this movie, obsessed with her appearance, indifferent to her wife’s pain; a balding sex trafficker who dresses up while her wife watches.

Srikanth goes on to observe: “In the scene at the police station, the only point of view the audience is allowed to recognize is the sleazy cop’s. The cop, of course, is a caricature and the audience is made to feel morally superior to him, while not having anything to do with Shilpa beyond dispensing sympathy for her subhuman status. By making Shilpa the passive object of contempt, the film forestalls even the possibility of the audience’s identification with Shilpa that the casting of Vijay Sethupathi might have offered. There’s a special violence in the fact that the transference of identity that the film demands from its trans viewers for its other characters is not matched with a demand from its cis viewers towards Shilpa.”

It deserves to be said that it is profoundly unethical and transphobic to cast cisgender men to play trans women. Jen Richards put it across wonderfully in the Netflix documentary Disclosure (2020):

“Having cis men play trans women, in my mind, is a direct link to the violence against trans women. And in my mind, part of the reason that men end up killing trans women out of fear that other men will think that they’re gay for having been with trans women, is that the friends, the men whose judgement they fear of, only know trans women from media. And the people who are playing trans women are the men that they know. This doesn’t happen when a trans woman plays a trans woman.”

All the subplots share one thing in common: the setup is fantastically contrived with no aspersions to realism or believability, with the exception of sexual violence, which is gratuitous, uncomfortably real, and never-ending. Don’t get me wrong—I think there can be artistic value in making a viewer squirm in their seat, discomfited by sexual violence, especially if you’ve been a victim of it. However, to do so with no narrative significance and to follow it up by saying “Everything is Meaningless” is the kind of depravity that I could not stomach, in a movie that everyone seems to love. Ostensibly, there seems to be an uplifting and empowering message that is arrived at, but not through any meaningful transformation, or moral discourse, or even the triumph of good over evil. This is the thematic methodology of the movie: it first completely reinforces harmful stereotypes for the entirety of the plot, in excruciating detail, and then says, “I was just joking, a flyaway TV knocks out the sexual predator, isn’t life funny?”

The most egregious of these, to me, is the resolution of Shilpa’s narrative, when she comes back and speaks to her wife and son. “I didn’t think of you or your pain. I didn’t know that I would have a son who loved me and ask me why I left him,” she says.

Raasukutty and Jothi berate and gaslight this sobbing survivor of sexual assault, accusing her of being stone-hearted and plotting to leave her family. And then Raasukutty says reproachfully that although everyone else mocked her, he and his mother accepted Shilpa the way she was. “Did I or mother say a single word to you?” he asks. This is not true; Shilpa was thoroughly humiliated when she returned home, including by Jothi, who responds to her transition by alternating between shock, unveiled disgust, and mourning at lost masculinity. But coming from the mouth of precocious child Raasukutty, it is merely a reflection of cis-fragility that doesn’t even register they drove Shilpa away.

Shilpa sobs a little more. Raasukutty says, “I don’t care, be a man, be a woman, be whatever you want. Never leave us again.” The scene fades into black.

My blood boils.

How could this be the resolution? The movie features a trans woman being mocked in ways that feel like the camera is laughing at her, a trans woman being sexually assaulted, a trans woman who is told that expecting society to accept her is too much to ask, a trans woman who gets driven out of every place she wants to exist in, only for her to be told, “I don’t care who you are.”

“I don’t care who you are” is not acceptance. I might have forgiven it all if Raasukutty had instead said “Why did you leave me, mother?” But what we get instead is a return to square one: Shilpa being berated for not being a father, a father she never wanted to be.

Shilpa is never offered simple acknowledgement of her womanhood, or her personhood even. She is always treated as a thing, never a woman. She is seen as an aberration, something grotesque, and the progressive message seems to be that these grotesque things must be accepted for whatever they are. I keep going back to that scene of Shilpa draping a saree, and the awful cognitive dissonance of it. In the end Shilpa says, “As a woman, I understand what you’re going through.” The irony sends shivers down my spine. If the filmmaker had actually believed that, he would have made a very different movie.

There is a profound cis male perversion in the way Shilpa’s story is told. It takes a cis man to devise a plot where a trans woman takes her young child to a public bathroom and zips him up, in a pose that looks like she is fellating her own son. It takes a cis man to write a plot where a trans woman is a child trafficker who upon losing her child in the market, screams that she’s a sinner who transferred her sin to her son when she touched him. It takes a cis man to gaze so long and unblinkingly at the debasement of trans life, and intercut to jokes about porn. This isn’t progressive thought.

One of the most enduring and harmful transphobic stereotypes in existence is the idea that transgender (and other) alms-seekers are running begging and child trafficking rings. This is a popular idea with very little evidence: Sabina Yasmin Rahman calls it the mafia of middle-class convenience. Having noted that police have run multiple investigations in Delhi which failed to establish the existence of a begging mafia, she concludes that this idea of a begging mafia is perpetrated by popular culture and widely-held beliefs, but in reality is hugely exaggerated. Most beggars just live in debilitating poverty. This harmful myth is reinforced in this movie. And really, the more I recall this movie, the more shocked I am that anybody thinks this is progressive. This is what cis people think trans folks do.

In his article on trans characters in Indian cinema, film critic Baradwaj Rangan (who happens to be cis male) had said, “Had Super Deluxe not been a “mainstream” movie, had it played only in festivals to sympathetic and (dare I say) “evolved” audiences, there might have not been the fear that Shilpa is showing the transgender community in a bad light.” For what it’s worth, I’d like to make it clear that sex trafficking is not a realistic character flaw, and rape is not a humanizing portrayal. I leave it to the reader to ponder how utterly offensive this idea is, that a mainstream portrayal of transgender people should shy away from such esoteric things like human dignity.

Even within the Indian trans community, there are divergences in what is considered problematic within the movie. Some of the criticism leveled at it, such as that of transgender activist Grace Banu’s (in an interview to Vikatan; article in Tamil), has been regressive and homophobic, calling into question the logic of Shilpa transitioning as an adult or being attracted to her wife.

Transgender people of all gender identities have the right to choose when to undergo surgical changes, if at all they want to undergo them, and have the express right to fall in love with or have children with or live with people of any gender. One of the common effects of Hormone Replacement Therapy is infertility—there are plenty of folks within the trans community who live their lives precisely in the way that Grace dismisses as illogical. For a trans woman who wants to father children, the two options are to freeze her sperm before starting HRT (expensive and inaccessible) or have a child before starting HRT (which is what Shilpa has done). Grace’s unnecessary and bigoted detour into Shilpa’s bedroom provides no teeth to her critique, which is otherwise spot-on in terms of the movie bringing back the many indignities that the trans community has finally moved past.

Super Deluxe will have to bear the cross for perpetuating the violent lie that women like Shilpa are men like Vijay Sethupathi in makeup and a dress.

[theliterateape]

History is a Puzzle Box of Rashomon

by Don Hall

I’ve often said that the scariest thing to ever come out of my mother’s mouth was the declaration “Let’s go on an adventure!”

For my mother an adventure must include a lack of preparation, potential for danger, and a sense of I can’t believe we just survived that! She once decided she wanted to do a charcoal sketching of a gravestone from the grave of one of our Appalachian Baptist fire-and-brimstone preacher ancestors. My dad drove her up into the mountains and they started seeing patches of purple paint on trees and rocks.

Turned out that was the locals’ way of telling outsiders they'd get shot if they trespassed. My dad clutched his pistol the rest of the way.

Mom got her charcoal sketch. I can’t believe we just survived that!

When I was a kid and we lived in Arizona, mom decided we were going on adventure. My little sister, mom, and I loaded up in her brown Gremlin, a bag of sandwiches, some sodas, and all of our swimming gear and headed out for an afternoon at Lake Pleasant.

All was copacetic until she thought she saw a shortcut to he lake. It was not a shortcut. It was simply desert. It started out as a bit of a dirt path that sort of petered out about an hour into the drive. We were driving in the open desert in the vehicle equivalent to a Pinto.

Of course we blew a tire. Of course we didn't have a spare.

Being a melodramatic kid, I went into a full-blown faux-survivalist panic. After a few minutes of wailing about our imminent demise I set out to figure how to get water out of cactus, the thorny testaments to the heartiness of desert foliage fending off my un-callused hands and delivering exactly no water.

This being decades before smartphones, we were stuck. We had no clue where we were in terms of the comforts of civilization and while mom put on a brave face (and occasionally got the giggles at my histrionics) our fate was sealed. Unless someone miraculously drove into the middle of the desert to save us, we were doomed.

And then the miracle occurred. A beat-up red Ford pickup truck coming from the other direction popped up on the horizon. I shrieked in relief; mom flagged the truck down.

We were about a mile from a highway but we couldn't know that. The driver of the pickup was taking a shortcut from the highway.

Here's where the story gets odd. To this day, my mother's version of this adventure and mine are identical. Word for word the same until we get to the driver of the Ford. On my life, I swear it was an older Native American man who stopped, hitched up the Gremlin to his vehicle, and towed us the mile to the highway and on to a gas station. 

My mother will go to her grave insisting it was a family of four Mormons.

What?!

We’ve had family arguments about this story. Both my mother and I are intractable in our insistence of our specific endings of either Native American man or family of Mormons. We both were there. We both can see ourselves in the tale. The endings are as different as could be.

There is conclusive scientific research that demonstrates how the memory of an event subtly changes the actual memory as it is retold. The more you tell the story, the more it transforms into something similar but wholly different in the margins.

If my mother and I can have such divergent differences within a memory of an event we both shared, how many splinters are there in a collective re-telling of a larger event encompassing many more tellers? How many completely incompatible versions of the attacks on New York on September 11, 2001 are there? How many versions that don’t quite line up with one another are there of the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941?

Moving forward and backward in history, if we are to accept (and I do) that our memories are more Silly Putty than Lego Bricks, how much does film, television, books, and social media come into play in the constant morphing of objective truth to the collection of subjective memories and finally commonly accepted reality?

There is conclusive scientific research that demonstrates how the memory of an event subtly changes the actual memory as it is retold.

Back in the olden days when one could watch something horribly incorrect in the political sense without it becoming a ringing endorsement of your personal "brand" or a scathing indictment on who you are as a fellow human, I went to a screening of Griffith's The Birth of a Nation. It was at an esoteric video shop/screening theater on Fullerton Avenue in Chicago called Facets Multimedia and there were six or seven others in attendance. I was the only white person in the room.

Historically, Griffith's opus is significant in several ways. 

First, it was among the earliest epic uses of film. Released in 1915, it was the first blockbuster Hollywood hit. It was the longest and most-profitable film then produced and the most artistically advanced film of its day. It secured both the future of feature-length films and the reception of film as a serious medium.

Second, it was the first modern popular culture example of an artistic achievement attempting to force a certain perspective on the larger culture (the idea that the KKK were the heroes of the Civil War) it was initially released with the title "The Clansmen" and reframed the war, Reconstruction, and white hooded sheets in tandem with lynchings as the preferred story of American history.

Third, while propaganda has been around since men could talk and write, it was the most pervasive use of a medium that communicated on a newfound mass level to promote a horrifying ideology and was embraced by President Woodrow Wilson as a personal favorite.

Following the three-hour screening, there was a sense of discomfort as the lights came back up. My guess at the time it was the other viewers in the room wondering if I, the sole white person in the room, was as offended by the revised perspective the film espoused as the rest in the small cadre. I suppose I wasn't as offended because I wasn't black and I knew what I was getting into when buying my ticket. I can imagine seeing the film without some context would be like a slap in the face.

One of the things I learned doing stage combat around the same time was that a slap in the face never hurt as much as you'd think. It wasn't the pain of the blow but the surprise of it that gave it impact. Going in cold to see the KKK presented as the true patriots wouldn't hurt but the surprise might be a shock.

In a very different way but in the same vein, I remember being the only white face in a crowded theater in Fayetteville, Arkansas at the opening night of Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing. The looks of inquisition for my reaction to the film from the predominantly black faces followed me out into the lobby and into the parking lot.

I read recently that one of the reasons the scars of that Civil War in America have never fully healed is that we’ve never, as a nation, agreed on a single narrative of why we fought the goddamned thing. The subjectivity of truth in the re-telling of that dark period is confounding and subsequent attempts to force one perspective or the other or multiple angles on the causes of the War of the States has only confused the issue. Thus the recent beheadings of statues glorifying Southern generals and the re-naming parties of public schools to eliminate anyone associated with slavery.

I understand and empathize with this impulse to reverse the whitewash of history from our streets and schools. So much of our literature and symbols in real life have been created with, maybe not a D. W. Griffith subjectivity, a revisionist historical perspective that paints over the ugliest parts of our history to re-tell the narrative and erase those most subjugated by it. I expect over-correction (like the New York Times 1619 Project which casts our history as steeped in nothing but racism and slavery without acknowledging the contributions set apart from those stains) and, after reading that San Francisco schools are eliminating Abraham Lincoln's name, I decided to re-watch Spielberg's Lincoln.

I don't know if it was actually Lincoln or screenwriter Tony Kushner who came up with the following analogy but I found it instructive in the push to reframe the story today.

A compass, I learnt when I was surveying, it'll... it'll point you True North from where you're standing, but it's got no advice about the swamps and deserts and chasms that you'll encounter along the way.

If in pursuit of your destination, you plunge ahead, heedless of obstacles, and achieve nothing more than to sink in a swamp... What's the use of knowing True North?

The film paints the fight for the 13th Amendment as a dark political game, cajoling and persuading the legislators of the day to codify in the Constitution a formal revocation and rebuke to the forced enslavement of other human beings. It also portrays Lincoln as a deeply pragmatic leader. The speech is one he gives to Thaddeus Stevens, a zealous abolitionist, who rightly sees true north but, up to that point, would rather be righteous than successful in abolishing slavery.

Both men are long dead so the question of whether both men would tell the same story, in their re-telling of those pivotal moments leading up to the vote, or if their stories would radically diverge, is wholly academic. That’s where the trappings of art collide with authenticity. This is the version Spielberg and Kushner decided upon and it will be the version millions who watch the film and decide to simply accept it as the one true version.

This is not to say there is no objective truth. It is to suggest that our inability to separate fact from our subjective fictions makes us pretty fucking lousy arbiters of that fact.

On the other hand, we have celebrated author Mark Manson, whose book Everything is F•cked: A Book About Hope is being banned in Russia by Putin because it speaks directly to atrocities committed by Stalin. Putin is looking to re-write Stalin's history. 

There is a big difference between revising a history shown to diminish the effects of overt racists in one country and purging a country’s history of established monstrosities but the mechanism remains the same: reframe the story and tell it enough times that the meaning changes over time. Keep pushing the new narrative (right or wrong) until the soft memory of an entire nation bends to the will of the teller.

That’s all history is, after all. A slew of stories we tell over and over to indoctrinate a sense of national pride. It grows more perilous when those revising the stories weren’t present. The source of the tales becomes less reliable and the reframe more suspect. When the source is a film or video of an event, we feel as though we’ve experienced it but our perspective is entirely subverted by what the camera shows us and the narrative promoted when we watch it.

One of the techniques that Griffith practically invented was the camera’s use to tell the story from his view. Frame things in a certain way, in a certain order, and our very eyes are deceived, our minds accept the deception, and we believe.

In 1950, Akira Kurosawa gave the world the reigning example of individualized subjective point of view. Rashomon shows us three different perspectives on one specific event. The film makes the point so clearly that the term used popularly to label the he said/she said/they said dilemma is a rashomon.

This is not to say there is no objective truth. It is to suggest that our inability to separate fact from our subjective fictions makes us pretty fucking lousy arbiters of that fact. Show me someone absolutely 100% certain of the sort of events they've only seen on an iPhone video moderated by Faceborg and spun by both the media and some random stranger and I'll show you someone deluded and quite probably dead wrong.

Even when we're there to witness events in person we get it wrong so the concept of getting it right through the mediation and manipulation of amateur videographers and activist pushing a narrative is nothing short of lunatic fringe.

Bizarrely, we all know this to be true.

We know that social media is almost entirely unreliable. We know that film is a highly manipulative art form. We know that Robert Downey, Jr. never flew in a suit of armor, that Keanu Reeves is not Neo, that as much as he embodies who I hope Abraham Lincoln was like, Daniel Day Lewis is an actor and couldn't possibly know what the man was actually like in person.

We know this to be true but we need to be right. We need to believe and so we take that leap of faith, that gut level adherence to what makes some sort of sense in the story and run with it. More so, if the fiction supports things we already have chosen to believe in, we are adding it to the arsenal of defenses against any other sort of view of our story.

We know there's more to the story of the Antifa takeover of Seattle. We know there's more to the January 6th breach of the Capitol. We know there are more sides to the story of Michael Brown. We know that with everyone filmed in a Walmart screaming about her right to forego a mask there is something else before and after that moment that may demonize her just a bit less.

We know but we don't care. Context and considering the framing takes too much work. Too much time. In an existence flooded with too much information, too many stories, too much video, too many opinions, it's just fucking easier to settle on the story that suits you and roll with that.

That's why—no matter what my mother says—it was definitely not a family of Mormons and I'll go to my grave with that.

[purplesurveys]

1031

Do you usually take blame or blame others? Depends on the context, I guess? When things go wrong on a very deep and personal level between me and people I deeply care for, I usually try to find reasons to blame myself. But if it’s something superficial, like if someone messes up at work through no fault of my own, then I’m able to point my finger to whoever fucked up.

Have you ever been to a McDonald’s in another state? I’ve been to McDonald’s in different provinces and also  in different countries. The McDonald’s we went to in Baguio was so surreal because we discovered that they were still using styrofoam containers that they had already phased out years ago everywhere else, and they also never changed the original spaghetti and chicken recipes I grew up with. It was such a blast from the past. As for other countries, I’ve tried out the McDonald’s in Malaysia, Indonesia, and China and made sure to order items that we didn’t have back home.

Have you ever seen 50 First Dates? Yeah, it’s one of my semi-guilty pleasures. It’s such a cheesy movie, but idk the concept is unique and the supporting characters made the whole movie enjoyable for me.

Do you like or hate the smell of fish? The fishy smell at the market can be pretty strong and bleck, but generally I don’t mind the smell of fish. I live in an archipelago, man. We live and breathe seafood. Idk anyone in real life who doesn’t like fish.

Have you ever been to Sea World? No.

Do you know someone who suffers from short term memory loss? I don’t think so, no.

Have you ever read any of John Green’s books? Yeah, but the only one I’ve gotten to read in full was The Fault In Our Stars. I also got to start on The Abundance of Katherines and Paper Towns, but because I only borrowed those copies from friends I never got to read either until the end. All were okay, but I don’t find John Green’s writing to be as great as it was once hyped up to be.

If so, which one is your favorite? I guess TFIOS, since that’s the only one I got to read through to the end.

Are you a protective person? With my loved ones and pets, yes.

Have you ever experienced an earthquake? Yeah I’ve felt a lot but fortunately it’s never been a severe one. Just super brief earthquakes where the most that happened to me was a little swaying.

Would you rather go to a beach or city for a vacation? I love beaches, but a change in scenery would also be nice because I already go to beaches for vacations fairly often. City.

Does your license plate number contain the number 8? I never actually memorized my plate number LOOOOOOL I think so? It’s either a 6 or 8.

Were you ever a ghost on Halloween? Nope.

Has someone ever held the door open for you? Yeah, security guards tend to do that for customers/guests. Sometimes, nice strangers that I enter a place with will do it for me too.

Are you a fan of penguins? I think fan is pushing it far lol. I like penguins, but I’m not obsessed.

Have you ever stayed up all night on a school night? Just a handful of times, and it was always as part of a groupwork. I’d never willingly go through an all-nighter for myself.

What’s your favorite brand of chips? Doritos or Pringles. We also have a local brand that makes these deeeeeelicious salted egg chips, but I’ve never actually taken note of what the brand is.

Has anyone ever sang to you? Not to me. But a lot of people have sung around me.

Are you a good painter? No. That’s why I opt for paint-by-number kits, because those come with a guide haha. I can’t actually craft images by myself – that skill belongs to my sister who has an insane talent for painting.

Before buying a car, do you usually test drive it? I’ve never bought a car by myself; my dad takes care of the car purchases. I know he test-drove the Vitara, but idk about the other cars we have.

Have you ever written a poem and then read it aloud? Hmm, I don’t write poems. I don’t find the vast majority of them appealing, and only once in a while will there be a poem that is able to speak to me.

Do you like pineapple? Nope.

Have you ever met your favorite author? I don’t have a favorite.

Do you look more like your mom or dad? Most comments point to my mom, but I’ll get the occasional remark that half of my face is my dad’s as well. I’m a good mix of both.

Have you and your best friend ever liked the same person? This hasn’t happened before.

When was the last time someone called you babe or baby? Maybe August? I’m not too sure. It’s been a few months.

Do you have an older brother? No. But I’m super close with my eldest cousin on my mom’s side and we grew up together and all that, and I pretty much consider him my older brother. He’s definitely more a brother than a cousin to me, and it has always felt and been that way.

Are you a fan of art? Yes, especially paintings and dioramas.

Did you get your mom or dad’s eyes? My mom’s, I think? I really don’t know, I’m bad at recognizing this kind of stuff. You’d have to ask people who actually see me on a daily basis.

Have you ever seen the movie My Girl? Is this the one with the really sad scene of a boy’s funeral and the girl’s like, “He can’t see without his glasses”? I haven’t seen the movie, but I’ve heard about that scene a million times.

Do you watch Teen Wolf on MTV? Ugh, MTV’s teen shows are such a cringefest to me. I never followed it, but I’ve had to watch a few eps back in high school when my friends would watch it while we were at someone’s place. Not my cup of tea.

When it was on, did you watch Cory In The House on Disney? I watched a few episodes, especially when it was still new. But we were also in the process of moving then and we didn’t have cable for a few years in our new house, so I had to miss out most of it.

Do you have any blackheads? I don’t.

Do you have any freckles? Nope.

Do you have a movie that you have to watch during the summer every year? No, but I have something similar. I like watching Love Actually at least once every year, during the Christmas season. I like watching Two for The Road once a year as well, regardless of the time of year.

Do you think that life isn’t fair sometimes? I mean yeah. It doesn’t revolve around me, so I know it won’t always be fair.

When was the last time someone bought you flowers? Valentine’s Day last year.

What was the last book you read? Midnight Sun. Haven’t touched it since September, though.

How many books do you plan to read this summer? It’s past summer, and I haven’t been doing a lot of reading in general.

Does your house have a dishwasher? No, not a common appliance here.

Do you know anyone who has a flower tattoo? I probably do. But I haven’t seen people outside of family for so long that I can barely remember who has which tattoos. I’m pretty sure I know someone who has flowers.

Do you like the name Carter? It just reminds me of the underwear brand honestly, so not a fan.

Have you ever had a secret admirer? No. Should there be one, they shouldn’t be having high hopes; I wouldn’t be interested in the least.

How many different languages can you say goodbye in? There’s English, Filipino, Korean, Spanish, German, French, Japanese – 7.

Agree or disagree: You like Adam Sandler movies. Disagree for the most part, but 50 First Dates is cute.

--

Did the last type of shoes you wore have laces? Yups. I wore sneakers when I went out to get Starbucks last Friday evening.

How much money did you spend yesterday? The charging cable that I ordered arrived yesterday, so I had to shell out ₱140 for that.

What genre is your favorite movie? It’s a romcom/drama. My other favorite is a drama.

Are you texting anybody right now? Nope. I’m all alone today, which is the way I want to be for this weekend.

Who was the last person you were in a car with? My parents.

Do you like the picture on your license/I.D. card? I really do, hahaha. I don’t know why the people at the LTO gave me a pass, but I had been allowed to smile with my teeth. That helped make my license photo turn out super well and I no longer feel embarrassed whenever I have to take it out and present it somewhere.

What’s your favorite thing to snack on while watching a movie? Potato Corner fries. Can’t be any other type of fries.

When was the last time somebody hit on you? July or August when this random guy slid into my PMs. I had never had so much fun blocking somebody so fast.

Was the last person you met a male or female? The last new person I met was male.

Which one of your friends do you feel most comfortable around? Angela or Andi.

Do you own a map of the world? I mean, I guess. I have a collection of the World Almanac for Kids books, and it had always included a world map in its Countries chapter every year.

What’s your favorite Thanksgiving food? We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.

Is the light on in the room you’re in? No, doesn’t have to be as it’s bright out and I can see the sun from my window.

Who did you last spoon with? Gabie.

Are you currently watching TV? No.

Have you ever had surgery or stitches? Never. Hope I’ll never be needing one.

Do you own any clothing that has animal print? I have a tank top with cheetah print that I sometimes wear at home.

Does your family eat dinner together? Yes, every evening. We don’t eat together when my dad is working abroad, but since he has stayed home for all of 2020 because of Covid, we’ve gotten to eat together as a family all year.

Where do you work? Somewhere in Metro Manila; I’m not giving the city away.

Are you in high school? I got out of there nearly five years ago.

Do you have a TV in your room? I used to, but not anymore.

Are any of your electronics charging right now? My phone and laptop both are.

What was the last video game you played? Mario Kart 8.

--

Are you hungry?: I can def go for a snack, or maybe even a full meal. It’s taking everything in me not to order Popeye’s or Army Navy from Grab rn.

What color is the chair you’re sitting on?: I’m sitting up in bed; my sheets are blue with gold/yellow prints.

What did you buy last time you went to the store?: I got bottled coffee when I went to 7-Eleven a week ago.

Do you like salsa that has fruit in it?: ...Don’t all types of salsa have fruit in them though? It would be brand-new knowledge to me if I was told not all salsas have fruit.

Have you ever opened up your computer to clean the fan on the inside?: No. I’d rather have professionals do that.

Can you count in binary?: No, and I never even understood how it works.

Do you think stained glass windows are pretty?: No. Mostly because it reminds me of cathedrals.

Are you a chocoholic?: Nah. I like chocolate, but I can live without it.

Are you scared of snakes?: I mean if they were venomous or obviously wanted to eat me whole, of course. But I’ve also already held a couple of snakes before.

Have you had your wisdom teeth removed?: No.

Do you like hard or soft pretzels better?: Soft all the way. I find the hard ones too salty.

What was the last magazine or catalog you looked through?: I don’t even remember. Maybe Tatler? My grandma has loads of those at her house.

When was the last time you wore a raincoat?: I don’t think I have ever worn a raincoat.

Have you ever been carded when buying something?: Idk what that is but nothing out of the ordinary has ever happened to me whenever I’ve made a purchase, so I’m gonna go ahead and say no.

Do you eat meat?: Yep.

Corn and mashed potatoes, or beans and rice?: Both pairings aren’t really a part of our cuisine, so neither sound appealing to be honest. As someone who thrives on rice, I hate the idea of eating beans with it; so I would go with corn and mashed potatoes even though I’m having a hard time imagining how it would work.

Can you sleep with the light on?: I probably can, but it would take me a lot longer to fall asleep.

What’s your operating system of choice?: Mac/iOS.

Have you ever broken a bone?: Never.

Do you have a favorite highlighter color?: I don’t have a favorite color to use, but I prefer pastel shades in general over neon.

Do you have a flashlight?: My phone has a built-in flashlight, but we also keep a couple of emergency flashlights at home in case of blackouts.

Do you like watermelon?: I like some watermelon-flavored stuff like candies, but I’m not fond of the fruit.

…Honeydew?: Hahahahahaha. BoJack Horseman, anyone? Anyway, I’ve never had honeydew and probably wouldn’t like it considering my established opinion on fruits.

Can you shoot a gun?: I’ve never tried, so I’ll say no. I’ve always been meaning to go to a shooting range though; I feel like it’ll be such a cool experience.

Do you like salad?: Not for the most part. The only kind I enjoy is spicy tuna salad, which only has lettuce in it alongside tuna sashimi and spicy mayonnaise.

When was the last time you smashed your finger?: I don’t know if I ever have? This doesn’t ring a bell to me.

What color is your computer?: Silver/gray.

Have you ever made ice cream in chemistry class?: No, my chemistry classes in high school and college were never that fun.

Has anyone ever walked in on you while you were on the toilet?: Sure.

What color hair do you have?: Black.

Do you use the microwave often?: I wouldn’t say so; just a couple of times a month.

Are you good at spelling?: Sure, I’d claim that. Thank the movie Akeelah and the Bee; that movie made me super passionate about spelling and dictionaries for a time. I can still feel its effects today because I’m still very much particular about spelling more so than any other kind of writing/language mechanic.

Have you ever petted a donkey?: I’ve never even seen one before :o but I’d love to have the chance to pet one, heh. It would make me so happy.

When was the last time you went to the doctor’s for a physical?: 2016.

Do you like a lot of ice in your drinks?: Sure.

Have you ever painted a room? Never have, but would like to give it a try.

[angelfishreveal]

FRANKFURT UPDATE / DISORGANIZED RANT ABOUT TRUTH AND ART AND FASSBINDER

by Camille Clair

I spent the strict quarantine following my arrival in Frankfurt studying German in the mornings, and watching Fassbinder in the evenings. The time between morning and evening was spent...nervously. 

I watched so many Fassbinder films during my quarantine that I began to feel his cabinet of actors were my companions (quarpanions). We were all crying and grinning and swallowing our pills together. 

I am one of those people that believes that pain/discomfort/anxiety is necessary, important, a catalyst. That is one of the reasons I left, have left in the past, will leave again. Sometimes the next best life move involves ripping your heart out! Sometimes it isn’t quite so abrupt, and your heart will sizzle in the pan for months. You may even grow to cherish the sensation because it means you are working toward something. You may recognize your true self in that pain. And in that truth, your mission, which may, or may not be, your art. 

I do believe that, as an artist, you have to be a bit of a masochist. Your life is sustained via chopping yourself into bits, and, if you’re lucky, stowing those bits in the pockets of the wealthy, the devious. And though you may consider yourself an orthodox Marxist, this seems to be the only way to keep the axe swinging. I would never say aloud that I believe suffering produces great art, but I also must admit I understand the desire to drag oneself across shards of glass a la Chris Burden in Through The Night Softly. I relate to the impulse to bear it all. I want to be torn apart! For art. 

I don’t always want this, but fresh out of my Frankfurt quarantine - following a confounding summer in Los Angeles - I want this. I really, truly want to exhaust myself. 

Though Fassbinder himself may have been a bit amoral, he was, at the same time, so undeniably invested in all that is human. Many of Fassbinder’s characters seem to cave inward, unable to stand erect under the weight of the social, the political, the bureaucratic: the simultaneity, and responsibility of it all. Fassbinder’s characters give into their truth, or they parish. No time is wasted on the performance of goodness, because salvation was never in their cards to begin with. 

What I desire and revere most in art is truth. I want my “self” and my “art” to be inseparable, the same. I want my body to vanish in the company of my art. I don’t really want to exist. I repeat variations of a line from Reena Spaulings in my head all day long: Where does my (boyish, jaunty, smooth, freckle-dusted, foxy, stiff, screen-like) body end and a real event begin, for once? I do a little dance in the mirror. I have never been this alone. Some days I feel stiff with sorrow, so I remind myself that I am a character, and the director expects a performance, and then I stretch. 

Walking home in the rain, I envision Margit Carstensen waiting for me in my flat. I am her aloof lover. Or she is mine. I’ll fall through the door with a sigh, she’ll pour me a little glass of schnapps, and we’ll heartfully console one another. I sometimes play The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972), which starts Carstensen, in the background while I go about my tasks. I speak my favorite of Petra’s lines back to her as part of my daily Deutsche practice. Maybe by Spring, I’ll have the entirety of her central monologue memorized. I love to fantasize about the spring, it’s become one of my favorite pastimes. It is possible to imagine nearly anything happening in the spring because real life has become so severely abstracted. 

I lament…

What is real? Now? And in hindsight, what was ever real? Is it, or was it, ever recognizable or is it just whatever you put into your head on a given day? I scroll through Contemporary Art Daily on acid and feel confused about what it is I am supposed to want. My eyes linger on words that used to resonate, and it stirs some sort of longing. I want it to be physical, I want to get dirty and injured in the process. I want to be so involved it’s disgusting. But for now, nearly everything I want is impossible. Maybe it's a symptom of the current situation, but I want to be overinvolved. I generally find most performance excruciating, but now I feel I would do anything for an audience. I desire an audience. 

I envy Fassbinder’s overinvolvement. In Beware of a Holy Whore (1971), a film about making a film, Fassbinder seems to play himself. He doesn’t play the director, he plays Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Often fussing around or yelling in the background, it’s unclear exactly what his role is in the production, but as a viewer one is intensely aware of him at all times. Upon first watch, I felt envious. I want to be present in that way, shrieking for the sake of, and within, my art. The ringleader, and also, the eager participant. In the opening scene of Germany in Autumn (1978), Fassbinder, dials a call, and says “Ich bin es Fassbinder” into the receiver. We know of course, who the man on the screen is, though we aren’t immediately sure who we are meant to recognize him as. 

In a 1997 eulogy for ArtForum, Gary Indiana writes, “what can you say about a fat, ugly sadomasochist who terrorized everyone around him, drove his lovers to suicide, drank two bottles of Rémy daily, popped innumerable pills while stuffing himself like a pig and died from an overdose at 37? [Fassbinder was]  a faithful mirror of an uglier world that has grown uglier since his death”. Fassbinder knew truth, and truth is as beautiful and precious, as it is vile. 

My sister, who is 17 and only just got drunk for the first time last week, told me she could never watch The Shining (1980)  knowing how much Shelly Duval was tormented in the making of it. I felt I couldn’t argue with her but I also wanted to argue with her. “So you will never watch what is widely considered one of the greatest films of all time?” 

“No,” she said. 

“Okay,” I said. 

Perhaps we are reaching an age in which you really cannot separate the art from the artist. Maybe it’s never actually been possible. But then again, there are so many things that seem to be art by mistake, and so many artists who die without recognition.

In the eulogy, Indiana goes on to say, “there is nothing you can say about Fassbinder that he hasn’t already said about himself”. This line again brings to mind Fassbinder in Beware of a Holy Whore, berating everyone in the vicinity, utterly repulsed by a multitude of things never made explicitly clear. Fassbinder lying dead in the train station after an overdose in Fox and his Friends (1975). Fassbinder lying dead, with a cigarette between his lips and notes for an upcoming film lying next to him, from an actual overdose. A parallel that reveals art is just as intertwined with death, as it is with life.

I realized this year that many of the artists I respect care a great deal about film, about drama. I have found solace in films, because I am alone nearly all of the time, and I don't know when I will see any of my cherished ones again. I am living vicariously through characters, beginning to think of myself as a character, which is admittedly therapeutic. I am the director. And I chose myself from a lineup of nervous red haired girls. I recognised myself at once, and thus, here I am. 

Some artists, or people!, are overly concerned with their own narrative. It can be irritating, indulgent, abject, but it’s convenient, and it may save your life. Though you’re never really alone you may feel really alone. Allein. Alleine... Sometimes there is nowhere to turn but toward yourself. And, once you begin to think of yourself as a character, you no longer bear the full responsibility of your being. You have been put in place to carry out the artistic vision. So, in a sense, all characters are artists, just as they are products of art. It’s reflexive, and Frankensteinian, in that way. 

Maybe as an experiment, try referring to your dismal flat as “the set”. 

Are you at home? 

I’m on set. 

Complain aloud, but to no one, about the uninspired refreshments. 

Stare longingly at everything. 

There is a misanthropic edge to many of Fassbinder’s films. A bleakness. It is often said that his work is about the fascism at play in interpersonal relationships. The fascism that blooms in all of our hearts.There are instances across Fassbinder’s filmography of, not only an awareness, but a patience, for all that is despicable. Human beings are weak, impressionable, they want to be liked but if it doesn’t work out, they’ll settle for being hated or feared. Often, Fassbinder will have a character do or say something that completely skews, if not, obliterates your previous impression of them. For example, in Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974), Emmi who is, up until this point, mostly redeemable, chooses Hitler’s favorite restaurant to celebrate her and Ali’s wedding, stating upon entry that she has “always wanted to go”.  In the scene that follows, she mispronounces the names of menu items, the server scoffs, and one can't help but feel a bit bad for her. Is her desire to eat at Hitler’s favorite spot purely aspirational, a misguided highbrow charade? Or is she a sympathetic fascist? This is another fault of the character, any character, their world view is often contrived, never holistic. 

Fassbinder is the Postwar German filmmaker - generally considered the “catalyst of the New German Cinema movement”. In his films, World War II is often alluded to / background / partial context / a shadow, but it is never the subject, or the main event. A character’s idiosyncrasies, or disturbances, could be attributed to the wartimes, but often, their faults seem too deeply intertwined with their truths. But of course they’ve always had a tremor, a temper. Many of Fassbinder’s characters have a hard edge, or have suffered immense loss. They are either in, or narrowly escaping, crisis. 

In Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980), Franz Bieberkopf, a rampant dilettante, oscillates between political affiliations. When we first meet Bieberkopf, fresh out of prison, he is a bit of an anarchist, sympathizing with soldiers and workers above all. As the series progresses, Bieberkopf is revealed to be immensely impressionable, confused, vindictive. He exhibits symptoms of several political philosophies, albeit meekly. Bieberkopf even briefly wears a Nazi armband, which, when questioned about, he is unable to defend, and from thereon, is never seen wearing it again. Franz Bieberkopf is similar to Tony Soprano in that way. Selfish, gruff, deeply flawed, indubitably human. Tony Soprano bites into a meatball sub and sauce dribbles onto his shirt and you forget, momentarily, that he's a bigot, because he’s the protagonist. And it is the job of the protagonist to represent a spectrum of human strength, and fallibility. It is arguably better, or more redeemable, to be overtly, rather than covertly, self-serving because then at least one is operating in defense of their own truth.

Truth is constructed daily and could easily be mistaken for anything but. Truth is nearly impossible to represent, and harder still to recognize. Truth is a fallacy, and thus, very lonely. Still, it must be guarded, I have been listening to The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe as I walk around Frankfurt which, in all honesty, fertilizes the melodrama blooming in my heart. Werther is bitterly alone, consoling himself via drawn out descriptions of his loneliness. “I am proud of my heart alone”, he says, “it is the sole source of everything, all our strength, happiness and misery. All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own”. 

I am alone in Frankfurt, but I have my heart.  

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Things Below

Voices. Voices, everywhere. Emily peered out the window from the backseat of the patrol car. Locked in, but free to hear all these confusing voices. She could hear the thoughts of the people the car drove past, picking up fallout from the minds of people on the sidewalk.

“He gave me too much change. Tough shit, sucker. I’m not telling and I’m keeping it. Those stores are insured against this kind of—”

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late; oh my god, I’m gonna lose my job. What about—”

“I forgot to lock the front door. To hell with whatever he’s saying, I’m sure as hell that I forgot—”

“Stop staring, dumbass. Jeeze, I think I need to jack off in a bathroom stall, otherwise she'll—”

Emily didn’t even care about reading the thoughts themselves. She used to figure people to be thinking drivel like this just by looking at them. No, the reporter wanted to see how well she could focus this ability—how well she could control it. As far as she was concerned, she had developed a superpower. With it, she could change the world.

Only one thing gave her reason for pause; gave her a reason to worry. If she wasn’t dreaming—if this all was real—then it meant the demon she had met at the delicate age of 21 had been real, too.

The edges of her vision turned into streaks, stretching into infinity, blending together in a wild blur of colors and shapes. She only caught glimpse of their faces, all unimportant and forgotten within seconds, but their thoughts reached her mind in fragments, like a rain of glass shards falling into a bottomless pit. Clipped, ripped out of context—like switching rapidly through radio stations and never hearing anything out.

Officer Stanton glanced back at Emily through the rearview mirror. Judging by his furrowed brow, he was concerned about her mental well-being. That was when she realized that her head kept bobbing erratically, moving on a constant swivel. She must have looked like a crazy person to this cop.

“Your nose,” he said after clearing his throat and training his eyes on the road again.

Confounded, Emily dabbed her nose, only to find blood on her fingers.

The splitting headache set in. Or it had been there all along, except that it now cranked the dial to eleven in the very second she stopped tuning in to the thoughts of all the passers-by. She muttered a short curse and a emitted a soft, nervous chuckle.

Looked like the superpower came with a little price tag.

But it had already paid off. Under other circumstances, she would have had to go out on a limb in trusting this “Officer Stanton.” Letting him lock her into the backseat like a common suspect or criminal. But what choice did she have? A bomb turned her apartment block into a blazing inferno, she woke up naked in a dumpster, and she had no phone, no money, and was now wearing the borrowed clothes of her friend Maria—who probably had her pegged as crazy and she should never talk to again.

Scanning Stanton’s thoughts had revealed a certain level of surprising purity. Blue-eyed, this shmuck hadn’t seen anywhere near the amount of horrid things Emily had seen in her time as an investigative reporter, looking into human trafficking and pedophile rings. He was as concerned as she was about Detective Tanner, her single only trustworthy contact in the police—who had gone missing.

Reading Stanton’s mind, Emily knew that this cop had his heart in the right place and was going out on a limb himself. She looked and sounded like a crazy person, had no identification, and lied to him first thing upon their meeting. He had a lot to lose himself.

And she couldn’t tell him everything she had witnessed.

“I was drugged and abducted,” she had admitted to him in that first encounter. Only part of the truth she could speak without sounding like she had lost every last marble.

The other part involved what she could only describe as a trip into hell, where she was hounded by an antagonistic demon she dubbed “Stinky Jim.”

Eight years ago, Emily met Stinky Jim for the first time, though she did not have such a name for the demon yet. Had she known it was real, she would have lost her mind. She would have been the Other Emily, the Lost Emily—the one sitting in a padded cell, rocking back and forth, gibbering, and disconnected from reality.

If her recent awakening—the event since when she could read minds and bend space itself—had taught her anything, then it was that reality itself was a strained, malleable concept.

Even human identity crumbled in the face of enlightened scrutiny.

Back when she was 21, working the sixth McJob in a row before she got smart, got her GED, and got into studying to become a reporter; she still hung out in a basement with the rest of the “gang.”

She remembered that night with stunning clarity. The edges on everything remained sharp. The dive in the basement of the home of Rodney’s parents had burned itself into the pages of her memory.

Her birthday—the night Emily turned 21.

Both on the surface and in all things below, she was a different person. Dyed her hair pink, piercings in her ears and on her brow, royal blue lipstick, torn heavy metal T-shirts. Loved ranting about politics, economy, and social justice; but never lifted a finger to do a damned thing about it.

Just like then. They were sitting in Rodney’s parents’ basement, sprawled out over ratty old couches and chairs with the TV set and old video game consoles, smoking weed, and the four boys listening to one of her many unnumbered tirades on LGBTQ+ rights.

“Shut the fuck up if you ain’t gonna do anything ‘bout it,” Chris told her. “Gay Chris,” as he was nicknamed, which didn’t bother him at all once they grew older—he wore the name like a badge of pride.

His voice cracked as he kept the smoke from the bong in his lungs and passed it on to Carlos, and Chris added, “The fuck do you know about any of that, straightie?”

That stunned Emily. That’s when everything clicked for her. When it all changed. Speechless, she silently agreed with him. Everything she knew about the gay experience was theoretical or secondhand, drawing from Chris’ experiences.

But that’s when she found her true calling.

She wouldn’t “shut the fuck up about it.” She refused to, because it would have been against her nature. She would do the legwork, and tell the world. She would relay the truth, even when it hurt, or when it got her and others into hot water. That would be her strength. Her destiny.

It would take till the end of that week and some feverish reading until she figured out that journalism was the way for her to go, but that was the same night when Emily really took the reins of her life into her own hands, and forged the path she now followed with furious determination.

Carlos chortled, then took a long toke from the bong before passing it on to Rodney. Emily remained silent.

With her most recent rant dead in the water, and the only active water being the one making the bubbling and churning sounds whenever anybody inhaled another hit from the bong, her thoughts drifted. The night of her birthday dragged on like many others in this very place, the matter of her birthday only standing out by the amount of weed they would have burned through by the end of the night.

She loved these boys like her brothers. Loved the countless nights they spent together, shooting the shit about their work, their messes of what could barely be described as love lives, playing video games together on the couch in this same basement and getting into swearing matches more heated than the actual gameplay, going to metal concerts together, or talking about philosophy and spirituality into the ungodliest hours of the morning.

Some time around 2 AM, Carlos had already passed out. He snored in the corner with a pile of empty potato chip bags and plastic bottles piled onto him like a work of art. Chris had gone home to get some sleep because of an early shift the next day. Only Jimmy, Rodney, and Emily remained. Stabbing Westward’s Ungod was playing back from the old iPod in a soft volume.

Rodney climbed back onto the couch and slid onto the cushions between Jimmy and Emily. His eyes were bloodshot from all the beer and weed they had been kicking back and he gave her a stupid grin.

“Got something special for this special occasion,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

He unfolded his fingers and presented three little things. To Emily, they looked like stamps or pieces of perforated cardboard just resting on his palm, each of them marked with a pastel yellow smiley face.

Before either Emily or Jimmy could ask, Rodney said, “LSD, hoes. Lucy seeing diamonds—in the sky—or something. So, uh, anyway, how about we go on a real trip?”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed and Emily snickered at him. Buff Jimmy over there, the racing car enthusiast who loved tuning cars and speeding in them, accustomed to acting like the biggest badass of their little gang, was now all skeptical and intimidated by this harmless-looking drug resting in Rodney’s hand.

“Fuck it, why not?” Emily asked.

“Nah, I’ll pass,” Jimmy predictably said. “Y'know what, you should too. Also, I should get back home and get some sleep.”

Jimmy scrambled to leave, looking half asleep already, and muttered a goodbye to Carlos who continued to snore away, oblivious to everything going on now.

“Pussy,” Emily called out after Jimmy just before he flipped her off and closed the basement door behind himself.

Rodney and Emily got a good laugh out of Jimmy’s departure. Then Rodney turned his head and waggled his eyebrows at her, holding out the three slips of LSD still.

“I could put one back, or one of us takes two of ‘em,” he said, letting his voice rise sharply towards the end in challenge.

Emily squinted and then snatched two of them out of his palm.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess,” she said, grinning with him in challenge, wondering if he wasn’t going to chicken out himself.

She stuck her tongue out at him like she was about to lick Rodney’s face, then placed the two pieces of LSD on her tongue and retracted it. Swallowed.

“How long?” she asked.

“My dick?”

“Fuck you.”

Rodney cackled and told her it would take two hours. They settled on re-watching Scream—one of Emily’s favorite horror movies. They talked over the flick, as usual. Laughed as Carlos turned over in his sleep at one point, knocking over the pyramid of junk piled onto him without even waking up, and they both wondered loudly if they weren’t going to have a horror trip if they watched a horror movie while tripping on LSD, like the idiots they were.

The movie ended and Emily still couldn’t tell if the drug was having any effect on her system.

“Get me another beer, beer bitch,” she told Rodney, softly kicking him in his thigh while she drooped lazily over the other half of the couch.

He got up and went to the small fridge in the corner of the room. She blinked and wondered why he did that without giving her any lip. Even on her birthday, Rodney wasn’t wont to do what she told him to. Returning to her, he uncapped the bottle of beer and held it out to her.

She took it and looked at him in disbelief. Rodney himself looked befuddled. He blinked and looked around. Was the LSD finally kicking in for him? If so, why was it taking so long for her?

If him tripping balls meant he was a compliant little sheep, she was going to have some fun with this. She pulled out her flip phone and started recording a grainy video on the device.

“Hey, Rodney, why don’t you stand on one foot and spin around in a circle for the audience,” she told him, biting her lip and sensing that he would do exactly as told.

And he did. Almost stumbling over the coffee table and falling onto his ass in the process, he did exactly that. Emily covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. She stared at him through the display of her phone, making sure to capture his dumbfounded facial expressions.

“Rodney, tell the world how much of a little skanky whore you are,” she said, mouth agape with a grin so wide that it almost hurt her cheeks.

“I’m such a little skanky whore that I’d eat Paris Hilton’s ass with whipped cream and a cherry on top,” he said, slurring it out as if his consciousness slipped farther away into a trance or delirium with each additional word.

Emily burst out laughing, “You will never live this one down when the others see the video, dipshit.”

Yet something crept up behind Emily. A dark, foreboding sense of something alien and sinister. It only reached the back of her mind with a delay: she heard Rodney’s thoughts before he did or said anything that she told him to. Or rather, she projected her self into him and he complied, pliable like a piece of wet cardboard.

These thoughts made more sense now, in the present, when she knew she could read minds. But back then, she had chalked it up to the acid trip. The day after, she would go back to her normal life, letting the details fade away into oblivion, dismissing them as nightmarish nonsense.

Except for the knock on the door.

Not the door leading in and out of the basement, but the door to the boiler room. A room where nobody should have been inside.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she stared at it, wide-eyed and terrified. Rodney followed her gaze because she willed him to pay just as much attention to it.

Knock knock. Again.

Or rather: THUMP THUMP. Deep, bass. Menacing.

“Rodney, go check on the clown hiding in there,” Emily told Rodney, not even thinking things through. She couldn’t even chalk it up to the booze and drugs.

All she knew was that she feared whatever awaited behind that door.

Like sleepwalking, Rodney approached the boiler room door. Twisted the knob. Opened it.

A soft red light glowed, engulfing him. A light out of this world. It flickered, danced—like flames. But no heat or fire awaited beyond the door. Only madness.

Emily walked there herself, intrigued by the mysterious light. Her whole body tingled with dread, yet she could not help but approach. She knew deep down, lurking beneath the surface of her thoughts, that something evil awaited there. Something that would drive her insane. She didn’t need to approach, should have turned and fled from Rodney’s basement. But curiosity won out over common sense.

She stood next to him and peered into the place beyond the door.

There was no boiler room there. Instead of the dingy little room with the big cylindrical something, some old plastic crates, and a bunch of pipes and valves—a flight of stairs stretched down, winding around a curve. The fiery red light flickered from the depths, beckoning her.

“Rodney, go lie down and sleep.”

He acknowledged her order, not speaking the affirmation out loud but just thinking it. Emily, however, didn’t even register how the thought had reached her like a spoken word. She could taste his dread riding on the back of those thoughts—salty, smooth, bitter, clamping his throat shut and cutting his breath short.

But her eyes fixated on these stairs. Made of obsidian, covered in strange, indecipherable symbols, bearing names on each step. Names of the lost and the damned. The forgotten and the famous. She could not read them, but she knew the names were important. She would read them again one day, but that was not this day.

Rodney laid down onto the couch and fell asleep within an instant. His thoughts turned into a soup of drugged dreaming and Emily shut them out, probing for any presence at the bottom of those stairs. To see if anything dwelt there, any things below.

“Come on down and find out,” something replied. Not in words, but thoughts. Smoky, crackling like wood in a fireplace, with embers rising into a dark and starry night.

Emily took her first step down those stairs in this other-space. Then another. And another. She tread down this path, and the stairwell narrowed as it twisted and turned on her way downward. She burned with curiosity to find what things lay hidden in the depths.

The door slammed shut behind her and something laughed. Something in a deep, bellowing baritone, like a monster straight out of some horror movie. The laughter died down into a chortle, egging her on to turn around and see for herself.

Fear overtook her and prevented her from turning to behold this demon. This madness. She knew it was there, right behind her. Fetid breath rhythmically struck the exposed skin of the back of her neck. The thing was huge, like a man two heads taller than her.

“If you don’t have the balls to look at me, then you better keep movin’, little girl,” the demon spoke to her, cackling some more. The words carried the air of a threat. “What are you afraid of finding down here, anyway?”

More laughter. Sinister. Knowing. Knowing her deepest, darkest desires, and secrets she would learn in the future

Her heart thumped against her chest, pounding so hard that it threatened to explode out of her rib cage any minute now. And whether she was tripping on the LSD, having an overly vivid nightmare, or this was indeed real, she dreaded turning around and instead continued on her descent.

“Welcome to the maze, Emily,” the thing’s voice crackled. Flames licked from its voice and the biting smells of charcoal smoke and sulfur filled her nostrils, stuck to her tongue. Way too real to be imagined, yet even now, she struggled to explain how this experience or even this memory could be real.

Because right now, she sat on the backseat of Officer Stanton’s car. But the vivid recollection of this memory sliced through time and space, reaching her in the now. The demonic presence still lingered, lurking behind her, occupying the space in her mind.

The unwanted guest renting one of the rooms in the mindscape of Motel Emily. The neon sign of vacancy flickered unsteadily.

Where the stairs wound down further, she reached a door branching out to the side. Or rather, the word “door” didn’t really cut it. It was a stone portal, covered in more symbols or otherworldly runes.

Without thinking, she pushed it open, hoping to find escape from this place, praying to reach Rodney’s basement again, or appear back in Stanton’s patrol car. The past and the present started bleeding together. Had she really experienced all this, back then? Was this the madness, overtaking her mind, surfacing now, tainting the present and overwriting reality?

“This is as real as it gets, bitch,” the demon said, cackling yet more.

The pink-haired Emily celebrating her 21st birthday and tripping on LSD didn’t understand what she saw beyond the portal once she strained herself, putting her legs and back into pushing it open, her nerves fraying with each inch accompanied by the sounds of stone grinding against stone.

Beyond that portal, she saw another Emily, stripped half-naked, handcuffed to a curtain rack, with some man with a painted face sliding a knife into her exposed back. Bodies of the dead and the dying littered the dark and ruined room of some derelict house in that place and Helpless Emily screamed in agony.

Younger Emily gasped and backed away from this scene of carnage and despair, recalling a memory of something yet to come, which Present Emily knew already and remembered as the time the Grinning Man came close to killing her.

The man with the knife, with the face painted to display a horrid grin over a face of cold and sociopathic indifference, turned to look at Younger Emily. She pulled, tugged at the portal with all her might, desperate to close it before something worse happened.

The Grinning Man, that serial killer, turned from Tortured Emily. He tilted his head, staring into the stone portal in disbelief, studying its frame. Before Younger Emily succeeded in fully shutting the portal, he approached with swift steps, ready to pass from one place into another.

But she slammed it shut just in time, just before she could decipher shouts from beyond the portal.

Worse, the demon remained. Right behind her.

She dared not turn around completely to look upon its horrid visage, but glimpsed it from the corner of her eye. Red like a devil, covered in spikes and horns and smiling at her with a maw lined with rows and rows of jagged, shark-like teeth. Blackened, knife-shaped claws opening and closing in anticipation, ready to rip her to shreds if she looked at it for too long.

It cackled again and Emily continued down the stairs.

“That was you,” it said. “That’ll be you, in the future. You fuck-up. Nobody’s proud of you, Emily. Accomplishing nothing of value. Only watching people die in squalor and misery. You are nothing but a worthless witness. A voyeur in a voyeuristic world.”

Hearing the demon speak in such a modern vernacular and imagining to be such a clichéd presence clashed in her mind, and she almost turned to confront the creature. But she read its thoughts and they mirrored her own.

The first time she realized that turning only meant embracing the madness, and ending up in that padded little room, all alone, locked inside her head with drugs—and not the sort that Younger Emily found fun.

Picking up the pace, she continued down the winding, hellish stairs. The walls drew closer together with each step, never moving, but converging in angles that made her descent more claustrophobic with each passing moment.

Present Emily knew she had to break free of this memory, because it was bleeding into reality. The demon was taking hold. She dabbed more blood from her nose and barely perceived the world outside the patrol car, rolling by. This memory was real, made even more real through recent realizations, and recalling it now was rendering it even more visceral than ever before. The knowledge of Present Emily collided with the memories of Younger Emily and they coalesced. They coagulated.

She passed by another stone portal, almost screaming at what she felt from behind it. Younger Emily did not know what awaited there, but Present Emily did not want to see it, and the two of them refused to push it open and look inside.

“Yeah, you keep walkin’, you hypocritical asshole. Eager to discover the truth, but just another chickenshit,” the demon said.

Instead of the inevitable laughter she expected to ensue, the demon growled with anger, reflecting a rage welling in her bowels, only overshadowed by the terror and fear now gripping her heart and driving her down the stairs, faster and faster.

“He’s dead, Emily. Julian’s dead, and it’s all your fault,” the thing snarled.

Its hoofed feet thundered down the steps behind her, keeping pace with ease, the hulking presence chasing her down deeper into this pit of insanity.

“No,” she finally dared to reply, but the demon mimicked her word, mocking her. Then she repeated herself, “No, that’s not my fault. Not like with the others. Not everything is my fault.”

“Maybe not directly, but what if you never entered his life? What if he hadn’t been on that parking lot, that day? He might not have had some crazy stalker cave his skull in with a two-by-four. So maybe it’s still your fault,” the demon growled.

“Shut up,” she said. Then screamed it. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up if you’re not going to do anything about it, right, Emily?”

The demon’s voice reached a fever pitch and now chased her. She ran, taking multiple steps down the well in strides, pushing through the narrow pathways, wasting no time to wonder how the demon’s sheer mass could fit through here behind her. The stink of fear erupted from her pores in a sheen of sweat, the heat of this hell engulfing her, and the stench of burning flesh rising from the depths.

The stone walls wriggled. They were not made of obsidian anymore, but worms. Millions and millions of pitch-black worms, things that did not belong in reality but were all too real. Slippery, alive. Writhing, as the mass reached out to her like walls of tiny fingers covered in myriads of chomping little mouths, provoking a shriek of terror to escape Emily’s throat, and the demon to laugh its sadistic laugh at her.

“Run, Emily! Run away, you disgusting fucking coward!” The demon spoke in many voices, those of Chris, her father when he slapped her cheek, the monster on her heels, and even herself. They all blended together. One of many, many in one.

There it was again: rocking back and forth, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth. White, padded walls all around.

Was she truly there? Was this even real? Was her entire life just a lie? Figments of her imagination, trying to make sense where none was to be made?

The stairs split into different pathways and Emily knew what to do. Present Emily wiped more blood from her nose and stared at her bloodied fingers in disbelief. Younger Emily had discovered her destiny, was glimpsing horrors from her future. Of the three possible ways to go, she squeezed into the narrowest one, screaming silently as she felt the wriggling mass of worms engulf her with the heat of a thousand fires, causing her skin to blister and painfully peel back. She clenched her teeth shut and feared the things entering through any orifices but pushed forward.

She had to live. She had to fulfill her destiny. She remembered all the people who died, or rather, those who would die.

She could change the world, but only if she didn’t give in now.

“Shit, I’ll give you a tissue once we reach the precinct,” Stanton said. His offer; his words helped, centering her in the now. The words he spoke bled through into that dark place where Younger Emily found herself, an unknown voice from a stranger from another world, or another time, piercing the veils of different realities, and guiding her through this horrid darkness.

The demon grunted and cackled and choked on the worms entering its maw as it squeezed itself through the narrow, suffocating passageway, following Emily without fail. It clawed its way forth, causing a cacophony of disgusting squelching noises, and sensations that reminded her of bones snapping to the point of sharp edges bursting through skin and protruding from human flesh, and teeth gnashing on exposed innards with blood spurting out, gushing, and the reek of feces in the air.

Her eyes long clamped shut, she dared not breathe but had to, and felt first worms trying to wriggle their way into her mouth. She sputtered and spat them out with an angry scream, controlling the rage that drove her, clawing her own way forth, mimicking the demon’s motions. Or it mimicked hers.

The stairs went upwards and she ascended, pulling her way through the narrowest spot of these walls of worms, fleeing up the stairs. The demon tumbled, but then continued giving chase on all fours, like the beast that it truly was. Like the beast in the back of her head, the madness always just a few steps behind her.

“You can’t get away from me,” Stinky Jim cackled, only to abruptly choke on his words, gagging and coughing up more worms. Through rows of bloodied, gritted teeth, he said, “I am always with you, Emily.”

She tripped, fell, scraped her hands on the jagged edges of the obsidian steps, right in front of one of the names inscribed upon the stairs: Xerxes. Younger Emily blinked, did not quite register what it meant until years later, first dismissing this memory and experience as a bad trip, induced by popping too much acid and being tired out of her mind.

Screams echoed through the infinite, infernal stairwell, bouncing off the walls and curdling her blood until she realized: the screams were her own. The demon’s growling matched them, blended in with them, and she screamed in pain as claws dug into her back, lifting her onto her feet and pushing her up a few steps until she ran on yet farther, stumbling forth and upwards, ever away from the madness that followed her wherever she went, ever away from the things below.

The things below the surface of her mind. The horrid things she pushed deep down to still her mind; the darkness she drowned in whiskey and cigarettes even as she grew older.

This could have been her awakening but she skidded right past it. It wouldn’t be for years until she had her world turned upside down. Never realizing the power she held. The demon followed closely, keeping her blood pumping and the adrenaline flowing like fire in her veins.

She reached a stone portal at the top of the stairs and pushed it open. Instead of meeting resistance and stone grinding upon stone once more, it swung open with ease. She burst right through it and stumbled again.

Catching her breath, wheezing, lungs screaming but only pained sounds emerging from her lips, she looked around. There was no demon behind her. Younger Emily, with her pink hair, and her piercings, and completely stoned, stood in Rodney’s basement. Behind her was only the door to the boiler room.

Rodney slept on the couch, curled up into a fetal position. Carlos slept on the chair, sprawled out, still blanketed by some empty plastic wrappers. Static on the TV screen.

Emily ripped the door to the boiler room open, needing to know if that had been real, but there was no hellish stairwell behind it. Just the regular old boiler room that it should have been, reeking of oil.

The demon’s laughter echoed in her mind. She checked the time, noting how many hours had passed and chalking this whole experience up to a bad acid trip after all. She didn’t go home, afraid to be followed or stalked out there in the dark and cold and wet autumn streets, all alone.

Even though she found blood when she wiped her nose, Younger Emily figured it fit. Demons and hell weren’t real. She didn’t have the power to control minds or enter strange otherworlds.

She curled up on the end of the couch, wrapping herself in a smelly old blanket that Rodney should have washed weeks ago. Although she thought the nightmarish imagery and things she had just witnessed would keep her up until the other two boys woke up, exhaustion dragged her into the realm of sleep within minutes.

Emily sat in the back of Stanton’s car, finally escaping from this memory. She looked out the window, at the people in the streets of New Haven. Instead of reading their minds, scanning their thoughts, and testing the limitations of her newfound powers, she decided against any of that.

“I’m still here,” the demon said—Stinky Jim. He sat right next to her, just out of sight.

The fear welled up again, churning in her guts as if the monster gripped her stomach with a claw and twisted.

“I’ll always be with you, Emily. Just one step behind. You ever want the security of that little padded room—to surrender all responsibility, let the world sort itself out and sink into darkness while you drool in the corner—you just turn back. Let me take the wheel,” Stinky Jim said. He cackled again, showing no hint of mercy.

“Or you keep going deeper down, scratchin’ at those wriggling walls, and dive into those lakes of blood and shit and fire. Find out what’s beneath the surface. Drown in the secrets of those things below, or spit ‘em out and curse the world with your wretched knowledge.”

More cackling.

Emily clamped her eyes shut. She willed Stinky Jim to shut up.

She centered herself. Pushed away every thought. Blocked it all out—she had gained that much control over it now. Focused.

Breathed.

Pushed the demon deep down, where it would lurk. And wait.

With the things below.

—Submitted by Wratts

[swisscgny]

MEET NEIL ENGGIST

We recently interviewed Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist to talk about his life, work and how he is coping with self-isolation. Neil’s exhibition The Practice of the Wild was supposed to open at the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York last month as the 8th edition of Art@The Consulate but was postponed due to COVID-19. 

Hi Neil, thank you for taking the time to talk to us. Where are you right now? It is my pleasure. I’m in New Jersey. I have a backyard studio near Princeton, in the old house where I grew up. I’m staying put as much as I can.

Tell us about yourself, where did you grow up? My mother is from Taiwan and my father was born and raised in Luzern, both coming for graduate studies in 1969 to Buffalo. I was born and raised in Princeton Junction in an old stone house near a small forest and the train station. My father was teaching in the Bronx and Connecticut, then trying his hand at importing Swiss Chocolate, but at some point in the 1970s, he turned to stained glass. I remember him cutting, wrapping, and soldering in the backyard. My mother worked for the state of NJ, and drew from the model in her spare time. I drew dinosaurs like a maniac, not very well I may add, but at some point around age 7, my father asked me to draw a dinosaur that he made into a stained glass panel. As a family we traveled to Luzern about every 2 years, and I still remember the smell of Birenwecken and lightning over the Vierwaldstättersee. I drew all the time but wasn’t precocious, as a youth, I was shy, quiet, hot tempered, diligent with school, perfectionist, and mostly played soccer and saxophone and you know, did my math homework.

When did you know you wanted to become an artist? I went to art school at Washington University in 2000, but it wasn’t until studying abroad in Florence in 02 that I had the feel of becoming an artist. There is a laminated portrait from first grade, age 6, where I put into writing that I wanted to be an ‘Artist.’ But in Florence my life felt like it shifted from art student to artist, 3 dear friends and I shared an apartment on Piazza Independenza, learning photography, printmaking, illustration, bookmaking, Italian and art history at a tiny art school called Santa Reparata. My future Love lived up the street and sometimes the cheap red wine would flow. Behind every door were Renaissance frescos, leaping off the walls were Donatellos, and it was the beginning of my explorations as a painter. I would paint plein-air small landscapes and cityscapes with oils, but by the end my ambition grew into a very large Kandinskyesque abstract rendition of Michelangelo’s Final Judgment fresco from the Sistine wall. A year later, back in St. Louis I declared painting as my major, and in the words of Joe Campbell, began ‘following my bliss.’

Neil Enggist, Sea on Earth, acrylic and stain on wood, 2011

How would you describe your style? Has it changed over the years? I would say it’s an Organic Abstract Expressionism, or Nature Action Painting. Over nearly 20 years, YES it has changed! Like a photon going from point A, painting the Ponte Vecchio, to B, dancing on a piece of steel with turmeric and ocean water, taking every single possible path! To say it’s moved linearly would be wrong, but there is a sequence of transformations or leaps, in the Ozarks, Mysticism, Heartbreak, Dylan, New Mexico, Traveling Europe, The Mir, snow painting, India, Brooklyn, Voice and Veil, Gardening, going cross county, yoga, India again, the dance, steel, the tides, The Tao and the Yellow Mountains, devotion. I’m very interested how Dylan’s work has transformed and shifted, beyond expectation, without calculation, yet somehow almost always in line with his poetic essence. My paintings have changed like dinosaurs and birds, from a common source, many branches, some seemingly from different worlds, some becoming bones and fossils, some soaring through the sky.

Tell us about your artistic practice, where do you paint, what inspires you? Well we can start with Highway 61.. music of the American vernacular, jazz, blues, country, rock, folk, hip hop.. from Louis Armstrong, Strange Fruit, Charlie Parker, to the early Bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta, Robert Johnson, folksingers like Woody Guthrie, onwards and outwards to Wutang and Nas. Basquiat inspires me. Ana Medieta, DeKooning, Paul Klee, David Hammons, Polke, Mel Chin, James Turrell, Richard Long, Kerry James, Doig, Ofili, Wangechi Mutu, John Akomfrah, Bonnard, Matisse, Puryear too. Gary Snyder's brilliant collection of essays 'The Practice of the Wild,' from where the title of the exhibition comes, has helped me attune to the wild systems at play in nature and within, and continues to evolve my way of thinking, seeing, and creative being. Taking a journey into nature, not just a dip into nature, but really feeling the connections, the web that runs through the forest and is woven into your own nature. The Redwoods, the Swiss Alps, the Coast of California.. I lose and become myself here. In my practice, nature is welcomed into the process of artistic creation. The imagined line between artistic intention and the creative functioning of wilderness is blurred, or more accurately, these spheres merge into a unified moment. It’s a spiritual practice, a kind of Taoist exercise, merging with the changes of the natural world, not holding, not fixing, listening to what the painting wants to become, and finding the color to enable the beholding. I paint outside and on the road, sometimes inside.. anywhere..

Neil Enggist, Odyssey III, acrylic, dye and turmeric on canvas, 2020

What role does Switzerland play in your life/art? My family has a house in Luzern, with a balcony opening to a view of Mount Pilatus that I would call perfect.. at least on the days where it’s not obscured by Nebel! Since 2012, I’ve been spending many springs / summers living there, in the bohemian remodeling of our chalet attic called the Macolette. I have painted and drawn our view of Pilatus so many times, it is ingrained in my mind’s eye. I’ve explored and hiked the mountains surrounding the Vierwaldstättersee, Grindelwald, Engadin, and Zermatt, finding places on and off the path to paint. When I am in the mountains, alone with my pack, in the quietude and breathtaking beauty, I feel something akin to being home, being one with myself, being on my true path. This feeling is fleeting and eternal. Also, during many of the summers, I have worked with my great friend and mentor, garden designer, Andre Ammann, constructing and maintaining gardens around Luzern. Working with him has taught me in so many ways, to notice the minute changes of spring, to work with contrasts of nature and culture, to understand placement of boulders and trees, how to create a riverscape, to dissolve into the consciousness of the river. When we are done with the work, all cleaned, raked, and hosed down, Andre and I look at our work, and he’ll say, ‘Now, the garden starts, try to see how this will look in 10 years, in 50 years..’ This has been a major influence in my own ‘Practice of the Wild’ and painting. It has also taught me how to shovel!

You have traveled all over the world, how has the nomad life shaped your art? As a traveler, painting becomes the act of experiencing and processing place; the painting becomes an archive of experience. Traveling serves to connect the painter with the uncomfortable and uncalculated, which forces a spontaneity and body-memory response. I aim to paint as one would do battle and dance and play jazz at once. In traveling, the painter becomes the abstraction, inhabiting transient and visionary territory. Materials from places of special significance, white gypsum sand from New Mexico, pigment from the Holi festival of India, black sand from Kanyakumari, gravel from Highway 61, layer into the topography, giving the painting a personal geographic context, while opening formal and textural possibilities. On the road, I explore the spiritual territory of color, and natural occurrences of unearthly blues.

With the COVID-19 pandemic, travel is no longer possible, in what ways has the pandemic shaped your practice / life? I just drove from California to NY in 5 days to install the Consulate show, just before the Covid situation hit the fan. I am supposed to be in India right now, doing a residency in the Himalayas! I’ve had a number of shows postponed and it just really doesn’t seem like people are buying many paintings right now.. But, really compared to people who are sick, caring for loved ones, and risking their lives to care for others, my sacrifices are minuscule. And I can most surely still paint! But I’m trying to use this time to do things I would have done in ‘normal’ times, but there are no normal times anymore. I’ve been making sculptures out of half rotten wood using an ax and a handsaw. I’ve been learning some Tai Chi from my Ma. I’ve started reading the Mahabharata. I’ve been texting whole a lot of hearts to California and writing love songs, and staying out of the bar.. 

Neil Enggist, That Great Mysterious Storm, acrylic, ink, oil and sand on canvas, 2010  

What important lessons do you think we can learn from the impact of the pandemic? Well, first and foremost gratitude for life, health, and for the things that we used to take for granted. To be grateful for the people who are dear to us. This may sound cliché, but the pandemic has shown us how connected we are, for better and for worse. We are interdependent, and what affects one region affects the global community. I hope that people can stop and reassess their personal and collective relationship with the planet.  In a profound and dire way, humans and our socio-economic systems have entered an unbalanced, virus-like relationship with this Earth. Humans seem to need wake up calls to affect changes, I hope this pandemic serves as a paradigm shift for enough of us. We are in this together. Yes when this is over, it will be great to go to a yoga class, an Indian restaurant, and to toast with friends, but we each need to use this time to reaffirm our commitments to each other and to all beings of this planet, and not go back to business as usual.  

What advice do you have for people stuck at home? Can you recommend something to read, listen or watch? Well I’m a Liverpool fan, and we were just about to WIN the premier league, so I’ve had to go back and watch Liverpool highlights to cope. There’s a lovely interview with the legendary skipper Steven Gerrard in conversation with Gary Neville on youtube. I’m a very lazy television watcher, meaning I don’t really watch new things, so it’s The Sopranos, and very little else. Peaky Blinders is good, violent, but solid. Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’ is a ravishing movie.  I just saw ‘Purple Rain’ again, EPIC. When I drove across country I listened to Toni Morrison’s own reading of her novel ‘A Mercy,’ and it took my breath away, literally every sentence .. I don’t know how I even made it!  She’s a true master in telling a harrowing story in pure poetry. Also reading ‘An Indigenous People’s History of the United States’ and Leonard Peltier’s ‘Prison Writings.’  Musically I needed a lil rock, so I went back to the Black Keys ‘Brothers’, Brittany Howard’s solo ‘Jaime’ is good, JS Ondara, Black Pumas, Valerie June’s ‘Love Told a Lie,’ AM!R’s ‘Parachute, ‘ and the syrupy ‘Cigarettes after Sex.’ I’ve been listening as well to Gann Brewer’s most recent ‘Absolution.’ I made the video for his ‘River Song.’ Tracy Chapman’s first album is incredible. Springsteen’s ‘The River’ is like his White Album and sometimes I need to hear the Boss sing ‘Heart and Soul’ over and over.. and hear that ‘Drive All Night’ sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons. I am from Jersey, don’t forget. Listening to a lot of John Prine too, and with his recent passing, his music shines like a diamond ring. ‘Christmas in Prison’ is one of my favorites of many. Oh and Bob Dylan just released a 17 minute song about the assassination of JFK, and it’s .. indescribable.

Thank you Neil! 

To find out more about Neil Enggist go to www.neilenggist.com, contact Neil at suisse17@gmail.com and follow him @neilenggist 

Scroll down for more information about the exhibition The Practice of the Wild which will open to the public as soon as it is safe to do so. Please note that all paintings depicted in this article are featured in the exhibition. 

NEIL ENGGIST

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD 

8TH EDITION OF ART@THE CONSULATE 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD by Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist is comprised of a series of abstract mixed media Nature Action Paintings, a method by which nature performs an integral part in the artistic process. 

Neil Enggist, The Storm Ends, acrylic, ink, dye and sand on canvas, 2019

“My work seeks to embody the random precision through which life and spirit intersect. Within a liminal environment, I present set of conditions where the form can be born through an unfolding of natural currents. The nature of water, marks of evaporation, melting, freezing, burning, gravity, animal tracks, traces of dance, time, storms, tides and all manner of seasonal and emotional weather coincide to transform the canvas into a terrain in flux. Whether I am dripping ink into a melting tuft of snow, pouring the ocean on burning ink, or slashing the surface with a fallen pine branch, each action is composed within a system of nature. The result is a site of becoming where oceanic, emotive, and mystical stories interplay” 

Raised in Princeton, New Jersey, Neil Enggist studied fine arts at Washington University in St. Louis and Santa Reparata in Florence. He earned his MFA at San Francisco Art Institute in 2016 where he made paintings on steel in the tidal zones of the Bay Area, searching for a language between art and nature, incorporating ideas of performance and sculpture imbedded in the earth art movement. Enggist has participated in a number of art residencies including the Lucid Art Foundation in Point Reyes, CA, and most recently journeyed to the land of his grandmother to paint the City of Shanghai and the Yellow Mountains of China. Through his extensive travels in Europe, the Americas, and Asia he developed a body of painting and poetry shown in New York, Milan, Mumbai, Luzern, and Paris. Enggist lives and works between New York and Luzern, Switzerland.

Neil Enggist, The Schreckhorn, acrylic, ink, pigment and oil on canvas, 2007 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD is the eighth edition of Art @ The Consulate, a curatorial initiative by the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York to showcase the work of Swiss artists living in the United States. Follow Art @ The Consulate on Social media #SwissArtNYC

Neil Enggist, A Candle Burns at Night,  Acrylic and ink on canvas, 2008

[stratamuzak]

Interview with Voltagehawk

STRATA: What artists in particular you are drawn to (alive or deceased) that you listen to for particular moods? Such as happy/sad/contemplative/etc… Explain why you might listen to one artist for a particular mood.

CHASE AROCHA When I want to feel inspired I listen to a lot of the different projects of Mike Patton. Be it Faith No More, Mr. Bungle, Peeping Tom, or Tomahawk, the range of styles of music is so diverse that I’ve been listening for like 15 years and I haven’t gotten bored yet, haha. When I want to relax or chill, I love BadBadNotGood, an amazing jazz artist doing incredible arrangements all in a hip-hop context. It’s great! Or Ray Lynch, I really love his writing and use of counterpoint melody. Then if I’m getting hyped I put on something like Dying Fetus or Vitriol, or Maximum the Hormone. And any other time I’m blaring Kamasi Washington, Robert Glasper and Sturgill Simpson.

DAN FENTON I think a lot of the time music finds my mood. Sort of more a spiritual or cosmic connection. When I was a kid my mom would make us watch musicals if we stayed home sick from school. Jokes was on her because I hated school but I loved learning musical scores and how to write dynamic parts and movements. The fact that people like Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire, Frank Sinatra or Marlon Brand were also amazing actors only added to that unlikely education. I learned how to really feel music between that and the intense very bloody hymns we had to sing in church. I understand the sentiment but that shit is harder than a lot of black metal. “Are you washed in the blood of the lamb”. Hard core shit. Sorry, I digress. During the making of our most recent record which is called Electric Thunder and set for release later this year or early next (hard to navigate releases with all this pandemic shit) I listened exclusively to film scores, classical music and radio evangelists. I am not religious but I grew up in a preacher’s home and when I needed to get my creative push and anger at its peak, I listened to preachers who were clearly greed driven and motivated by the lust for power. It made my adrenaline rush in anger and it came out in the recording for sure. I am a huge fan of Hans Zimmer and Vangelis. Each of these artists move me in powerful ways. The juxtaposition of darkness and light both in traditional instrumentation and experimental synth based work. Just musical giants. When I am feeling frustrated about the social issues I see everyday in my East Nashville neighborhood I listen to KRS-One, Kamasi Washington, Outkast. A lot of protest music. I am in love with band IDLES from the UK. Such powerful lyrics tackling issues like the need for male vulnerability, equality for all and the  seemingly ironic brutal beat down of toxic masculinity. That band is great if you’re happy, mad, sad, whatever.

STRATA: Do you have a process you go through prior to writing, playing, and even performing?

CHASE AROCHA I do a lot of breathing exercises like the Wim Hof techniques. I have generalized anxiety disorder and I used to get horrible debilitating panic attacks, it helped me get into breathing and meditation. Anxiety will never go away but you learn ways to live with it and push through your panic. I think about how much this means to me and how long I’ve spent doing it, I try to see that I value myself as a person and then from that thinking I can just let go and play music. Only approaching it with love and not worrying about mistakes because that’s how we learn.

DAN FENTON The entire thing is one process. Like a heros journey of sorts. I listen and meditate everyday, I believe in a cosmic river of inspiration that flows from an energy that is and has always been. I believe if you listen hard enough and give yourself to the music the muse will send your mind transmissions that may only be a section of a song, or perhaps they are an entire album, but everyday I show up. A few years ago I read this book called The War Of Art, by Steven Pressfield. In this book he describes the invisible force he calls the Resistance. The Resistance may be things both “good or bad”, but they are anything that keeps you from showing up for your art. So I show up everyday, you can ask the dudes in the band, they receive a work tape maybe twice a week with new shit to try out. If I don’t feel that muse working I don’t force it, but I instead wait on further transmissions from the cosmic womb. All sounds crazy, but my story is crazy, so crazy makes the most sense. In the studio I have many processes. I found while recording vocals I perform better in complete darkness, I have realized how much I live inside my head and how active my imagination is and equally ADD my eyes are. So when I can’t see it brings to life the imagery and the passion of the song. I can see all those people I write about, all the landscapes, the love, lust, joy and pain. I also do some method stuff, keep things in my pockets pertaining to a character I may be portraying in a song. Wanna be Daniel Day Lewis shit.

STRATA: Your own current project, discuss the process your music went through as you built each layer. From beginning to the end of it. 

CHASE AROCHA This all started with our drummer Jarrad having a vision and going through trials and errors of finding the right people to execute that. Along the way Dan, Tyler, and I all came into the picture and that vision morphed into something we all felt was not even from us. Like we were an antenna receiving a signal and these riffs and lyrics quickly meshed into something I haven’t heard before. Part hard rock, part jazz, part punk and hardcore. All with this message of love and truth being the reason for living. To end the ones controlling our thoughts and dividing us or tribalism and greed. I feel like we made something worth listening to and that’s all I feel like you can really hope for.

DAN FENTON The self titled record that we have available now on all streaming platforms was two different profound stages in my life all in the making of one record. When we began, Jarrad and I partied a fuck ton, and I was descending into some serious personal shit with alcohol. It was bad, I couldn’t get through a day without way too high of a blood alcohol level. Before we finished vocals on the record, I stayed up one night working and drinking, perhaps I had never stopped from how many nights before, who fucking knows. Anyhow, I died for 9 minutes on the side porch of my house. Fully shut down, fucking dead. Mind you, I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t know how to lay off the bottle. Woke up in the ICU surrounded by my band, my wife and what few friends I had left. At that moment Voltagehawk became a complete family to me. I spent a stint in rehab (Jarrad drove me) and that was several years ago now. When I got out I went back to finish the record, make some amends and chase this thing out for real. So that was some info on the first record. The new Album which is a 13 song space odyssey named Electric Thunder, after our beloved Electric Thunder Studio owned and operated by our resident space wizard producer Geoff Piller, was not so dramatic. After I got my shit together and my mind cleared up I began to write everyday like a mad man. Song after song after song came like never before. I think we cut 15 songs out before we settled on the final 13. Our process as a band is often for myself or one of the other dudes to present a bare bones or often finished idea to the band and we run it through the Hawk Filter. The Hawk Filter is just the decomposition and reconstruction of every rough idea till it fits us. Which is silly to say because if we like, it we do it, not a matter of genre worship. Shit’s good, do it. Always do what’s best for the song.

STRATA: Can your music personally be an open door to breath and bend in the world of artistic exploration? In Other Words… how comfortable are you as an artist exploring other types of music and creating projects that might be totally  different than what you are creating now?

CHASE AROCHA There is so much great music in the world in so many styles, why shouldn’t we try to explore them all! I’m always trying something I haven’t done before, not always as a challenge, but I would hope it’s natural for people to do in art. We shouldn’t be the same people we were 2 years ago, let alone 10. I love jazz, Death Metal, and country music. If you can find a really fun and genuine way to blend those then that’s absolutely what you should do! Don’t be tied down to what kind of music you’re making and just make music.

DAN FENTON That’s all we do all day. Everything on this planet, and above it, and in it’s majestic seas and mountains, all these people of all the cultures of all the world and their energy and their culture all influence and musical inspiration is welcome. Our philosophy is never say no, and jump off the cliff, and pull yourself back up. Meaning: try all the musical options then settle on the one we believe is the most amazing. So much of our influence is from cinema and books, video games, you name it. I’ll pluck a support cable on every bridge I see ‘til I am dead just to see if it speaks to me. Sonically there are no fucking rules, and if you impose rules, fuck your rules. We love to create, to talk about creating and then to birth something new is beyond amazing.

STRATA: Are you open to change your style, genre even, and approach to how and what you create every time you enter a studio? Or do you find once you have a formula in place do you find it best to stay with what you know? Many times artists will change how they approach their songwriting and even their recording staff/producers.

CHASE AROCHA

Like I said before, I believe that you should just make music and with that should come constant experimentation. When we record we find sounds from all over the place. From children’s toy instruments, to skateboard wheels spinning to imitate rain. Our writing is kind of always evolving and changing. Dan is an amazing writer who literally has lyrics and melodies pouring out of his hands and face. Everyday he has new ideas and records and sends them to everyone. Jarrad is great at taking those riffs and making suggestions on how the structure could be of a song along with feel. I am obsessed with adding layers of guitars however I can, but I also write a lot and send tracks as well. Tyler is a tone junkie on the bass, filling in the bottom end and has such a great approach to being independent from the guitars with his lines. We send tracks back and forth to each other then we get in a room and flesh them out. The whole time in the process the songs are constantly changing and evolving into the sound we have. We are always open to change and never believe in the word No when discussing music and art. You try every idea and see what works and what doesn’t. Sometimes when one member has a vision of how a song should go and is trying to communicate that,  you should respect his idea and see it through. If it doesn’t work that’s okay, we tried!

DAN FENTON Voltagehawk is ever evolving. As it stands, we spend way too much time trying to pigeon hole what people will refer to our sound as. I don’t care what you call it as long as it moves you. I listen to everything from John Coltrane and Tom Waits to Napalm Death and Motorhead, Antonio Lucio Vivaldi to Kamasi Washington. IDLES and Bad Brains. If you refuse to evolve as an artist, experimenting, growing, trying new methods, all these elements then you cannot grow as a human being. Too many people are happy where they are, just okay, making the same music that their dads made and trying to cosplay some kind of yesteryear. We don’t do that shit, we’re us, that’s it. We grow, when you hear the Electric Thunder for the first time you will understand everything. If you burn some sage next to a photo of Carl Sagan while you listen to Electric Thunder, you will see the cosmic river in your minds eye. The world is full of people with a blockage in their brain. They cannot see that this bullshit we call a life is just a series of labor for hire gigs that leave us rapidly in the middle. We’re trying to break away from it all and follow our feathers, our truth, our search for enlightenment on our hero’s journey. I’ll leave you with this. Know Thyself.

[comeallyelost]

The Handmaid’s Tale 3x11 Thoughts

THT is finally picking up and I am split between being super excited and just generally frustrated that they had all these filler episodes with barely any movement for the majority of the season. But anyway, he are my thoughts on the main storylines of this ep:

1. Commander Winslow and the attempted rape scene

Okay this whole sequence was exceptional and exactly the catharsis I argued this season was in dire need of. June's narration of "treating it like a job" and the way she kept faltering in her delivery and in trying to convince herself one more time was fuckin A+ right there. 

June's actions in this scene were reinforcing the opening of the episode when Eleanor had Joseph at gunpoint. June told Eleanor "We all could have done something." In this scene, at this time, she DID something. It's inherently tied to post-Gilead June. More so post-death-of-Natalie June. She's refusing to remain complicit. At this point, she has nothing left to lose. I read a post earlier about how this scene and how THT in the past has glorified the idea of sexual assault victims fighting back and about how that should not be celebrated as a way to deal with sexual violence because that option is almost never available. But I'd argue that Moira, Emily, and now June in fighting back had/have very real consequences to face. And in all of their cases, they fought back at times when they'd reached their lowest point. In S1, Moira was resigned to a short life at Jezebel's until she found June again and June had told her that Luke got out. For Emily, she had just been mutilated by Gilead and took direct action against the regime by running over the guardian. Later with Aunt Lydia, Lawrence was able to get her out before she could face any consequences. 

Gilead drove them to become these people, but not before they had been worn down to the point that they decided for themselves there was no worse punishment than the existence they had already resigned themselves to. And the only one of the three who has not suffered a direct consequence for her actions has been Moira thus far (because she made it out). Emily was shipped to the Colonies after her outburst. And people are most certainly coming after June. The Marthas may have bought her some time, but she is not in the clear.

All I’m arguing is that these three characters’ actions in regards to fighting back is, within the context of the narrative, believable and--yes, for me--celebrated by the audience who has witnessed them be raped and beaten down over and over and over again. Our heroes have triumphed in a small way and that’s what we’re here for. We’re rooting for them. Mind you, they have not triumphed without consequence or repercussions. And I, as an audience member, am not expecting this to be the norm in situations of assault in the series, but its their spirit of resistance, of resilience that’s shining through that I am happy to see on screen. And also, its their stories that are getting told. The stories of the survivors of Gilead and how they made it through.

Now, I don’t know that the victims of sexual assault in this series will get the screen time they deserve regarding working through their trauma. Just like the racism issue on this show, this could be handled much better. It just might be the case that the coping/recovery aspect won’t ever be addressed. Or it might be that in the midst of all that is happening in Gilead at the moment, in order to survive, June is dealing with the here and now and won’t be able to cope with her issues until she’s out. We caught a glimpse of what it was like for Moira and Emily as survivors of Gilead. Granted, it was not nearly enough, but hopefully that’s something the writers will build on.

SO

Despite all of the above, I am torn between the relief and catharsis this scene gave me and the show’s complete and utter lack of exploration of Commander Winslow’s character. Like, YAY the fucker is dead and he died in the most satisfying way the audience could have asked for. But he was supposed to be a villain this season, no? THT had it all set up and then left his character on the back burner. What was gonna come of his relationship to Fred? What was his role in all of the extradition stuff. I’m just so frustrated with this wasted potential. And I legit thought for a second there in 3x06 that they hinted at him being sexually into Fred. 2.  The Waterfords

Perfect, wonderful, the arrest scene is the scene we all needed at least four episodes ago. And I loved how Tuello was super no-nonsense about it and straight up just grabbed Fred the second he was in Canada. My only qualm with this whole thread is why did it take so long with nothing of substance filling in the time? Like, the story could have moved forward so much faster. 

Serena is up to something, I know she is. I really wasn’t sure if she set Fred up or if she was trying to work something out with Tuello and it all just went to hell. She is just as much a war criminal as Fred is so I’m curious to see how this plays out and what kind of deal she struck/will strike with Tuello. 

The only reason I’d suspect she set Fred up is because their whole trip played out like a long goodbye where they relived their greatest hits and spoke a lot about the what-ifs of their lives. But to my knowledge she still wants the baby back doesn’t she? Did the whole enforce-the-Ceremony thing really change her mind AGAIN? Like, bitch lost her damn pinky finger and she bounced back from that? When not long before being de-fingered she helped Fred to rape June? Whatever she’s up to, I honestly hope she suffers for her actions as well.She doesn’t deserve Tuello’s treason and coconuts.

3. June, the Marthas, and her crusade

Ngl, I'm getting really excited for a mass exodus of children from Gilead. I'm still iffy on the whole setup of it, because again, June has no reason to be spearheading any of this. Especially if the Marthas already have something in place. It feels like they acquiesced too quickly in that scene in the Lawrence basement. But June's attitude of "it has to work" and getting Lawrence in line  and later that Billy guy to agree to her plan was pretty great. 

I think the believability factor is hindered by the fact that she is working alone. Like, yes, she’s trying to get all these moving pieces to work together, but even though she has the character traits of a leader and we’ve seen that for the most part she has not relinquished her sense of power despite her position, orchestrating a move like this doesn’t realistically happen over the course of a few days and persuading a couple of people. It’s looking too easy given how damn complicated so many other things in Gilead have been. It’s like another version of convenient plot armor. 

But also shoutout to the Marthas for their badassery!

4. Other thoughts: - Next week’s trailer we FINALLY have some Canada scenes.Seeing Luke also made me realize how much I miss the flashback scenes too :(

- I’m liking Commander Lawrence more and more each ep and I low-key loved the fact that he raided all the art museums lmfao

- I feel like Beth’s character is being wasted. Why can’t we know more about her and what she gets up to? I like her.

- Also where are Alma and Janine? Weren’t they helping?

There’s only 2 eps left and I feel like there is way too much ground to cover for there to be a satisfying ending for all the characters. Sigh.

[inktank-thinktank]

Splatocalypse profiles 2

Annie:

NoA translation:

Annie: Team Chaos “Umm… Gear abilities are cool and stuff…I guess.” Items stocked in her online shop provide a flair of eccentricity not available in standard gear. Squidkids everywhere are constantly refreshing their phones for a chance to snag her latest release.

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Annie: Chaos— “Now what gear power should we go for with this one...?” Adorned with a magical flair that allows them to contain qualities not found in their regular counterparts, the gear you’ll find at Annie’s online shop continues to hold the favour of the keen youth.

Original Ink Tank prediction:

For Annie, the first game implies that out of her and Moe, Moe is the one really ‘in charge’ of things, and, well… Moe is hard chaos. Play Splatoon Wii U, guys.

Comments:

Well that’s entirely different from what we expected. The NoA translation fits with Annie’s generally meek demeanor, but in either case her justification for Team Chaos seems...pretty weak.

Crusty Sean & Bisk:

NoA translation:

Crusty Sean & Bisk: Team Order Their shared love for footwear make it natural that they’d end up on the same side. When these neighbors get caught up in shoe talk, it can last until sunup. Is THAT why the lines for Sean’s food truck are so long?

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Crusty Sean & Bisk: Order— An unlikely bond between two hard-boiled, fellow shoe-loving crustaceans. The proximity of their two shops make it hard not to get lost in conversation until dawn. Maybe someone could tell Sean about the line stretching in front of his shop, though?

Original Ink Tank prediction:

The only ones who we cannot seem to figure out are Murch, Bisk, and Crusty Sean, however we know that Sean has some…strangeness to him, only accepting tickets and getting defensive when you point this out, and the ‘Crustwear XXL’ shirt, a shirt advertising his food truck, being Grizzco gear. Perhaps he supports Team Order because of an involvement with corporate bureaucracy?

Comments:

We didn’t have much of an explanation for this one initially. The official explanation is...not really an explanation on the surface level. But I suppose one could argue that two like-minded people getting lost in conversation due to shared interests and kinship is somewhat ‘orderly’, even if that is somewhat tenuous.

Flow & Craymond:

NoA translation:

Flow & Craymond: Team Chaos “Oh, friends, what’s a world without wild parties? Join me, won’t you?” Flow and Craymond set up shop looking to connect with the energies of the universe. They now hope to open a new world’s third eye to the exciting possibilities of chaos.

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Flow & Craymond: Chaos— “Come, all you sweeties, the fun’s only just begun...!” Setting out in search of colourful encounters is what brought these two to set up shop in Inkopolis Square. As far as they’re concerned, a world of Chaos has much more to offer when it comes to new meetings.

Original Ink Tank prediction:

Flow, being a ‘hippie’ of sorts, likely is on chaos in terms of ‘personal freedom’. And, y’know. Being able to be high all the time most likely.

Comments:

So yeah basically like we said, she’s a hippie. The original Japanese implies a bit of a jesterly malice, however.

Jelfonzo:

NoA translation:

Jelfonzo: Team Order “Forsooth, but fashion flourishes or fails on its fundamentals.” Though a proponent of the idea that fashion is a form of freedom, Jelfonzo is also firm that context is king. One look in his watery eyes confirms his constant commitment to couture.

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Jelfonzo: Order— “For what art principles if naught what maketh fashion truly... Ex​squid​site!” That crystal clear gaze, transparent as the head on his shoulders, tells of a passionate belief, unwavering— that, as free as fashion may be, it may never truly escape the binds of context.

Original Ink Tank prediction:

Jelfonzo being Team Order makes sense, given that Nogami has stated that the Jellyfishes are all actually a large hivemind organism, who may have a significant hand in sponsoring Turf War, suggesting since Turf War is according to the Splatoon Ikasu Art Book largely subsidized by the government, the Jellyfish hivemind has a significant hand in Inkopolis’ government as well.

Comments:

This is ENTIRELY different from our prediction, which leaned more on Jelfonzo’s status as part of the Jellyfish hivemind. Instead, it seems to lean more on his sense as a fashion designer.

Salmonids:

NoA translation:

Salmonids: Team Chaos Their single-minded drive to get back to their spawning grounds COULD be seen as orderly…if you squint. But who are we kidding? The frenzied, indiscriminate way they stampede over everyone and everything in the way of that goal is chaos to a T.

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Salmonids: Chaos— One could argue that their unyielding determination to return to their homeland comes from a sense of Order. But take one look at the way they push past and mercilessly eliminate those who stand in their way— and you’ll find that’s as chaotic as Chaos gets.

Original Ink Tank prediction:

Starting with Team Chaos, we have the Salmonids. This is quite obvious. The Salmonids have always been agents of chaos, chiefly known for overrunning early Inkling settlements and even going as far as consuming the Inklings within.

Comments:

Generally in-line with our prediction. Salmonids are agents of chaos insofar as their overrunning Inkling settlements in pursuit of their spawning grounds.

Octarians:

NoA translation:

Octarians: Team Order “The light that was denied us will be ours.” Since the Great Turf War drove them below, they have used their technological skill to bring a sort of order to their realm. But deep down, they know true order cannot be fabricated. It must be seized.

Fan translation (credit foolishignis):

—What side are you on? Octarians: Order— “Our people, one day, take back the light” Forced underground after the Great Turf War, they brought up the pillars of their own Order through diligence and their advanced technology. The fact that they’re still aiming to make it back to the surface, however, must mean they are aware, somewhere deep in their minds, that that is no more than a fake Order.

Original Ink Tank prediction:

This brings us to the Octarians in general, who are Team Order being a regimented technocracy where large focus is put on people serving a specific function (see Marina’s Chat Room), as well as again the technological oppression aspects. They may also be simply following Marina, as we know that Agent 8 idolizes her, and that the Octolings who escaped to Inkopolis did so because they were inspired by her.

Comments:

As we predicted, the Octarians are Order due to the nearly-oppressively order-oriented aspects of their society. The comment about wanting to ‘take back the light’ / that ‘the light that was denied us will be ours’ is interesting, as it shows that the Octarians do in fact want to take back their place on the surface, meaning the opposition to Octavio by those who defected is a matter of disagreement on means, not intent. And in a way, they did take it back, as they now live in coexistence with the Inklings.

More posts, and more new fan translations to compare against the NoA translations, will be posted in the coming days! Thanks, and hang in there!

[pomegranate-salad]

Seeds of thought : DIE #2

Hey everyone ! So many works I need to be SOTing right now. I decided to prioritize this, because well, new comic, needs all the attention. Plus, everytime an issue gets sold out, we get a new cover from Stephanie Hans. I live for them now. Anyway, spoilers of course, enjoy my thoughts and opinion under the cut.

HINDSIGHT IS D20/D20

 When I was a kid, I had this French comic in which they had a page that asked : “what happens after a movie ends ?” and there were a series of vignettes that answered that question in a proper humorous fashion. For example, one of these vignettes showed the last scene of a movie where a car of the heroic lovers drove in the middle of the road into the sunset onto their bright future. The next panel showed the two lovers in court, and the judge saying : “bright future or not, you crossed the lane line and I’m revoking your licence”.

 When I was seven, as most things do when you’re seven, it blew my mind. Nevertheless, this silly comic highlighted the universal, unbreakable truth of all stories : when it’s over, it’s over. There’s no more. And even today, as fanfiction has become its own genre, as no comedy is complete without a fourth wall break, when you close a book, when you turn off the TV, nothing can happen anymore. There is what the story implies will or might happen next, but sooner or later, you reach the point where you exhaust whatever the story contains of foreseeing. Each story writes its own last will ; but whatever happens after that, the story is dead : it still exist, but it won’t move forward, it won’t go back, it won’t do anything at all because it has stopped being able to do anything with itself. The only way for more to happen is for the author to write more. But that inevitably means writing a different story.

And that’s why, as sad as I could have been to leave a story I loved behind, for me there was always a sort of relief that came with reaching the end of a story : the relief that came from complete stillness. Because there’s no more, there’s no more pain, there’s no more stress, there’s no more excitement even, there’s no more reason to be alarmed at all. No reason be involved at all. Only when we reach the end of a story, can we be free from it. Outside of the contraption of the story, the characters’ actions don’t exist. THEY don’t exist. And you definitely know where I’m going with this.

 The genius of DIE is not to take us to an elaborate gritty deconstructive fantasy RPG world. The genius of DIE is to take us back to it. Back to the story that’s already ended. Yes, I know I said in my last SOT that I didn’t think the characters were over their first visit in DIE by any means. The story of Ash and the gang is not over (by the way, I’m just going to call him Ash and use he/him pronouns until we get more on this issue, if needed I’ll edit accordingly). But functionally, narratively, the story of DIE the world, DIE the tabletop campaign, is over. The heroes arrived, the heroes did some shit, the heroes left. The story welcomed them and then the story ended. More than that, the story ended and nothing came to replace it. Sol’s speech is not the only thing that happens when thoughts curl up. The entire DIE world the gang is now in is nothing but a giant curl up. A new story did not emerge from the same setup. Sol just dug up the corpse of the old one and smeared make-up all over it.

The return of the heroes in a fantasy world they once knew is not a ground-breaking idea in fantasy by any means – I mean, Narnia did it. But in the usual take on this plot, the trigger element to the world the heroes return to is their leaving the world, not their being there in the first place – or in Sol’s case, staying. The second Narnia book showed us a world in shambles because the heroes saved it then left it, not because the heroes saved themselves and one of them was left behind. And maybe what I’m about to say will be disproved by future issues, but I’m not under the impression that the characters were particularly anything to the world of DIE, least of all heroes. They seem to mostly have been there. Some parts they barely set foot in, and the way they talk about the supposed “big bad” of the first game, the main reason they came after him seems to have been that they prevented them from going home. As a setup, the world of DIE seems to have been a bit underexploited. But come to think of it, was it really that great a setup ? Ash’s narration goes back and forth on the issue. Sol’s imagined world is either described as brilliant or the exact kind of pretentious overwritten stuff you’d expect from that particular breed of teenager (Elves but written by William Gibson is complicated… But is it, Ash ? Is it really ?)

 But all of that maybe-not-that-great world, all that hammered fantasy stuff, are rendered new and interesting in context. I’m not the first one to point out that this setting allows characters to offer perpetual commentary on their younger selves. My shots at teenage pretentiousness are fucking text. If nothing else, this is a genius move to deflect any and all criticism of the comic’s take on the RPG genre : if it’s overdone, if it’s overwritten, you’re not smart for pointing that out, that characters are way ahead of you. But more interestingly, this moves every single “big idea” of the “transported in a fantasy world” plot further up the road. The main example is the reality vs fantasy ethical debate. Think how many pages in how many books were dedicated to exploring the ethical ramifications of being in a fantasy world without knowing if what you did was “real” or not. Do you have to be ethical when you play a game ? Would Kant play Grand Theft Auto ? This is a massive debate. In DIE, it’s addressed in issue #2 on one page. But it would be a mistake to think DIE is selling this question short, or “getting it out of the way” : like often with Gillen, the form is the point. The underhandedness of this debate among the characters is what makes it interesting. Because it’s a debate they had before. This is something they decided on. They set rules. They built an ethics system. They also saw the limits of it. Because no matter how lawful good they decided to play that thing, there’s always one player to just do what they want, or there’s always not even that same player doing some stupid wordbinding spell because that’s just a throwaway romance secondary plot, and who hasn’t fucked with one of those before. All the time it would have taken the comic to establish the characters coming to terms with this debate, disagreeing, coming to a solution, is time that can be used to see this solution unfold in glorious consequences. And you know what ? I’m willing to bet that the characters weren’t even that bad the first time around. But they were there, and that’s really all consequences need. Another thing to think about ? Maybe the reason the characters came to having this debate was that at some point, they didn’t think they would ever go home. Maybe the world they moulded the first time around, was the world they thought they would spend their lives in. You’re welcome.

 So does that mean DIE is going to leapfrog every single of these important questions to simply present us with the consequences of the characters’ choices ? Probably not. But every single decision and facet of this new story is going to come with its own asterisk : this isn’t the first time around. Everything is loaded. Nothing is ever innocent. This is the Monty Hall problem halfway through : one door has been opened, will you change your choice ? And for us, who didn’t get to see which doors our heroes picked in the first place, that’s going to be a hell of a ride.

  WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE ISSUE

 The idea of this section was for me to get a bit more personal about my thoughts, without feeling like I needed to make a big point. So let’s get personal : I do not like Ash. By which I don’t mean I think he’s badly written, I mean I don’t like him as a person. As in, we would not be friends. I already had that feeling when issue #1 came out, but I tried to be generous because we’d seen so little of everyone, but now we’re two issues in, let me confirm : I do not like Ash. I do not like his fake self-flagellation hiding some very real condescension, I do not like his teenage angst with a twenty years old aging flavour, I do not like that he’s introspective in the least interesting way possible, and for someone who boasts that he learned to “tell stories”, good god is he an annoying narrator. Yes part of it is intentional. And no, I do not particularly like any of the other characters either. And you have to take into account protagonist bias, meaning that the character you spend the more time with is the one you have the biggest chance to like, but also the biggest chance to hate instead of simply dislike. But hey, I never claimed to be the perfect reader. And for now, Ash is annoying the shit out of me. To me, he feels as if you’d taken Laura from Wicdiv, kept her just as laborious and self-hating, but removed all the parts that actually made her likeable. Which leads me to ask the question : can I be honest about the quality of an issue if I’m that bothered by who’s telling it ? The answer, as always, is that I can be honest with myself : I’m probably not as high on this issue as many people are. And the principal reason for that is definitely the main character and narration. Don’t get me wrong, this issue is a thrill : the scene with Sol is chilling – I think he might be my favourite character, actually – the combat scene is narratively masterful, the ending is a bit of cheap shot (I’m fairly certain I’ve seen this eyes plotpoint in several other stories) but god damn if it isn’t effective. Oh, and let’s take a moment to praise the art, Lord knows Stephanie Hans needs me, whose stick figures make the Monkey Christ lady look like Michelangelo, to praise her. But jokes aside, I want to give credit to how Hans resisted the appeal of painting the classic huge detailed fantasy world first chance she got. Instead, her vision of DIE is one of a weirdly deserted, bright yet gloom world, which fits the mood perfectly. To borrow from the issue, her use of colour looks like fantasy feels, without feeling the need to overbear on the raw emotions of this issue with more detailed pencils (Ash’s digression about Maria is also probably incidentally the most I’ve ever liked his narration). Best panels for me are of course the ones where you can see the sides of the DIE. Probably because it manages to feel so small and so huge at the same time. I’m a sucker for intimate fantasy.

So, this issue, minus Ash, is nothing I don’t love. But on the other hand, this issue doesn’t really exist without Ash. Try as I may, I cannot deny that part of the appeal of the issue comes from his narration and his personality. Yeah, he’s a whiny controlling drama queen, but I put up with an entire issue of Woden monologuing and this was one of the best things I’ve ever read, so you know what, I can put up with a little bullshit. I don’t think Ash has to be a good person, or even someone I like, for DIE to be good. I guess at this point my problem with him is that I don’t find him interestingly unlikeable, as was the case with Woden. Maybe it’s because unlike Woden, there are several people in my life who remind me a lot of Ash, and since they’re not necessarily assholes, they’re not people I have an excuse to outright avoid and thus with whom I’m much more familiar with. So who knows, maybe I’ll make peace with Ash. Comic’s still young. Meanwhile, my opinion on issue #2 is pretty much the same as for issue #1 : this is remarkable work, brilliant in some aspects, almost irritating in how proficient it is at doing its own thing, and maybe just a touch overconfident in its ability to walk the line between profound and navel-gazing. But when DIE keeps it simple, when it just wants to touch you instead of punching you in the gut, then it’s fucking unstoppable. If you’re not on the DIE train yet – well first, I admire and fear the way you powered through this post, but also, jump in, like now. You won’t regret it.

[savefarris124-blog]

Love Me Tinder

Words To Live By: “I just wish I could start a relationship 12 years in. When you really don’t have to try anymore and you can just sit around and goof on TV shows and then go to bed without anybody trying any funny business”--Liz Lemon (Tina Fey), 30 Rock.

Reader, I have an embarrassing confession to make: I am over the age of 30 and still single. You might think this isn’t terribly shocking as far as secrets go. Once upon a time I may have agreed with you. That was before older people started constantly asking me, “When are you getting married?”

I grew up watching a healthy dose of NBC’s Must-See TV, featuring such gems as Suddenly Susan and Just Shoot Me. These two shows featured 30-something women trying to balance a crazy career while possibly looking for love. The premise may seem clichéd now but in 1998 it was…also clichéd. Still these shows were great for background noise, and they infused me with the subversive notion that somehow a 30-year-old woman could walk into a room and nobody would be offended by her lack of husband.

I will confess that questions about my marital status bother me. Naturally I should be bothered on feminist principle and all that jazz, and I am. I am also bothered because I honestly do wish to fall hopelessly, sickeningly in love and share a life of adventures with somebody who sees me as I am. We would know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, push each other to become the best versions of ourselves, and laugh at jokes only we can understand.

Most people go about finding love by dating, but my dating history is spotty at best. I could go into details both depressing and/or absurd but here is the rundown of my greatest hits:

I needed to break out of this cycle. I had tried online dating a little in the past, but this time I decided to dive deep. After all, if the internet could bring a custom-made Scarlet Witch headpiece right to my door why not a boyfriend? I set out on an epic quest to become a Tinderella. And guess what? I’m engaged!

Just kidding; I burnt out after six weeks of extreme dating. During this period I went out with four guys, which for me is the equivalent of trying to run the Boston marathon when your warm-up routine has been a coma. Still I learned some valuable lessons. Learn from my mistakes, readers, and godspeed.

DO: Choose a Good Profile Picture

One of the reasons I dragged my feet on joining Tinder is that I hate every photo of me ever taken. I therefore avoid cameras at all cost. “What am I doing?” I ask myself as I dodge behind the nearest potted plant. “How will I remember that I have a fun, enviable life?” I then leap out in front of the camera, contort my body into an unnatural posture never used in real life, and smile. My reward is yet another awkward photo of myself that I will destroy immediately. Wash, rinse, repeat for the next ten years.

Because the only way to get better at something is practice, I spent my summer learning the art of complete narcissism. Going to a play? Let me take a selfie. Someone’s having a party? Selfie time. Spending a relaxing day inside to avoid the heat? Selfie marathon! I took enough selfies to burn through my phone’s memory. One of my best friends got married in October and I used the opportunity of professional hair and make-up to snap roughly 800 pictures of myself and maybe two of the bride for good measure. This strategy worked though, because I now have a whole six of photos of myself I can show with pride neutrality.

This photo obsession may seem like overkill, but online dating profiles have no context. The bio section is short, and half the time people don’t fill it out. Therefore if a guy doesn’t smile in his photos I assume he doesn’t have a sense of humor. If he takes a shirtless pic in a place where he shouldn’t be shirtless I assume he is a douchebag. If he refuses to post any photos with his face I assume he will murder me, and nobody has time to deal with that.

DO: Fill Out the Bio

Just take 5 minutes. Give me something. This is a system set up for convenience; I don’t want to dig. Also saying, “Just ask” doesn’t count. You are not mysterious, or rebellious, or beyond labels. You are lazy. I, too, am lazy, so I understand the impulse, but one of us has to put in the effort so it may as well be you.

DO: Play It Safe

Tell your friends whenever you are going out with someone new. Not only is it useful in case they need to file a police report, but also fun. The highlight of meeting so many new people was brainstorming safety code phrases with my gal pals. One friend insisted on the word “Pikachu.” I can’t remember if that meant I was safe or in trouble; it doesn’t matter. From “banana hammock” to “crazytown” to “vanilla gorilla” anything works for this purpose. Granted if a guy sees you get or send a text during the date, odds are he knows the score but a code word gives you at least some sort of deniability. That way in case he grabs the phone out of your hand like a psycho you can claim it’s just an inside joke, and oh my God, what the Hell has dating come to in the 21st century?

DON’T: Set Your Expectations High

“The love of my life may be just a swipe away,” I told myself when I signed up for Tinder. This is technically true, but you know who else is just a swipe away? Every other guy in this city. The beauty of Tinder is that you can see just how much is out there. The downside is that most of it is hot garbage.

I don’t want to just rag on Tinder, though I could. They have a filter for age, a filter for distance, but they don’t let me set a filter for douchebags (again, those guys who think I’m impressed by their refusal to let shirts dampen the glory of their doughy physiques). However at least Tinder respects my filters. 

On the advice of a friend I also tried Coffee Meets Bagel, the site where she met her current boyfriend. While CMB seemed a bit more promising at first with its “select picks” it is rapidly disappointing me. I am 32 right now, and a very different person from when I was in my 20s. I told CMB I only wanted to date guys over the age of 30, but 75% of my picks are 29 or under. One time they selected a 28-year-old man for me that was clearly in his 50s. Between his gray goatee and his paunch he looked like Santa Claus with a mid-life crisis. Is that a fluke? Doubtful. Today the same thing happened, except this guy’s alternate pictures are all of Jesus. I think I’ll pass.

DON’T: Ignore Yellow Flags

Sure we all can recognize red flags when we see them, but what about yellow flags? I ended up falling hard for a guy who was funny and introspective. He loved to sing and act goofy, and being around him made brought out the light-hearted dreamer in me. He also ended up being a massive jerkwad.

He would schedule every date to be at or around his place. This part I was sort of okay with because I don’t want near-strangers knowing where I live, but it did mean I did all the driving. He tried to reschedule our first date so he could hang out with his friends that night, and did reschedule our second date. On said second date he had his phone out during dinner so he could play a Ghostbusters game. In my head half of me would say, “Whatever, we don’t know each other that well, plus you know he has ADHD. Nothing like being a high-maintenance bitch to drive men away.” The other half would say, “You came all this way, battled for downtown parking, worked your ass off to look cute for this date, let it be rescheduled, and he can’t even set his phone down for one minute? WTF?”

Yet somehow this guy emerged as the leader of the pack despite the fact that if I made a list of “Guys Who Displayed Basic Consideration For My Time” he would rank 3 out of 4. What can I say, the heart wants what it wants, and also I have terrible self-esteem and judgment. It came as a shock to absolutely no one that after our third and final date he sent me this text message:

Hmm, yes, “exhausting.” This was technically true, because I was exhausted. On the evening of our last date I bolted out of work at 5:00, drove home, took a shower, shaved my legs despite being on my period and knowing there would be no shenanigans that night, picked out an outfit, got dressed, decided that my outfit was too sexy for a night free of said shenanigans (I’m not cruel), put on a different outfit, looked around for my steampunk earrings because he mentioned he loved steampunk, did my make-up, and drove downtown to hang at his place at 7:00.

He got out of work late, fit in a workout, took a shower, and ordered pizza. Poor baby.  Poor me. I had thought of calling him on this BS multiple times but refrained because I didn’t want to scare him off. Now here we were a month later, him running away anyway and me peeved I had invested so much effort into a guy when I had seen from the start he wouldn’t do the same.

So here I am now, licking my wounds from this latest foray into dating. I won’t give up completely, but I have learned that I’m the kind of person that needs to take things slow. If that means I only date one person at a time, then I’m going to make damn sure that person is worth it. Will I go back to online dating? Maybe, although now when I check out Tinder or CMB instead of seeing possibilities all I see is a vast wasteland of strangers staring back at me. I’ll try again in the new year, but for now I’m back to my previous dating strategy of hoping to get hit on the head and ending up with a special kind of amnesia where I get transported into my favorite TV universes to romance the hot male leads. Sure Peter Stone has issues but at least he won’t constantly reschedule our steady date night on Thursdays at 9:00.

[hcafilm]

Unit 1 - Part C

Silver Arts Award Unit 1 Part C: review arts events

What event did you attend? I went to two event. The first place I went to was the London transport museum in Covent Garden. Here I went to an event: a tour of the museum in which I learnt about its history. I also went to the London Transport Museum’s Depot in Acton, on a tour which expanded on what we learnt in the Covent Garden Museum in terms of the different vehicles and designs present in its history and the characters who drove these buses, but also gave us new insight into what goes on with the Museum behind the scenes.

What did you see/do?

At both events I saw old London buses, as well as trains, trams and even carriages (horse-drawn and electric) from times gone by. I asked questions about interesting people such as Isambard Kingdom Brunel and collated information on him from the LTN. In Acton, we learnt about the first black female bus driver and how groundbreaking this was. We also learnt that women could not drive underground trains until 1973, which shocked female members of our group.

When did it take place?

I went in late June to both places and am continuing to visit them for filming work throughout early July. I went on a Saturday several times and will continue to do so until shooting stage in Holborn House later in July, which will be during the week. Both actual tours took about half a day each and were each on a saturday.

Describe what happens at the arts event

Jenna took us on a tour of the TFL museum in Covent Garden. I saw some artwork which really stuck out to me from a creative point of view.

I really enjoyed the TFL posters, the favourite of mine being an old poster for ZSL (the London Zoo). The advert was effective, as it had a drawing of penguins standing in an amusing pose yet at the same time vivid and life-like. This would mean that it appealed to both children and their parents at the same time and not only made this zoo look appealing, but also made TFL look like a fun, enjoyable and, perhaps most importantly, welcoming, transport service. It was not something you would expect to see on a poster for a transport network and thus certainly caught the viewer’s attention.

Another thing which appealed to me were the TFL signs. The signs are of course iconic, but all put together in a display case made me realise their artistic value, not only as individual works of art but also as a whole. We learnt how the signs were designed to be really unique: a special font was created in 1916 (known as the Johnston font) and the signs - except special variants - all consisted of the familiar TFL colours (red, white and blue - perhaps not coincidentally also the colours of the Union Jack) and were designed in the shape of famous Roundel logo of TFL. 

 Seeing all these together was almost overwhelming and showed just how many stations there are in London supported by TFL. It reminded of how big our city is and how much work would have to go into not only providing transport from station to station, but also providing beautiful logos for each station. I looked at all of these signs in their glass case and it was quite moving to see some of them, as they were relics of a bygone era in my city’s history.

We also got taken on a tour by Jenna of the TFL depot in Acton, in which we saw old maps used by the transport service. My favourite were the novelty maps, one of which was made out of lego and another which had different tube lines showing famous figures in history put into different (e.g. leaders of China). It was interesting to see the different colours and seating designs (textile) used for different old trains.

Museum:

(taken at the Depot but I saw a similar picture at the museum - I used this bigger image to avoid pixelation)

Depot:

Which art forms were involved?

We were artistically inspired by the way museum was laid out, as it felt like the interesting objects were each leading on to the next one, thus pulling us through the chronologically ordered museum. We  saw the design art form used in curating the museum, as well as the Moquette of TFL (textile design). We also saw the graphic design on old TFL maps, which inspired us in making our movie poster.

At the depot, what was used was textile and, like at the museum, curation was also important, as was transport design.

What was the context of the event? (e.g. was it part of large tour/a temporary exhibition/part of a film festival/an online event etc.)

It was part of a large tour of a permanent exhibition at TFL and was organised as part of our filmmaking project in association with TFL.

The depot tour was similarly part of the course we were doing and is normally only open to the public once a year.

Was there anything unexpected about what you saw/experienced?

Yes, I was surprised by how beautiful the designs of the various TFL signs (and map booklets) were and how much thought, creativity and love went into making them. I was also surprised by the various types of seats used in the trains, as not only would they be aesthetically pleasing for a film shot, but they were also designed to look beautiful and to provide comfort for passengers, perfected over decades (their design changed very music).

I was surprised to see how old buses could look like an art installation when all displayed together in their different colours (most were different shades of red, but one countryside bus stuck out with is magnificent dark green tint) - an amazing piece of curation. I was impressed also by the futuristic interior of a 1970s/80s train, which looked like a piece of art in itself.

What did you think was good and why?

I think the tour by TFL was good, as it let me understand the design aspects better and how they related to the history of London and TFL, which I would not have been able to work out on my own, as previously I had no idea about design or how something could connect so deeply to the people of London and they transport they used. The tour of both places was interesting and brought the old vehicles to life and made me imagine the sort of people who went on them.

I thought the colours of the seats was great, as the mixes of often reds and blues made these very old vehicles still come to life and would have made it a pleasant experience for the passengers.

Was there anything about the arts event you didn’t like ? Why?

I did not like that we did not get to link the design of the TFL logo, seats etc. more to how our films looked, as the design of these logos and vehicles was and is so beautiful that it would be a shame not to include these obvious sources of inspiration in our film-making process.

I did not like the fact that they did not have even older vehicles like very ancient horse-drawn carriages at the Depot, as I wanted to see a longer history from then till now, but it was still a great experience.

What was the creative impact of the event?

Seeing all the TFL signs together reminded me of the vastness of London, but it also reminded me how a transport network can create logos which not only serve a purpose but are also very beautiful. It also reminded me of the work that goes into TFL, not only in providing transporting but also of creating each of these logos and creating posters which can interest children and adults alike.

I have learnt that one must not forget the role of transport in making a city work. Transport functions beneath the surface (sometimes quite literally) and so those who use it can take it and maybe even its staff for granted, when in fact it has played a vital role in expanding London and creating the modern culture of our city.

I will take away with me the thought that transport can serve my local area and various modes of transport in all forms are highly beneficial to London. I will think of how hard the TFL staff work, as well those creative figures who worked on making the logos which are almost equally important in the transport service.

Did the event develop your knowledge and understanding of the art form(s)?

The first part of the event (museum tour) made me understand better the purpose of design in creating a positive public image of the transport service and made me see how graphics could be used to create appealing images to the public, which hadn’t really occurred to me before in the domain of public transport.

The second part of the event (Depot tour) made me see how transport design can be used to give new life to old vehicle and how curation can be used to show how vehicles improved over time without making any appear inferior to the other.

How will you share your review with other people, and how will you evidence this (e.g. photos, videos, feedback from others)?

I will include photos of the transport which I have taken and I will get feedback from other members of my group, as well as our advisors and the museum staff and I will upload all I have written, filmed and photographed etc. online on a blog run by the HCA and used by our group.