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herstarburststories · 4 years ago

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He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination - supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that? Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

#dean winchester #dean's birthday #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester's birthday #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines

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airlock · 4 years ago

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so, while I believe I’ve made my stance reasonably clear wrt defending edelgard, I also rapidly find myself annoyed by the slice of the Fire Emblem Three Houses fandom which is bent on swinging that pendulum the other way and accrediting her character far below all proper merits. perhaps it’s high time I dedicate that concentrated manic/spiteful energy to another long analytical text post

thus, the topic of today’s blathering on this blog shall be this: the ending of Crimson Flower, the frequent interpretations on the ways it’d secretly suck for everyone, and, without claiming that it wouldn’t suck (because it would), which of these interpretations simply don’t hold up to less motivated scrutinity

-Thesis: Edelgard can’t/won’t actually purge Such Individuals Who Carry A Snakelike Stride To Negotiate Spaces That Are Void Of Light

one of Edelgard’s most notorious points of discussion is her alliance with Fódlan’s baddest, flattest dudes. more charitable readings register it as either a means of playing her enemies against each other, or as a matter she initially has little say over, but can overturn by building up her power base. less charitable readings may register all of Edelgard’s reservations about the alliance as mere theatre -- includingly when she’s not addressing anyone other than them, apparently -- or cast suspicion on the idea that she really did sever her ties with them in the postgame, being that this crucial event is relegated to offscreen and acknowledged only in the epilogue text, which, on all routes, is notoriously difficult to take at face value

the matter with the former is that, just because Edelgard isn’t always honest with her allies, some of the fandom has gotten obssessed with this idea that anything that comes out of her mouth is passible of decanonization, as though one can only ever be 100% honest all the time or a pathological liar. sometimes Hubert also gets hit with some of it, including colorful theories that he’s secretly working with agartha on a deeper level than Edelgard and ultimately intends to usurp her for the ultimate evulz. it’s almost as if one’s not engaging with the same characters at all anymore. but hey, if we must deal in characterization absolutes, let’s go with this: Edelgard and Hubert are both very pragmatic characters -- why, then, produce so much blatantly unecessary theatre? like, there’s an entire paralogue dedicated to Hubert sowing the seeds of a future St. Patrickening; going through so much more trouble than they’re getting worth isn’t how these two operate

the latter issue will give us a little more to chew on, though, because there have been a variety of arguments made to sustain the idea that, despite the epilogue text, Edelgard cannot or will not hunt down the Dudes Who Do The Worm At The Club once the chips are down. a popular one is that Edelgard wouldn’t have enough resources at her disposal to pursue that purge due to having a fucktonne of fresh annexations to deal with; another frequent customer roots itself in archetypal allusions, arguing that, as Edelgard is a blatant second coming of Arvis from Genealogy of the Holy War, her regime should be expected to be headed for the same ignobile end

on the matter of whether Edelgard can wipe out agartha, I’m moved to ask: are the people who push this angle forgetting everything we do see onscreen of agartha? in VM and SS, one month is all it takes between realizing they exist and ending them; in AM, they’re smothered into dust as unintentionally as Dimitri destroys every sewing needle he picks up, largely because Thales somehow figured it was a good idea to stand squarely between the two factions he’d been trying to play against each other.

these guys are jobbers. they’re some of the most weaksauce major villains in the history of Fire Emblem. furthermore, CF concludes with them down several key members and stuck on the endlag of their nukes, which also tipped Hubert off to the location of Shambhala, because I guess it was that important to throw a nuclear tantrum over Cornelia. why would Edelgard be the only one of the three lords who supposedly can’t vamoose these dudes with a sneeze? is it just because she’s the only one who didn’t do it onscreen? and because offscreening it alerts us more readily to what a risible anticlimax the whole thing is, I guess?

as for archetypes -- it’s entirely correct to claim that Edelgard draws heavily from Arvis, and her tentative allies, from the less completely incompetent (but still really poorly written) loptyrous cultists. it’s also correct to claim that the secret spotlight-stealing squad of doom outplayed Arvis and took over his government. still, what sort of logic is this, where an archetypal resonance means everything will play out the exact same way? Perceval is heavily based on Camus and his other imitators, but you can recruit that dude. Jill is heavily based on Minerva and her other imitators, but she can defect back to nation she’d left, if the player is sufficiently incautious. there’s absolutely nothing to obligate Edelgard to follow the same script as her predecessor, least of all to such a point it’d contradict existing canon

(sometimes the ending tapestry also plays into this, because it features a dark bishop behind the crowd, carrying a dagger behind his back. supposedly, he’s threatening the crowd to stay in line. with the dagger that he’s not holding to them. please, rub those last two brain cells together and figure out who that guy is probably trying to kill in that tapestry.)

-Thesis: Dimitri has a secret unidentified heir who’s going to become the new Seliph and make Edelgard his Arvis properly

in a cutscene in ch17, Dimitri tells Rhea that he’s not too worried about getting himself into a straight deathmatch with Edelgard, because even if that ends poorly for him (as it does), there’s another who will carry on the Blaiddyd bloodline in his stead. the fandom has been scrambling for a while now to figure out just who the hell he’s referring to when he says as much

playing off the whole thing with how Edelgard surely must be a carbon copy of Arvis on all aspects, an ascending theory is that Dimitri went and spawned a secret offscreen baby, who will grow up to become Seliph 2.0, and thus, the blade on which Edelgard’s empire ends

the thing is, Dimitri did not spawn a secret offscreen baby. lo, by the combined forces of occam’s razor and conservation of detail, I give you the true identity of the secret remaining Blaidyyd: it’s just Rufus

remember Rufus? Lambert’s brother, was regent when Dimitri wasn’t old enough to be king, wasn’t much of any good at it? you may have written him off because he was murdered in AM, VW, and SS. you know who else was murdered in AM, VW and SS, but not CF? one of Dimitri’s eyes. and that’s not just a crack at Dimitri, either! the reason why he gets to keep both eyes in CF is because the coup d’etat that nearly killed him -- and did fully kill Rufus -- never came to be.

(sidebar -- canon implies that this difference occours because Byleth cast the elusive Summon Conscience spell on Edelgard; I’d say there’s a much more reasonable reading in that, with Rhea alive and relocated to the Kingdom, wiping out the royal family is a lot of trouble just to give her a pretext with which to rule the roost herself. still, see, we can interpret that reasonably without creating another stupid ass Edelgard Totally Lied spot!)

now, I do have to concede that Rufus isn’t explicitly confirmed to be the remaining Blaidyyd that Dimitri was referring to, and it’s also not totally impossible for Seliph 2.0 to be the product of Rufus’s grand royal womanizing. it’s just, at this point, the supposedly clear-cut archetypal resonance is now nothing more than unsubstantiated fanon direly clinging to that last cliff of technically being possible

-Thesis: Almyra will sweep into the wartorn Empire and crush it like a bug

maybe, if they did, we’d finally learn anything canon about them at all-

but see, that throwaway joke is a fantastic starting point. whenever almyra gets brought up in terms of FE16 endings, it seems to be under this unspoken agreement that they’re able, willing, and intent on unleashing a colossal invasion of Fódlan, effective soon enough to take advantage of the depleted and unstable society left in the continent at the game’s end.

why should we start from that assumption, though? it’s not rooted on anything other than the fact that Almyra at one point in the past was all of able, willing and intent on unleashing an invasion of Fódlan that was fierce enough to force international cooperation. what little we’re told of Almyra at the time of the game consistently indicates that this is no longer the case.

in CF alone, Almyra does attack, twice: once as Claude’s reinforcements, and then again when the usual noncomittal border raid meets the new leadership. Edelgard’s forces trounces them both times. note how that’s just Edelgard’s forces, too, and not the continental coalition that was previously required. but that should figure, shouldn’t it? after all, after the Locket was built, Leicester alone kept any new Almyran offensives from getting that serious. and Claude himself points out to Lorenz, in their supports, that Almyran raids dropped a lot in frequency around the time of the game; that may be just pre-timeskip, but all in all, the increasingly clear picture is that, even if Fódlan stirs itself for a bunch of years, Almyra doesn’t seem to be able, willing, and intent on squeezing that opportunity for another major invasion.

sometimes, the centerpin of this theorama is Claude, and specifically, his fate in Deirdriu. supposedly, there’s a catch-22: if he survives, he’s taking his ambitions and schemes back to Almyra in order to come back to Fódlan a few years later with a vengeance, and if he dies, the vengeance will instead come from his grieving parents. now, I know that correctly interpreting Claude’s character isn’t really in vogue yet, but both of those scenarios fundamentally misunderstand him, his development, and his circumstances.

let’s say he survives -- would he be eager to come back with an army behind his back? he might have all of his ambitions, but he’s a guy who rarely holds grudges, loves being alive, and just found out he doesn’t like war very much at all. and let’s say he dies -- sure, his parents aren’t going to like it, but is that all it takes? think back to Claude’s backstory, and to the amount of people who tried to kill him; didn’t these people just finally get what they wanted?

in fact, if Edelgard wants Claude -- and/or his parents -- off her back, accomplishing such is possibly just as simple as entreating with their enemies inside the country. remember, the paralogue where she fights off an Almyran charge also ends with her expressing a desire to reach across the Throat diplomatically, where previous authorities of Fódlan failed to do so because of their strict adherence to xenophobic dogmas. chalk that up to Edelgard’s naïveté or overconfidence all you might want; the long and narrow of it is that the possibility of exploiting inner Almyran politics to Fódlan’s favor is new ground that she breaks by herself.

of course, when it comes down to it, she might not even have to do any such heavy lifting, because it’s just not a given that Claude and/or his parents would be able to enact this vengeance that’s being expected of them, or would even want such a thing. this is, in fact, the breaking point of a lot of other smaller theses about someone who would hypothetically raise the flag of revenge against Edelgard’s regime. y’see...

-Thesis: any number of polities in Fódlan will never accept being violently subjugated by Edelgard

over the course of Edelgard’s march, a bunch of people die, and a bunch of territories get conquered. any number of the families that lose something in the process will then be assumed by fans to be plotting to retaliate against Edelgard for it. this, despite that the exact opposite of it happens over and over again in canon.

and do note, I’m not even just talking about CF. on all of the other routes, you spend a significant amount of the post-timeskip fighting your own country-of-choice’s forces, because a whole bunch of Fódlan folded to Edelgard without a second thought and another whole bunch is just going to stay on the fence unless you demonstrate enough force to draw them to your side.

in the Alliance, about half of all the most influential families side with Edelgard immediately, to the point of being willing to fight the other families over it. furthermore, it seems that Goneril, one of the families that isn’t a part of this pro-imperial bloc, often gets cast as as a focus of post-CF imperial opposition, because they’re very protective of their baby girl who probably died in the war -- nevermind that they don’t seem to be at all uncomfortable with asking for their dutiful new overlords to take care of the Locket while Holst is having another sick/poisoned fit. as it turns out, Hilda can keep her responsibility for choosing to give her life in that battle (against explicit orders, even), and warrior families can get over the fact that war gets people killed sometimes

the Kingdom is the same story; an entire territorial half of it will fold to the Empire on all routes. outside of CF, this requires a little coup, but if none of the western lords ever stood up to Cornelia, what would make them any sort of eager to stand up to Edelgard? hell, AM shows us Annette’s uncle having to give up his own life just so Cornelia doesn’t so much as get the impression that he’s colluding with Dimitri. and then, in CF, there’s no coup, but that same half of the Kingdom flips like a yugioh card as soon as Edelgard gets past Arianrhod, despite that the Kingdom, with the church’s help, is still exhibiting roughly enough military strength to keep pushing the Empire back.

in case you missed it, that’s Edelgard’s whole strategy: she tries to take the fight straight to the people who would never surrender to her -- because once she’s dealt with those, then everyone else surrenders. most of the authority in Fódlan is held by scattered people who put their own individual interests first, and happily base the side of the war that they support only on where they see the best odds of not getting killed, as opposed to any manner of loyalty or loftier value. this aspect of Fódlan gets called out a lot in the game, too

regardless, though, it sounds like there’s a lot of the fandom that’s still constantly projecting a specific type of loyalty onto these people. some sort of devotion to king and country, an appeal to a sovereignity which none of these countries, not even the Empire, probably really have. most of the nobles in Fódlan don’t actually give a flying shit what government they’re currently operating under, and haven’t given one since Adrestia was whole. even the ostensibly tidy three little country arrangement that we’re presented at the onset of the game is actually historically recent.

(fun fact: did you know that, when Leicester first became its own thing, Faerghus was also two separate countries? those two got back together, but Leicester decided not to get back together with them and they made a whole war about it. I feel like that’s a little less than the stark sense of nationality that folks keep projecting on these territories)

so yeah -- there are still lots of fair accusations to make of whether Edelgard’s regime would be a good thing, and whether it would survive. but here’s some that ought to be discarded, at least for those of us who aren’t in the edelhating bubble

#my stupid text posts #Fire Emblem is tagged in this post #Fódlan FE is tagged in this post #I spent too long polishing this post; praying it's not too late to enrage people

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magziraphale · 5 years ago

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Somehow, while searching for some Good Omens images, I came across an absolute howler of a review article (It’s the Catholic Herald. Thought to myself ‘well, this’ll be good for a laugh’. And it sort of was and also sort of made my blood boil when I realised that the person writing it is a professor of English. One with apparently zero critical thinking skills.)

Here are some *deep thoughts* brought to us by this paragon of theology:

“Somehow, they must bring an end to … the End. Actually, Crowley has no intention of doing anything of the kind because he figures the devils can win, but Aziraphale, being a first-class nincompoop, swallows the story pitchfork, line and sinker.”

WERE YOU PAYING THE REMOTEST ATTENTION? Yes, Crowley wants Hell to win so much he offs one of them in holy water. Jesus H.

“Michael Sheen’s Aziraphale seems too dense and simpering, but one gets used to him; he is, after all, a gay angel. As for Gaiman’s travesty of eschatology, best to take it as just another excrescence of trendy atheism: stupid and ultimately risible.”

1. Well hello homophobia. I’m so surprised. As the Great Sheen himself would say, you are welcome to very fuck off.

2. ‘Travesty of eschatology’ is absolute excrement, which you would know if, perhaps, you picked up some books on theology, eschatology and philosophy not written by your buddies in the last 50 years. Playful, very, but this story has an engagement with ideas of free will, good and evil, creation and the end times that humanity has been playing about with for millennia.

#AM I RANTING? YES I'M RANTING #it's been that kind of day #good omens #the part i can't believe most is that he actually thinks crowley is playing aziraphale for a fool #like anyone with the barest of comprehension can see otherwise just from a narrative point of view #tw: homophobia #and other bullshit

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shadowdianne · 6 years ago

Note

If you're still doing prompts, could we have one of them running away from their wedding for any reason and then talking it out afterwards?

You could! ;) Thanks for the prompt! I hope you like it

And sorry for the wait; july and august had been an interesting couple of months with little internet on my part…

Her hands shook as she looked to the scribbled paper, back hurting asshe tried to sit up straighter on the floor, back resting on the side of thebed. The words on the paper were blurry to her eyes but it didn’t matter as sheknew them by heart.

Lips trembling with soft sobs, she muttered the first few words, theblack ink forming squiggly lines that mocked her as the silent room filled withthe sound of her voice, unnaturally loud to her ears despite her soft tone.

“I think I fell in love with youlittle by little. In a way that I didn’t realize at first; a warm feeling that….”

Stopping, words getting trapped between her tongue and teeth, Emmaclutched the piece of paper and sighed, shoulders sagging and trembling as shetried to keep herself going. It was no use, however, as the same wave of shamethat had been pulsing through her veins ever since close to an hour ago asphyxiatedthem.

Lies, she thought, looking beyond the paper, beyond the fabric pooledaround her ankles and feet. Lies since she couldn’t go through them, throughthe feelings she had wanted to express a month ago, when she had sat withHenry, nervous, expectant, trembling, and had tried to come up with somethingthat would be at least a fraction of what she knew Regina’s vows would be.

Lies since there she was, hiding in a room that she didn’t feel likehers anymore as she had run from the wedding, away from a smiling Regina sofull of trust and love she felt nauseous even now. Lies because, at the end,she was a coward.

Savior. She struggled to keep herself at bay as she thought again on thetitle she still got to hear from time to time from the citizens of Storybrooke,the ones who knew who she was, the ones that hadn’t appeared after the merge.Hero.

Some hero she was, she thought putting the paper away, remembering thatvery same morning in where both Regina and herself had looked at each other andhad kissed before going to finish the last details on the celebration; nerveseating their stomachs and a promise to get a time for themselves after thewhole wedding was over hanging from their lips.

Deranged perhaps, stupid definetely, unworthy probably..

She had tried to walk down the aisle, created by fairies and sorceress,under the eyes of hundreds. She had tried to do it but, ultimately, she had runwhile letting her magic speed up her steps, a cloud of dirty-white hued magicforming vague footsteps on the ground below.

Divorced.

That was a third name she had heard ever since Snow had started to telleveryone how, in fact, a wedding was going to take place. Divorced andconfused.

She hadn’t written vows, not really, for her previous wedding. Theceremony itself feeling a tie strong enough between him and the woman she hadmorphed into in order to create what everyone told her she needed to create; toaccept. She hadn’t had a thing to say to be honest, words feeling difficult andheavy as she tried to navigate through them.

However, the words on this one were powerful, complicated, intricateand, as such, as she had been looking at herself on an unenchanted mirror, shehad felt a fear that had always been with her, a fear that had always been hercompanion.

The fear of, again, not being enough. Enough for the ones who had cometo the wedding, the ones who saw her as an anomaly, as the product of truelove, as a mere story Storybrooke had once had. As a part of a prophecy writtenwithout names. Enough for her family, the one she had changed the day she hadtaken off the ring that felt more of a heavy stone than an everlasting comfort.Enough for the woman who kissed like fire and battled with the same passion.The woman she had been in love with for so long it was almost risible how much.The woman who had trusted her again and again for her to give her her back: blind,stupid and afraid.

She couldn’t be the woman they wanted her to be. She was no Hero, noSavior, no Emma. She was a coward, a divorced woman who had almost destroyedherself to the point in where her very own shadow felt shaky under the paleafternoon sunrays that filtered through the closed windows of the room.

She had bolted; wanting to run far away, cry and explode with everyheartbeat, magic bristling and crackling inside of her.

Covering her eyes with the palms of her hands, she almost didn’t hearthe soft knocks on the parted door of the room but, eventually, she felt thetelling gentle waves of a magic she wouldn’t mistake for anyone else’s.

“It’s open.” She mumbled, throat raw and nose blocked.

“That doesn’t mean I can enter.”

Regina’s tone was gentle, and its softness made Emma sob as she turned,looking just from above the mattress, eyes red as she looked into the brunette’sstill wedding-dress-clothed form.

Eyes red herself, Regina seemed tired and sad and yet not angry.

“I’m a horrible person.”

The sentence came out in a jumbled way, vowels missing and consonantsbarely making through. Regina, however, seemed to understand her as she sighedand entered into the room, wave after wave of gentle purple mist following herfor a second before dissipating.

Sitting next to her, Regina hold one finger up as Emma opened her mouth,ready to ask her to stop ruining her dress; the one that made her look evenmore gorgeous than usual, the one that was, as just the wedding was, fit for aQueen.

“Don’t.” The brunette’s voice had enough brashness to make Emma nodmeekly, not really knowing what to say.

At the silence that ensued, Regina sighed and picked up the paper of thevows, hand trembling as she glanced at them. Closing her eyes, she let magicreturn in the form of sparks around her, tinting the air.

“I was mad.” She admitted, eyes still closed. “I didn’t… I didn’t knowwhat to do. Henry was the one who told me to talk to you.”

Despite everything, Emma laughed softly, a dry chuckle that made herribs expand uncomfortably on the snug fabric that covered her. It didn’t matterhow old that kid was; he never lost a chance to meddle.

Perhaps, she thought, putting her forehead against her hands, fingerspressed into her flesh, she owned him something. To both him and Regina.

Voice wobbly, she spoke, not once looking at Regina, not knowing if shewould be able to answer if she did.

“I felt that, everything was going too fast, that everyone else wasgoing too fast. Looking at us, at you, at me; trying to write us in anarrative, in a book, trying to put is in the last page of a story; a Happyending and nothing else beyond that. I felt that we were rushing into it, withtitles and dances and… I felt paralyzed. I want to be worthy to you, Regina, toour family. But I didn’t feel worthy, just a fraud.”

Silence filled the room, its weight growing until Emma couldn’t breathe.

“I love you. I always will, Regina. We have been through far too muchfor me to deny that. But I don’t know if I can do this; be this. I just want usto be us.”

The last sentence floated slowly upwards, to a point where Emma couldn’tsense it anymore as she felt more and more like a child asking to keep playingon a game they shouldn’t be playing; about to get discovered, about to getpunished.

Instead, all she heard was a sigh as she felt strong hands around hers,pulling them away.

“Idiot.”

Regina’s eyes shone as Emma glanced up, lips parted and throat seizing.

Kneeling now in front of her, Regina glanced at their hands and spoke,voice shaky.

“I want an ‘us’ too. No matter if we have a ring or not that says so.You should know that.”

Sobbing, Emma nodded blindly as Regina hugged her, tighter enough thatshe was able to feel the steady beat of her power molding to hers, patientlywaiting; strong and raw.

“I’m sorry.” She muttered, faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She heard, a kiss dropped on the crown of her head. “I knowEmma.”

#swan queen #prompt #swanqueen #anon

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claudehenrion · 6 years ago

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Après ''Les Gilets, saison XIII'' : dans quel mur allons-nous nous fracasser ?

Mais comment font tant d'hommes (ce blog utilisant la langue française, ce mot générique englobe toutes les femmes...) pour adopter une attitude optimiste devant les drames --le seul mot qui convient-- qui nous assaillent de toute part. Je lis, ici ou là, des opinions de gens qui mériteraient peut-être le respect mais qui déconnent à qui mieux mieux, dans l'état de déliquescence de la France. J'ai beau passer mes jours et mes nuits (souvent) à disséquer l'actualité, je ne vois pas une seule raison d'avoir le plus petit optimisme, ni pour monde, ni, surtout, pour la France.

La situation de notre pays se résume à un face à face tragi-comique : d'un côté un pouvoir arrogant et confit dans un mauvais autisme (NDLR : ''l’autisme est un trouble psychique qui est caractérisé par des difficultés de communication et d'apprentissage social entraînant des comportements dits stéréotypés et des obstinations exagérées’’). A l’image de tel grand dadais têtu, nos autistes à nous ‘’assument’’ leur incapacité à comprendre ce qui va contre leurs entêtements. Et face à ça, des groupes de bons français qui sont réellement désespérés... mais chacun pour des raisons totalement différentes de celles de son voisin. Ils se soudent, pour résister à la folie technocratique, en un ''non-mouvement'' dont la force tient dans leur impossibilité à structurer quoi que ce soit... ce qui est leur plus grande faiblesse. Malheureusement, le résultat est catastrophique : ici, un gamin têtu qui trouve que ça fait viril de répéter ''je ne lâcherai RRien'' (sans ''rrien'' mettre derrière ce ''RRien’’ , ce qui est un comble : son RRien n'est … rrien !), et là, des bandes d'immatures qui croient que ça fait intelligent de psalmodier ''on ira jusqu'au bout'', sans savoir au bout de quoi : si eux sont à bout, leur bout n'a pas de bout !

Depuis 13 semaines, le même scénario se reproduit samedi après samedi, presque à l'identique : seul le nom des rues change parfois ! On pourrait passer en boucle sur les radios et les chaînes d 'info en continu... les reportages d'il y a 3, ou 7, ou 12 samedis, avec les mêmes commentaires complètement décalés par rapport au réel, avec les mêmes insultes et les mensonges de Castaner qui ne sait que jeter de l'huile sur le feu (décidément, ce type est encore plus nul que ce qu'on redoutait , à sa nomination !), avec les mêmes sous-évaluations ridicules du nombre de manifestants (dans ses raisonnements primaires, Castaner s’imagine que s'il en annonce de moins en moins, ils seront vraiment de moins en moins !) Une telle attitude se nomme, en français,''se cacher la tête dans le sable comme une autruche'' (ce qu'aucune autruche digne de ce nom n'envisagerait de faire, évidemment... Mais que Castaner, lui, a érigé en ''sa seule activité 24/24 et 7/7′’ !)

Jusqu'à quand cette confrontation sans dialogue peut-elle durer ? Personne ne peut exclure qu’un scénario ne perdure jusqu'à la fin du quinquennat, mais personne, non plus, ne peut garantir que, tout d'un coup, il ne va pas évoluer en scénario-catastrophe : il peut suffire (c’est un exemple, pas une fake news !) d'une ''simple'' grenade, qui va être réputée inoffensive pour les députés de ''en Marche'', mais qui est évidemment ravageuse pour ceux qui y laissent une main ou un œil !). Les lecteurs de ce Blog savent bien que des groupes de braves gens se transforment vite en foule d'émeutiers en furie : nous avions longuement parlé des réactions des foules, à propos de la pensée lumineuse de Gustave Lebon... que Macron et les autres nuls qui forment sa garde rapprochée feraient bien de découvrir... et surtout de lire en essayant de comprendre ce que cela veut dire !

Les lignes de force qui sous-tendent ''les gilets jaunes'' sont faciles à déchiffrer. D'abord, c'est un ''non-mouvement'', ce qui n'est pas facile à comprendre pour ces amateurs sans la moindre expérience qui croient qu'ils dirigent le pays ! Ensuite, quoi qu'ils disent ou qu'on leur fait dire, ils ont un seul message, simple, clair, justifié : ''On en a marre''. Rien d'autre ! Il aurait suffi que nos autistes multi-diplômés aient un comportement... simplement intelligent, pour que tout rentre dans l'ordre en 48 heures. Mais les faux-intellectuels/vrais technocrates que nous avons élus pour notre malheur, ne se sont même pas rendu compte qu'en massacrant sans pitié tout propriétaire de voiture, ils l'empêchaient, simplement, non pas de ''se déplacer'', comme l'imaginent ces super-nuls dans leur bulle, mais de vivre, de travailler, de faire ses courses, d'accompagner ses enfants à l’école... Nos énarques myopes et sourds ont scientifiquement fabriqué une révolte des automobilistes... sur laquelle sont venus se brancher, plus tard, des tas de mécontentements dont l'accumulation était devenue intolérable, mais qui ont eu besoin d'un ''facteur déclencheur'' pour exploser. Nous en sommes là.

Or pour arrêter une révolte d'automobilistes humiliés et que l’on a réduits à l’état d'exsanguination fiscale, il fallait une réponse à des automobilistes, et rien d'autre. En novembre, il suffisait de prononcer 4 phrases : (1)- On annule le stupide ''80km/h'', tout de suite et sans condition, ainsi que toutes les procédures en cours sur ce sujet... (2) -On divise par 2 toutes les taxes honteuses qui frappent l'essence, le diesel, les péages, les assurances et sur tout ce qui, de près ou de loin, touche à l'automobile (je dis bien : ''les taxes'', pas les prix : elles sont si exagérées qu'aucune autre mesure n'est nécessaire !) ...(3)- on divise par deux le nombre des radars, on s'engage à ne pas leur ajouter des vices supplémentaires, et on crée des portes de ''sortie'' contre l'indéfendable ''sacralité'' des procédures actuelles... (4)- on s'engage à arrêter d'emmerder les français avec les insupportables contraintes soi-disant écologicoïdes, cette marotte létale des quelques naïfs qui croient tout ce que leur racontent les prophètes de malheur du Giec et des lobbies pro-éolien : le fait que la planète traverse sans doute une ère de réchauffement n'est pas une raison pour la rendre invivable à ses habitants !

Au lieu de réagir intelligemment, nos lumières éteintes ont laissé pourrir la situation, et ont donc abandonné l'asphalte à tous les mal-intentionnés de tout bord. Chacun a donc ''instillé'' chez ces braves gens sa petite idée perverse à lui, idiote et condamnée à l'échec... Mais le mal était fait : la Presse, jamais en retard d'une idéologie périmée, a emboîté le pas, ''priorisant'' ce qui devait ne pas l'être (le Ric, l'ISF, la ''justice sociale'', les ''niches'' etc… bref tout ce le vieux vocabulaire de Gauche et les fantasmes des cocos, trotsko, socialos, fémino-lgbt, faux écolos, progressistes périmés et autres... cette caste de journaleux qui refuse de voir à quel point elle est détestée... La situation est totalement ''indé-chosable'', cqfd.

Le pouvoir, là comme ailleurs, a fait exactement ce qu'il ne fallait pas et a répondu complètement à côté : 10 milliards d'anticipation sur des mesures qui avaient déjà été décidées pour plus tard.. et, pire encore, d'interminables séances de bla-bla qui vont toucher, in fine, infiniment moins de citoyens qu'un seul samedi de manifs (même avec les sous-évaluations risibles du Ministère de l'intérieur, à ceci près que personne ne croit un mot de ce qui sort de cette usine à bobards)..

Le dialogue entre ces deux protagonistes que tout sépare et que rien ne rapproche serait comique s'il n'était pas dramatique. Mais... si un groupe dit : ''on est contre votre notion de l'ordre'' et on va donc manifester sans savoir, nous-mêmes, ni où et ni quand'', et si un autre lui répond : ''Nous ne tolérerons que les manifestations qui auront été déclarées en Préfecture (procédure n°A335b du 12 brumaire de l'an IV)''... il se passe quoi, samedi prochain ? Et dans 2 mois ?

Aujourd'hui, après 13 longues semaines de semi-révolutions épisodiques, de destructions, de chiffres d'affaires en berne, de fatigue des uns et de frustration des autres, il n'est plus possible de voir une sortie à ce tunnel... Il en existe, pourtant, mais dans des mesures que Macron, avec son orgueil devenu hors de saison, refuse : dissolution de la Chambre, changement de gouvernement... et peut-être une forme édulcorée de référendum. Mais attention ! ''Si tu y mets la patte, chantait la bergère à son chaton, tu auras du bâton..''. Vous me direz qu'au point où il en est, et dont il refuse de voir la gravité, le bâton serait sans doute un moindre mal ! Ces solutions simples mais qui paraissent (bien sûr) pires que le mal pour ses ultimes partisans (retombés aux 19 % du 1er tour !), ne sont pas impossibles : elles s'inscrivent dans une suite logique au grand mensonge et à l'immense malentendu qu'a été son élection. Mais ceci est une autre histoire pour un autre ‘’billet’’....

H-Cl.

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utopiedujour · 6 years ago

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La Quinzaine Littéraire, N° 1206, « TU AURAS CESSÉ DE GAGNER TON PAIN À LA SUEUR DE TON FRONT », le 16 décembre 2018

Ouvert aux commentaires.

La seconde de mes chroniques mensuelles pour

« Tu auras cessé de gagner ton pain à la sueur de ton front » :

« Player Piano », le premier roman de l’auteur américain Kurt Vonnegut Jr. fut publié par Scribner en 1952. Étiqueté « science-fiction » par la critique maigrelette qu’il suscita à sa parution (« Je parle bien d’aujourd’hui », s’insurgea alors l’auteur), l’ouvrage se vendit mal.

La renommée ne viendrait à Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007) que dix-sept ans plus tard, en 1969, quand Slaughterhouse 5 or the Children’s Crusade serait, lui, un succès de librairie assurant la gloire de son auteur. Vonnegut rapporte là, sur le mode du désarroi et dans le style de la dérision, son aventure de prisonnier de guerre américain, capturé lors de la bataille des Ardennes en décembre 1944 et ne survivant au bombardement de Dresde, où il a été emmené, que pour s’être enfermé parmi les carcasses dans une chambre froide, au troisième sous-sol d’un abattoir. Le livre était porteur du message pacifiste qu’attendait l’Amérique, tout spécialement sa jeunesse écœurée par la guerre menée en son nom en Asie et dont elle était à la fois le bras armé et la victime sacrificielle.

Si le titre de cet ouvrage fut traduit, conformément à l’usage, en Abattoir 5 ou la Croisade des enfants, Player Piano subit, vingt-trois ans après sa publication, l’avanie d’être appelé Le Pianiste déchaîné. Incongruité inexplicable – car il n’est question nulle part dans le roman d’un pianiste, a fortiori déchaîné – due sans doute à une confusion dans le chef de la traductrice entre « piano player », ce qui veut dire « pianiste », et « player piano », le nom en anglais du « piano mécanique ».

Cet automate réjouissant apparaît bien dans le roman en tant que symbole même du monde nouveau décrit par Vonnegut et dont il entend dévoiler la nature cachée aux yeux éberlués de lecteurs au nez toujours chaussé de lunettes aux verres devenus déformants, car reliques d’un autre âge.

La scène se déroule dans un bar où s’encanaille le héros du roman, Paul Proteus, transgressant par sa présence en ces lieux la séparation implicite mais devenue irréversible entre ceux qui ont été irrémédiablement remplacés par la machine et ceux qui travaillent encore au titre de ses servants : ses instructeurs et superviseurs.

Bien que Proteus soit l’un des ultimes barons d’un univers quasi entièrement mécanisé, adepte attardé de l’antique fierté de l’ouvrage bien faite, son cœur continue de « battre à gauche ». Il ne peut ainsi s’empêcher de se frotter aux travailleurs de jadis, devenus des désœuvrés sans lendemain.

Au moment où le projecteur se tourne vers le piano mécanique, Proteus, accoudé au comptoir, vient d’être reconnu par un vieux de la vieille qui l’apostrophe et qui oscille entre l’admiration qu’il porte à un vainqueur du nouveau monde automatisé et le ressentiment qu’il éprouve envers un complice de l’avènement d’une société fracturée en deux secteurs désormais séparés par un gouffre. Le vieux s’avisant de quémander du boulot pour l’un de ses fils, Proteus, dans ses petits souliers, improvise, cherchant désespérément une voie de sortie :

« “Il devrait peut-être se faire dépanneur.”

L’homme fit entendre un râle. Découragé, il se tassa. “Du dépannage. Entreprise de dépannage, soupira-t-il, combien de boîtes de dépannage une ville comme la nôtre peut-elle compter, hein ? Une boîte de dépannage, mais oui, pourquoi pas ? J’allais en ouvrir une quand on m’a viré. Et Joe aussi allait en ouvrir une, et Sam, et Alf, lui aussi. Nous nous débrouillons bien tous avec nos mains, et c’est pour ça que nous ouvrirons des boîtes de dépannage. Un réparateur par ustensile cassé dans la ville. Et pendant ce temps-là, nos femmes deviendront couturières : une couturière par femme dans notre ville.” »

Sur quoi le vieillard se dirige vers le piano mécanique qui se trouve là et, glissant une pièce dans la fente, il dit : « De la musique ! » Et commentant la manière dont les touches se meuvent d’elles-mêmes : « Regardez ! regardez ces deux-là qui montent et qui descendent, Docteur ! Juste comme si un type mettait son doigt. Regardez comme elles bougent ! »

Et, la musique s’étant tue : « Ça vous donne la chair de poule, pas vrai, Docteur ? de voir ces touches qui montent et qui descendent ? C’est presque comme si on devinait là un fantôme jouant de tout son cœur ! »

Ce thème des salariés d’autrefois, désormais laissés pour compte, sera repris dans les livres que Vonnegut écrira par la suite sous la forme générique du mépris qu’éprouvent ceux qui travaillent pour ceux qui ne le font pas ou qui ont cessé de le faire. Du moins quand ces derniers sont pauvres, le riche oisif ayant toujours suscité – sauf en de rares époques d’esprit rebelle – l’admiration respectueuse. Vonnegut offrira à ce mépris une ascendance inattendue pour nous qui ne sommes pas du Nouveau Monde : ce serait celui qu’éprouve le travailleur libre envers le travailleur asservi, dont la protestation devant son sort se manifeste par la résistance passive, la volonté d’en faire le moins possible : l’esclave enlevé autrefois de sa patrie, l’Afrique. « La terreur, la culpabilité et la haine que ressentent les Blancs pour les descendants des victimes d’un crime incroyable que nous avons commis il n’y a pas si longtemps : l’esclavage humain », dira-t-il lors d’un entretien en 1973.

Anthropologue de formation, Vonnegut jeta sur son pays le regard d’un hérétique, dynamitant ses mythes les plus chers, comme à l’accoutumée aussi les plus complaisants, tel celui du sans-travail comme mauvaise herbe ne devant s’en prendre qu’à lui-même, thème aujourd’hui repris dans de fameux propos : « Du travail ? Je traverse la rue et je vous en trouve ! », écho persistant d’une mémorable brioche. Mais il alla plus loin encore : de ces addictions de toutes sortes dont on nous dit qu’elles sont l’aboutissement de calamiteux choix personnels ou, plus charitablement, qu’elles sont l’effet d’une maladie, Vonnegut affirme qu’elles n’ont qu’une seule cause : elles sont le fruit des inégalités, et la concentration de la richesse les répand. Voici ce qu’il en dit dans le même entretien de 1973 :

« Eh bien, des milliers de gens dans nos sociétés ont découvert qu’ils étaient trop stupides, trop peu attirants ou trop ignorants pour s’élever dans la société. Ils ont pris conscience qu’ils n’arriveraient jamais à avoir une belle bagnole, une belle maison ou un bon boulot. Car ce n’est pas donné à tout le monde, n’est-ce pas ? Il faut être très aimable. Il faut avoir belle mine. Il faut avoir des relations. Et ils ont réalisé que si vous êtes perdant, si vous ne vous élevez pas dans notre société, vous vivrez au sein d’une grande laideur, et que la police cherchera à vous y ramener chaque fois que vous tenterez d’y échapper. […] Alors, que faire ? On peut changer son esprit. On peut changer ce qui se passe à l’intérieur. […] Et cela me frappe comme étant à la fois atroce et risible que nous partagions dans notre culture cette attente qu’un homme soit toujours capable de résoudre ses problèmes. Il y a ce présupposé qu’avec un petit peu plus d’énergie, en étant un peu plus combatif, le problème pourra toujours être résolu. »

La violence de tels propos n’empêchera cependant pas Vonnegut, dans une nouvelle de 1961 intitulée « Harrison Bergeron », de ridiculiser une société qui tenterait d’éliminer toutes les formes d’inégalités en imposant un handicap à quiconque décollerait du niveau standard : enlaidissant délibérément les plus beaux en leur faisant porter un masque de « personne ordinaire », alourdissant les ballerines les plus gracieuses de sacs de chevrotines ou vrillant le cerveau des plus intelligents par des sons inopportuns en vue d’interrompre le cours de leurs raisonnements trop brillants. Cette satire offrira à Vonnegut l’occasion de confirmer la thèse éminemment pessimiste qui fit sa renommée : à la plupart des problèmes auxquels la condition humaine est confrontée, il n’existe décidément aucune solution.

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collymore · 8 years ago

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Thatcherite cannabis fantasmes mais hypocrite héroïne réalistes!

Par Stanley Collymore

Vous êtes évidemment noir, comme je peux clairement le voir, ce que je je ne sais pas si vous êtes ou non Afro-Caraïbes. donc, je vais vous demander et je espérons que vous serez propre avec moi quant à pourquoi il c'est que vous êtes si évidemment accrochés sur le cannabis, et à l'énormité de la l'alimentant à vos picaninnies plusieurs. ne vous rendez-vous pas compte du préjudice grave vous faites volontairement non seulement à eux mais aussi à ceux de votre race noire et ethnique? Donc, sage jusqu'à vos gars et les filles et faire la bonne chose! Restez à l'écart du cannabis qui peut être et est certifiably, tant psychologiquement que physiologiquement, Nuisibles et même assez ruineux pour l'ensemble bien- être, en termes de mode de vie et d'avenir Perspectives, qu'elles soient diamétralement Liés à la santé ou strictement économiques, ceux qui se livrent à il. Un chum indifférent; en supposant, bien sûr, vous êtes compétent dans Évaluer précisé- ment où est que je viens vraiment de!

Alors cessez d'être idiots premiers vous Afro- Caraïbes mettre un terme instantané à la ce que vous faites actuellement par rapport à cannabis; Et si vous voulez sincèrement Psychologiquement obtenir complètement pissé de votre tête puis judicieusement et autoritairement faire le décent Chose et comme nous blancs intelligents: référant naturellement à notre bien-aimé privilégié Élites, célébrités adorées et plusieurs hommes politiques; En conséquence s'abstenir de Cannabis et de préfér- ence etassez sensiblement trop non criminalement accroché, comme nous les blancs heureux et plus con- venablement faire plutôt, sur options comme Cocaïne ou Classe A héroïne!

Remarques de l'auteur: Ce poème, tant dans sa sincérité que dans son engagement, est dédié explicitement à tous ceux de la naissance, du patrimoine et de l'ascendance afro-caribéenne qui constituent incontestablement la majorité écrasante de notre peuple et qui, comme moi, ne se sont jamais livrés La moindre curiosité ou intérêt à le faire; Et que ni personnellement ni collectivement ne pourraient facilement identifier, à moins que d'avance on ne leur dise précisément ce à quoi ils étaient présentés, ce que le cannabis ou l'une des autres drogues illégales sur le marché sous leurs formes multiples regardaient ou Goûté comme, et encore moins être personnellement familiarisé avec les effets innombrables et hostiles que ces drogues aurait sur leur corps, la santé et les perspectives d'avenir dans la vie si elles étaient assez stupides pour les prendre en premier lieu.

Pourtant, pour tout cela, nous avons eu la conseillère principale de Margaret Thatcher, alors que celle-ci était Premier ministre, une Carolyn Sinclair: un délire consumment délirant, loyaliste de l'empire, racialement bigote, mal informé, incompétent et totalement dégoûtant, Chienne avec des illusions marquées de la grandeur et pas de connexions ou de contacts avec la communauté Afro-Caraïbes du Royaume-Uni, et elle-même selon des sources très fiables qui sont bien conscients des schémas comportementaux sociaux de ce premier morceau de blanche dans ses propres actions et ironie , Totalement perdu sur elle, à sa limite ultime.

Carolyn Sinclair a sérieusement préconisé que des mesures strictes soient prises par le régime de Thatcher à l'époque pour sanctionner assidûment et également incarcérer pendant de longues périodes de temps les Afro-Caribéens britanniques qui, selon Sinclair, étaient non seulement disproportionnellement illégaux Mais ils étaient eux-mêmes aussi les utilisateurs exclusifs et les contrôleurs du cannabis et de son approvisionnement à travers la Grande-Bretagne, et de plus Sinclair a poursuivi en disant que la situation était si catastrophique que ces incorrigiblement hors de contrôle Noirs avait pour urgence d'être traité comme Ils ont même nourri du cannabis à leurs enfants et leurs bébés qui ont fait des signes catastrophiques pour la Grande-Bretagne en général ainsi que pour les Britanniques, c'est-à-dire les Blancs, auxquels ces Noirs étaient associés.

Ceci d'une femme, et je répète son nom encore ainsi il colle dans votre esprit, Carolyn Sinclair, qui était elle-même un utilisateur avide d'héroïne et de cocaïne et était pleinement conscient du fait bien connu que les membres consécutifs du régime britannique, le Cabinet principal et d'autres ministres , De hauts fonctionnaires, de nombreux politiciens installés dans les deux Chambres du Parlement britannique et de la Bulle de Westminster ont toujours, et comme ils le font encore en 2017, libéralement livrés en tant qu'utilisateurs massifs de drogues qu'ils étaient ou sont encore aujourd'hui. Et ce n'est pas une fiction, mais un fait! Et ce qui est plus avec la cocaïne et l'héroïne leurs drogues illégales préférées, bien qu'ils ne voient pas leur préférence pour ou leur se livrant à ces activités dans la moindre comme étant illégale. Et explique pourquoi la toxicomane Carolyn Sinclair n'a vu aucun besoin de proscriptions de toute sorte étant prélevés contre son lot. Quelle odieuse et putain hypocrite et vendeuse de puanteux doubles standards du premier ordre cette boule de boue blanche!

D'un point de vue personnel, je n'ai jamais envisagé ni jamais entrepris de prendre des drogues illégales, et je ne suis pas si stupide de le faire; Et il en va de même pour les membres proches de ma famille et tous mes amis personnels; Sinon ils ne seraient pas mes amis en premier lieu. En fait, je n'ai même jamais fumé ni avec la même mentalité que j'ai voudrais je veux. Et je suis assez fort en tant qu'être humain pour résister à ceux qui avec leurs fantaisies idiotes ont essayé dans le passé de me persuader que je ne sais pas ce que je suis absent et ne devrait pas frapper soit: prise de drogue ou de la cigarette, Jusqu'à ce que je l'ai essayé. Eh bien, je n'ai jamais nagé avec des requins tueur, mais je n'ai pas l'intention de, comme je sais bien ce que la folie de faire serait. Et invariablement ceux qui ont toujours essayé de me persuader à leur point de vue - pendant mes études à l'université et parfois dans ma vie professionnelle - ont toujours été blanc. J'ai poliment pas tombé pour leurs blandishments et ils ont été assez réalistes pour réaliser que je ne serais pas convaincu par eux. Et c'est ainsi que ma vie est. Ennuyeux peut-être à ceux qui obtiennent leurs hauts et les coups de pieds de drogues illégales et le tabagisme, mais en principe et sain d'esprit en ce qui me concerne.

En ce qui concerne les parents afro-caribéens qui nourrissent leurs enfants et leurs bébés cannabis, vous connaissez bien les vieux et typiques stéréotypes blancs qui stipulent que tout dans ce monde ou cette vie maléfique, telle que définie par eux, a sa genèse chez les Noirs! Je suis habitué à cela et comme moi la plupart des Noirs ne vous inquiétez pas; Et pourquoi le font-ils questionner comme moi quand vous avez affaire à des cunts blancs qui spectaculairement risible et délirant même s'insinuent qu'ils sont la course maîtresse? Humournez-les si vous voulez; Je les ignore.

Revenant toutefois à l'affirmation de Carolyn Sinclair que les Noirs Afro-Caraïbes nourrissent leurs enfants et leurs bébés du cannabis, c'est une nouvelle pour moi et je devrais savoir que je suis de l'Afro-Caraïbe et en particulier du patrimoine barbadien. Cependant, ma maman adoratrice qui était toujours bien en avance sur son temps m'a nourri jusqu'à ce que j'aie TROIS ANS, et pour laquelle je suis éternellement reconnaissante à bien des égards. Car, comme les scientifiques blancs et les autres, plusieurs décennies plus tard, ont «découvert» quelque chose que Maman, Gran et les autres matriarches de ma famille savaient tout le temps, plus vous nourrissez sensiblement un nourrisson, plus il est intelligent. être. Et dans ma situation, seule, je repose mon argument à cet égard!

En outre, toujours une femme exceptionnellement belle avec une figure magnifique et des seins fantastiques, j'ai appris à transférer mon inclination pour ma maman en termes d'allaitement maternel à une préférence forte que la puberté inévitablement a pris sa prise de moi pour les filles et par la suite les femmes qui figuraient dans Ma vie, et pour être absolument honnête et tout à fait franc avec vous, je suis et ai toujours été un sucker décidé pour une jolie paire de seins. Heureusement, et comme à l'heure actuelle avec mon partenaire allemand et d'autres avant elle, j'ai été la bouche-à-rire heureux à cet égard! Merci maman!

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collymore · 8 years ago

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Thatcherite cannabis fantasists but hypocritical heroin realists!

By Stanley Collymore

You’re obviously Black, as I can clearly see, what I don’t know however is whether or not you’re also Afro-Caribbean. So I’m going to ask you and I hope you’ll come clean with me as to why it is that you people are so evidently hooked on cannabis, and to the enormity of even feeding it to your several picaninnies. Don’t you realize the serious harm you’re purposely doing not only to them but also those of your Black race and ethnicity? So wise up your guys and girls and do the right thing! Stay clear of cannabis that can be and is certifiably, both psychologically as well as physiologically, harmful and even quite ruinous to the overall wellbeing, in terms of lifestyle and future prospects, whether they’re diametrically health related or strictly economic, of those who indulge themselves with it. A no-brainer chum; assuming, of course, you’re competent in assessing precisely where it is I’m really coming from!

So cease being prime idiots you Afro-Caribbean people and put an instantaneous cessation to what you’re currently doing in relation to cannabis; and if you sincerely want to psychologically get entirely pissed out of your head then judiciously and authoritatively acceptably do the decent thing and like us clever whites: referring naturally to our well-heeled privileged elites, adored celebrities and several politicians alike; correspondingly refrain from inadvisably using cannabis and preferably and rather appreciably too get non-criminally hooked, as we whites happily and most suitably do instead, on options like cocaine or Class A heroin!

Author’s Remarks: This poem both in its sincerity and commitment is dedicated explicitly to all those of Afro-Caribbean birth, heritage and ancestry that unquestionably form the overwhelming majority of our people and who like me have never indulged in illegal drug usage of any kind and haven’t the slightest curiosity for or interest in doing so; and moreover neither personally nor collectively would be able to readily identify, unless beforehand it was specifically outlined to them what it was that they were being presented with, what cannabis or any of the other illegal drugs on the market in their multifaceted forms either looked or tasted like, let alone be personally acquainted with the myriad and inimical effects that these drugs would have on their bodies, heath and future prospects in life if they were stupid enough to take them in the first place.

Yet, for all that, we had the senior advisor to Margaret Thatcher, when the latter was Prime Minister, one Carolyn Sinclair: a consummately delusional, empire loyalist, racially bigoted, poorly informed, completely incompetent and a totally loathsome, white scum, lowlife bitch with marked delusions of grandeur and no connections or contacts whatsoever with the UK Afro-Caribbean community, and herself according to highly reliable sources who are well aware of the social behavioural patterns of this prime piece of white shit in her own actions and taking irony, totally lost on her, to its ultimate limit.

For in an official memo to the said Margaret Thatcher Carolyn Sinclair seriously advocated that stringent measures be taken by the Thatcher regime at the time to assiduously penalize and also incarcerate for lengthy periods of time UK-Afro-Caribbeans who Sinclair not only said were disproportionately illegal drug users but were themselves also the exclusive users and controllers of cannabis and its supply throughout Britain, and furthermore Sinclair went on to say that the situation was so catastrophic that these incorrigibly out of control Blacks had as a matter of urgency to be dealt with as they even fed cannabis to their children and babies which bode catastrophically for Britain generally as well as Britons, meaning whites, that these Blacks associated with.

This from a woman, and I repeat her name again so it sticks in your mind, Carolyn Sinclair, who was herself an avid heroin and cocaine user and was fully cognizant of the well known fact that consecutive British regime members, principal Cabinet and other ministers, senior civil servants, numerous politicians ensconced in both Houses of the British Parliament and the Westminster Bubble have always, and as they still do in 2017, liberally indulged in as the massive drug users that they either were then or still are today. And that’s not fiction but fact! And what’s more with cocaine and heroin their favourite illegal drugs, although they don’t view their preference for or their indulging in these pursuits in the slightest as being illegal. And accounts for why drug addict Carolyn Sinclair saw no need for proscriptions of any kind being levied against her lot. What a comprehensively odious, fucking hypocrite and purveyor of stinking double standards of the first order this white slime ball!

From a personal perspective I have never contemplated nor ever embarked on taking illegal drugs, nor am I that daft to do so; and the same goes for close members of my family and all of my personal friends; else they wouldn’t be my friends in the first place. In fact I’ve never even smoked nor with the same mindset that I have would I want to. And I’m strong enough as a human being to resist those who with their idiotic blandishments have tried in the past to persuade me that I don’t know what I’m missing and shouldn’t knock either: drug taking or cigarette smoking, until I’ve tried it. Well I’ve never swum with killer sharks either but I don’t intend to, as I well know what the folly of doing so would be. And invariably those who have always tried to persuade me to their point of view – during my student days at university and occasionally in my working life – have always been white. I’ve politely not fallen for their blandishments and they’ve been realistic enough to realize that I wouldn’t be persuaded by them. And that’s how my life is. Boring perhaps to those who get their highs and kicks from illegal drugs and smoking but principled and sane as far as I’m concerned.

As for Afro-Caribbean parents feeding their children and babies cannabis, well you know the old and typical white stereotypes which stipulate that everything in this world or this life that is evil, as defined by them, has its genesis among Black people! I’m used to that and like me most Blacks don’t worry about it; and why do so they question like me when you’re dealing with white cunts who spectacularly risibly and delusionally even kid themselves that they’re the Master Race? Humour them if you want to; I just ignore them.

Going back however to Carolyn Sinclair’s assertion that Afro-Caribbean Blacks feed their children and babies cannabis, that’s news to me and I should know as I’m of Afro-Caribbean and specifically Barbadian heritage. However, my adoring Mum who was always well ahead of her time did breast feed me until I was THREE YEARS OLD, and for which I’m eternally grateful in many ways. For as white scientists and the rest of them several decades later have “discovered”, something which Mum, Gran and the other matriarchs in my family well knew all along, the longer you sensibly breast-feed an infant the more intelligent it grows up to be. And in my situation, alone, I rest my case in that regard!

Furthermore, always an outstandingly beautiful woman with a gorgeous figure and fantastic breasts I learnt to transfer my inclination for my Mum’s in terms of breast feeding to a strong preference as puberty inevitably took its hold of me to the girls and subsequently the women that featured in my life, and to be absolutely honest and quite candid with you, I am and have always been a decided sucker for a nice pair of breasts. Fortunately, and as at present with my German Partner and others before her, I’ve been mouth-wateringly fortunate in that regard! Thanks Mum!

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