#subaltern voices

[brehaaorgana]

Also just to be clear, because again, I wrote this ten years ago — there were a lot of Palestinians criticizing Banksy's work from back in 2005 in the west bank.

The one I remembered and that stuck with me was:

Banksy’s conversation with an old Palestinian man emphasizes this bizarre interlacing between aesthetics and protest.

When the man said Banksy made the wall beautiful, he initially thanked him. However, the [Palestinian] man responded,

“We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall. Go home."

The Harvard crimson

To my knowledge he last painted in Gaza back in 2015, which again, was almost a decade ago so I'm not sure which instance of painting in Gaza and then appearing across the world this person is referring to. It's been a long time.

He also typically stands to profit from the conflict (bizarrely, even as he protests it) because of The Walled Off Hotel. (It's currently closed.) Because he owns a hotel in Bethlehem where all the rooms have a view of the wall for tourists! It's full of his art and is also a museum! You have to give a $1,000 security deposit that only gets refunded after your stay.

The website literally includes this in the FAQ's:

Are you just making a profit from other people's misery?

The hotel is now an independent local business. The aim is to break even and put any profits back into local projects.

THAT DIDN'T ANSWER THE QUESTION???

And it's worth debating! It's a valuable question! The concept is rife for discourse.

But here's the more important questions that are part of my point:

1. How many Palestinian street artists can an average person name? How many Palestinian artists are overlooked in favor of Banksy, who, if nothing else, claims a British identity (whether or not he's actually an artist's collective)?

2. How many people have both seen this art and known anything about its context? Did this actually raise any awareness?

as an art historian, may i just say: fuck banksy. 

instead of banksy, the white guy who has been funded and coddled by the elite as the darling of the circle-jerking art white male art world, TRY:

Women on Walls - AKA  Sit El 7eta (in Arabic), which is about women in Egypt who are street artists 

Malina Suliman, Afghanistan — Kabul Art Project

Shamsia Hassani, Afghanistan — Kabul Art Project

Jean-Michel Basquiat — Black American Artist 

Women Street artists painting in Lima, Peru for International Women’s Day

Lee Quinones - forefather of American street art and Puerto Rican/Latino American

LADY PINK - Latina/Ecuadoran American, you’ll know her by the “abuse of power comes as no surprise” shirt. 

Mata Ruda - also Latino

El Dercetor - Peruvian Muralist/Street Artist

Tati Suarez - Latina Woman

Bastardilla - a woman from Colombia 

Fatcap is a street art website resource — I linked to Cape Town, but you can search geographically 

Global Street Art

Ralph Ziman just made the world’s largest wheat paste art in South Africa

10 women artists better than banksy check out Lady Aiko!

HAVE YOU HEARD OF SWOON?

African-American and Iranian artist Tatyana Fazlalizadeh of “STOP TELLING WOMEN TO SMILE” fame 

 Nardstar* from South Africa

Zhang Dali - China

literally ANYONE BUT BANKSY

FUCK BANKSY

[tjeromebaker]

Can The Subaltern Speak? Gayatri Spivak and the Politics of Representation

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's essay "Can The Subaltern Speak?" is a seminal work in postcolonial studies, exploring the limitations and complexities of representing marginalized voices within colonial and postcolonial contexts.

Gayatri Spivak Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s essay “Can The Subaltern Speak?” is a seminal work in postcolonial studies, exploring the limitations and complexities of representing marginalized voices within colonial and postcolonial contexts. Here are some key findings and themes from the essay: Representation and Silencing: Spivak examines how Western intellectuals and activists often speak…

[communistkenobi]

everyone and their dog writes articles now about a totally new intersectional inclusive way to approach knowledge that decolonises the academy, and then the entire article just declares that subaltern voices will be included and indigenous ways of knowing will be respected but they never describe how or what confrontations with western academic thought will be produced or what will get revealed when this new epistemic approach becomes universally applied or what will structurally happen to the academy during this process. it’s like anti-theory, pure description and declaration, no attention paid to how the base units of western thought (such as subject/object), the capitalist logic of the university as a class/race mediator that necessarily reproduces white supremacy, will be problematised or made impossible, just an assertion that spaces will be made for previously marginalised groups. It’s so infantilising, as if the only thing stopping Black or Indigenous scholars from being considered scholars in academia was the lack of an EDI program or land acknowledgements and not like, foundational structural racism that regards all non-western knowledge and intellectual thought as non-knowledge. the academy as we know it would not exist without half a thousand years of pillage and plunder but I’m sure your new HR program will fix that

[sinon36]

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part VI

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Warnings: torture, violence, gore, mistakes.

- the sixth time you meet it’s after a lot of frenzied searches

- the missions have been slow a while now; you mostly act as a handler for TF141, alongside Laswell; the boys got used to your calm voice in their earpieces, guiding and directing them through buildings and underground bases; your “hacking” skills come in handy when Laswell gets caught up with something else

- they always come home in time for you to get supper together; it’s a nice way of living; so different from the loneliness you felt before; now you have a small family to call your own; the banter between you and the sergeants feels the air; you throw jokes to one another; Price quietly chuckles at his younger subalterns; Ghost on the other hand stays silent most of the time;

- you always sit next to him, in the mess hall, in briefing rooms, in helis, or cars; it’s something he’s not sure yet how to interpret; yes, the two of you got along just fine; you have the same dark humour that makes the other soldiers in the base shiver when they hear you laugh at your jokes; you can sit in comfortable silence for hours; you don’t pry into each other’s lives, which he’s thankful; you hadn’t even asked him his name, and you already know one another for more than two years; he won’t admit but he doesn’t like the way his heart feels when you laugh at one of Soap’s jokes, or discuss with Gaz one of the new books you’ve bought, or even when Price comes close to you, peaking over your shoulder and talking quietly with you about the files you’ve got in front of you;

- Ghost does not allow the thought, that he might be jealous on his comrades’ interactions with you, take roots inside his mind; he can’t; you’re just doing your job and you just happen to enjoy the 141’s company, in the most platonic way; he knows that your bond is far superior to that of the other’s; you saved his life, saw his face, and he in turned saved yours; that must add up to something;

- yet he feels that something’s wrong with him; Price pointed out that ever since you joined TF141 he seems quieter, and less present; he’s becoming more and more his namesake; he denies that, and argues that he’s just tired, now that he’s getting older; Price calls out his shite; the captain is older than him, and he’s far more active than him;

- but the captain can’t do more than that, a friendly conversation; yours and Ghost’s relationship is extremely professional; he rarely sees the two of you interact in the common room, or anywhere else for that matter, that’s not the battle field or the briefing room; you also work incredibly well; you two and Soap had made quite the trio when it comes to field work; he affectionately calls you the Unholy Trinity of Task Force 141; trails of body are left in your wake and almost all missions go well without the tinniest hitch; the men joke around that surely you are some kind of witch that made a deal with the devil to have success; you laugh and chalk it all up to skill, hard work, and a shite ton of sheer luck;

- though you keep reminding them that your luck will run out one day, they ignore you, joking that you’ll have to tolerate them until you retire; you’re not as optimistic; you’re the realist of the whole team; you know the risks are ten times bigger than theirs

- most of the times you go in alone, unarmed, no back up, no communication; you only have yourself to rely on; and you know that when the fatigue catches up with you, you’ll slip up, make a mistake, that’ll get you killed or worse

- and then the worst you feared happens; you go MIA during a simple infiltration; the boys find no trace to indicate where you’d been taken to or by whom; Laswell can’t find any sign of you, no matter how hard she tries, or how far she’s stretching her informant network; nothing; denial turns to angry searches, busting down doors and torturing anyone they come across; that turns to desperation, they start looking into the most unrelated events they find, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they get a glimpse of your name, or an alias, or something, no matter how small; and that turns to silence, they stop bringing you up, start avoiding your name or anything that might point out you’re not there; after Laswell mentions you in one of their briefings, that the time to change your status to KIA is due, Ghost smashes the chair you used to sit in

- it’s one of the most violent reactions he’s had outside the battlefield since you’d disappeared, and Price starts to worry that his lieutenant will do something stupid if they don’t find out what happened to you; he threatens Laswell to not touch that file of yours; ‘Not yet, Kate. Not yet.’ He says in a sadder and calmer voice    

- acceptance never came; the thought that maybe you’re not even alive, buried somewhere unmarked, or body burned beyond recognition is a thought they’d long banished; wherever they went they kept their eyes peeled for you; their hope of finding you never wavers

- and then their prayers are answered; they get something; it’s not much; a 3-second clip; it’s blurred, to few pixels to really make out any details; and the camera seems to be moved violently, barely catching the hunched posture of a person tied to a chair; Laswell got it form one of her contacts; it’s from a half destroyed hard drive they recovered from heli the dropped out of the sky

- it’s not much; actually, is far too little to go on with; the video doesn’t show a face, nor reveals any names; the background so dark they can’t make out anything; But they agree it’s you; from the size of your body, to your complexion to the colour of your hair, now longer and falling over your face; it’s been months since they last saw you but they know it’s you   

- ‘Proof of life’ Price concludes; ‘But fur who?’ Soap voices the question they all thought of that; ‘It don’t matter’ Ghost points out, voice gruffer than ever; ‘Where is more important.’ Gaz specifies

- they get to work; they comb the crash site, having received the location from Laswell; at first they don’t find anything; but Ghost’s keen eyes find it; it’s a small piece of silvery metal, wedged in the dirt; it’s only half, but he can make out the letters clearly; cyrillic letter; he grunts; ‘Price…’ he shouts to get everyone’s attention; when they come closer he shows it to them; ‘Russians’ they conclude

- the hunt begins; Nik is there to smuggle the Brits over the Russian borders and to provide them with an extraction vehicle, in his case an old rusty Russian helicopter, that can barely fly under the radar, it flinches and grunts at every gust of wind, but it’s as covert as can be; they don’t bear any insignia visible on their black camo uniforms; their faces tucked under black balaclavas; even their guns are Russian, some AK-47 Nik provided them with no striations on the barrels; they even agreed to keep their mouths shut, letting the captain converse with anyone that they might encounter; no one can no that a team of Brits put their feet on Russian soil

- they carefully went over all the details just like you got them used to when you did infiltrations; they are as prepared as ever; the plan is simple; take out the guards that make their rounds through the facility and take their place; that will give them sufficient time to look for you and find a way out to get you out; “if” they find you; the information came through Laswell and it was already a couple weeks old; chances are you’ve been moved;

- they search everywhere; you’re not there; time for plan B: infiltrate their data base; Price gets his hand on a computer and plugs the USB containing the backdoor virus; it takes some time to install, then to reboot the whole system; Laswell gives the green light that they’re in; they get out of there leaving no trace that they ever were inside

- the next two weeks are gruesome; Ghost spends most of his time destroying the punching bags in the gym; he barely eats and barely sleeps; he starts hearing your voice in the night when he climbs the ladder to the roof, perched up like an owl, having a smoke away from everyone; he hears a soft whisper, or a small chuckle; he’s going crazy, he thinks; crazy with worry for you;

- it’s been years since Simon felt worry for someone; when his family was killed, he vowed to never get close to another soul again; but then you had to save him; you didn’t even know him; risked your life for a stranger that cannot repay you for that act of kindness

- but he can; he can make sure you’re safe on missions; that’s why he’d always stalk your figure through the scope; that’s why he’d have you with him and Soap every time you’d split up; so he can keep his eyes on that pretty face of yours; that’s why he’d threaten the other marines on base with the court martial when he’d hear lewd comments about you being their whore and so much worse; he’d be wringing their necks if Price didn’t keep such a close eyes on his actions  

- he misses you, and your presence, and your sweet perfume, and your voice, and your eyes that would look straight into his when he told you a joke, smirk matching his own; he missed the way you’d drink your tea together in the morning, in silence broken only by soft sighs and the sound of the sofa under your weights; if he got up before you he’d make sure to boil enough water for two mugs and he’d put the tea in the moment he could hear your footsteps heading to the common room; he was so accustomed to you that he could make out your footsteps even in the busiest corridors; lighter than most, almost quiet but quick, lively; he misses that too

- the way you’d make your away towards him and with a nod take the seat next to his, softly brushing his shoulder with yours in an unspoken acknowledgement… I’m here, next to you… your simple touch made his skin boil underneath his clothes and yearn for more; he’d take advantage of situations out in the field; he’d grab you and help you climb over obstacles, he’d give you a head anytime he felt you needed it; and you’d never refuse his help;

- he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t find you; just like you found him when you first met

- two weeks pass by slower when you’re almost always awake, Simon knew that already; but he’s the first to get on the tarmac when Price gives the order for heading out; Laswell managed to pinpoint your location; one of the Russian commanders moved you to an off the record, but not really cause ‘Russians are shit at keeping a low profile.’ Laswell adds, compound where they’d keep foreign prisoners for interrogations; the American woman sends them out to get you out and wipe any witness that has seen your face

- exactly what Simon wanted; the green light to do what he’s best at: mauling his enemies;

- the compound they keep you in is underground, ventilation system outdated, like pretty much any piece of technology they keep; they record the interrogation on an old Sony camera; you doubt it can register your mumbled responses, not that you’d say anything useful; you’d match every question with a curse in a clear American accent; you don’t want to give them anything that might be traced back to your British boys;

- they can’t get anything out of you; not your name, not whom do you work for, or where you’re from, what you were looking for when you infiltrated their operation, etc.; they were met with an unsurmountable resistance; no matter how many times they’d beat you, drown you, burn you, cut you, electrocute you, or humiliate you; they took away most of your clothes, leaving you in your underwear and what little remained from your tank top, enough to cover only your upper torso; you were cold, hungry and in pain; you had been in this condition for months; but you wouldn’t give up

- in the academy they taught you that the longer you lasted the more chances of being found; that thought has crossed your mind more than once; but you don’t allow yourself to hope; that would only weigh you down the more time passes; no, you look for ways to free yourself and learn the personnel’s schedule; and you wait for the best opportunity

- that window of opportunity is near; for a week now you worked on pulling out the nail in the chair that holds the chair’s handle together; you managed to pull out the nail and twist your wrist to try and scratch at the rope; the motion is uncomfortable and painful, the skin of your wrist is cut open by the rope that soaks up your blood; you’ve been at it for hours, trying to cut yourself loose; and you finally manage; surprise overtakes you as the rope unravels and your hand is free; the limb aches with exertion as you shake it to get the flow of circulation to get back to normal

- then you lean forward and grab at the knife left there from the previous session, still wet with your blood; freeing yourself is more strenuous than you would have imagined; as you bend down to free your ankles you almost pass out from the sudden rush of blood to your head; you lost of it, enough to hinder you in your escape; but you push through

- when you stand up you grab the chair for support and move in slow motion afraid you’ll pass out; you have a plan in mind already; get dresses in the coat left on the hanger by the door, and lay in wait for the interrogator to come back for another round; now that your body is filled with adrenaline times moves slower, but it doesn’t take long for the door handle to start to move; you wait for the tall and skinny man to enter; if he were a little leaner you wouldn’t have had a chance; but this failed physician that took to torture won’t even know what hit him; you stab him in the neck with a somewhat quick strike;

- he dies drowning in his own blood; you manage to drag his corpse under the table, leaving the pool of blood untouched; maybe they’ll think that you finally bled out and someone took your corpse to the morgue to be burned; you don’t care as you grab the handgun off his waist; the same one he’d threaten you with when you wouldn’t answer;

- judging by the thick clothes your assailant wears you know outside is cold; so you do what they told you at the academy; you undress the corpse an take his pants an shoes; they’re huge on you but you can’t complain; you shiver at the warmth still trapped in the wool fibres;

- you make your way outside checking for any guards; you found none, as expected; you heard the Russian complain that is too cold and stuffy down here that nobody but him frequents the lower levels; some people don’t know to shut up and you are glad to exploit that; with his gun, knife and car keys in hand you make your way through the dark corridors; you follow the boot prints left on the filthy floors;

- the only guards you encounter are the ones stationed by the door that leads to the stairs; you make quick work of them; one shot for each of their heads; you almost fall down on your ass as the gun kicks back in recoil; you take a moment to lean on the wall taking a few calming breaths

- your ascend is slow, laboured breaths escaping your gaping mouth; you strain your eyes and try to decipher the word on the walls marking the level and the facility; you’re looking for the parking lot; you find it after climbing to the second to last level; Russians really don’t know how to keep a facility secure; as you climb the emergency stairs there is no one to stop you; they underestimated your ability to escape this hell hole; their mistake

- as you reach the parking lot you look for the physician’s car; it’s a rusty red Lada; it’ll do just fine; as you get in the passenger side you start hearing gunshots; it’s faint; maybe you imagined it; but no, it’s there; you don’t wait to find out what’s happening, as you turn the key in the ignition you pull out of the spot and quickly drive towards the exit; whatever firefight broke out in there, pulled away every guard from their stationary position; for a moment you think about TF 141, but you quickly dismiss it

- you make your way out, a little dizzy from the spiral ascension; once out of there you notice that there’s forest around, and some snow; you hit gravel and as you look back you notice the exit; the only indication that there is something men made here; you doubt that tunnel can be spotted from a drone; the trees block the line of sight; that confirms your suspicions

- the gun fire must be coming from another escapee, not as lucky as you; you drive down the dirt road following every twist and turn hoping you won’t see any other cars; you check the glove compartment; now that the adrenaline rush is over your body aches like never before; you search for some pain meds but you only find a wallet with some cash in it; Russian rubbles, enough to keep the car going for a while; maybe you’ll find a gas station; it’s risky but you are I dire need of food and water; that might give you enough strength to push forward

- the 141 moves quickly taking care of the two sentinels at the mouth of the tunnel; two well placed shots and they’re down; Gaz and Soap move the bodies in a bush and hide their car in the tree line; hopefully nobody will come looking for this two in the next crucial minutes; they comb through the facility dropping anyone they encounter; their pistols bear silencers masking the loud sounds; they move deeper and deeper, but soon the alarm is sounded and a full fight ensues; the guards are no match for the 141; they drop like flies; but the fight costs them precious minutes;

- Ghost breaks away from the rest of his teammates; he knows they got it; he needs to hurry to find you; he needs to make sure you are still breathing, and that your pretty eyes still hold fire in them; he gets to lowest level where the holding cells are; he checks behind every grate and every door until a he gets to what seems to be the place they torture the prisoners

- he notices how filthy and cold it is; but what makes his blood freeze is the chair and the large pool of fresh blood; no…, he’s too late; he came to late; a wave of blinding fury surges and like a tsunami Ghost thrashes the room; he stops only when he discovers the body of a tall Russian man behind the desk; his throat slit; pants and boots missing; atta girl he can’t help the smirk taking over his face under the balaclava; you were capable, he knew that, but you still manage to surprise him; he gets out trying to radio in the discovery to the rest of his teammates

- the radio crackles with static, concrete walls too thick for the signal to penetrate; he’s made his decision; he’s going after you even though he knows Price will kick his ass later; you need him; probably not as much as he needs you; he chases the droplets of blood you left on the ground as you walked towards the emergency staircase; at the door, two more casualties; no, you didn’t need him; you had it handled

- in the parking lot he finds a military truck with the key in the ignition; he follows you as quickly as the car gets on the dirt road

- you drive for what feels like hours; your mind is struggling, eyes out of focus and body feeling heavier with every minute; you don’t know why or when the car starts to shake and tilt, you feel yourself flying out of the seat; everything goes black

- Ghost’s eyes scan the road in front of him through the thick snowfall; he almost misses the red car that swerved of the road and now rests on the side in a ditch, snow piles on top almost making it disappear; he gets out of the truck and approaches the car pistol pointed at it; he wipes away the snow that covers the window on the driver’s side; inside he can make out a body that’s laying on its side face obscured by the thick collar of the jacket; he pulls the door open carefully and nudges the body to see if they’re conscious or not; when there’s no movement he peels the collar from their face

- Simon thinks he is no longer able to panic; he survived through his father’s and brother’s abuse; then he joined the military where they taught him to surpass any fears and to control himself; then the Mexican cartel who buried him alive; that experience showed him what terror looks like; only to return home and find all the people that he held dear massacred; Ghost is the result of so many horrifying events; he is the cautionary tale of what prolonged survival in a malignant environment looks like

- the level of fear matches that of when he found the body of Beth hugging Josep’s smaller one; he acts without thinking, grabbing your limp and cold body and pulling you out of the wreckage; your head is bleeding from where you hit it on the window; lips are blue and your skin cold to the touch; he checks for a pulse; he can’t tell if he feels yours or his own; his hands are trembling with rage and powerlessness; he grabs for the radio’ telling Price he’d found you but you need medical assistance immediately; there’s no answer on the other side; just static

- he hoists you up and takes you to the stolen truck placing you in the front seat; he climbs in the driver’s seat letting you down slowly over the seat head resting on his lap; he puts the heat on high trying to make you warm again; he checks for your breathing and he’s thrilled to find that small puffs of air come from your open mouth

- he starts driving, he doesn’t know where; he neds a safe house to treat your wounds and to keep you safe; the snow is falling heavy, making impossible to see where he’s driving; then he sees it; to the side he can make out a building in the tree line

- the abandoned cottage is nothing more than a ruin; but it has four walls and a roof and he’s glad to see a small fireplace, dry wood abandoned next to it; he puts you down on what he can only assume is what remained of a thick rug long forgotten by its previous owners; he works quickly and efficiently, in mere minutes a fire burns casting a warm glow in the barren room

- he moves to work on you; he peels the jacket off only to find that you are nearly naked under the stolen clothes; he gets angrier at the Russians wishing he could bring them back only to subject them to the same kind of torture they did you and some more; he quickly checks for deeper cuts or signs of infection; but he can’t find none; they must’ve given you antibiotics to keep you alive as much as possible;

- he cleans the cuts with the antiseptic wet wipes his med kit contains; then he dresses the wounds with gauze; your thin body looks like a mummy from the amount gauze; he addresses your head next wiping the blood of and bandaging your forehead; he sighs in relief when your lips and skin slowly turn pink from the warmth; you lay in between his legs as he sits on the floor, your head laying on his thigh

- he tries contacting 141 again, but to no avail; looks like he’ll have to hold out here tonight; he’ll stay awake to protect you until you wake up

- it’s morning when you stir, he watches your face intently from above you; your eyelids groggily open eyes trying to focus; as you lay eyes on brown ones, hidden behind a black balaclava you start to panic; you weakly push at his hands and chest, mumbling and trying to get away from him; he doesn’t relent though; his grip is firm on you and in a commanding voice he orders you to sit still; hearing your name does the trick; you didn’t tell those fuckers your name; and his embrace is not restraining more like protecting; you think hard and try to remember eyes flickering over the balaclava; ‘Ghost…’ you croak when your vocal chords decide to vibrate; ‘Gho…’ you repeat even more brokenly; he shushes you and reassures you that yes, he’s here and no, he won’t go anywhere; not without you; that puts your mind at ease and you close your eyes again

-when you wake up again is noon; he feeds you some water through cracked and dry lips and he gives you a dose of morphine to help with the pain; that sends you back to sleep

- the third time you wake, you are being carried by strong arms; the sound of blades cutting air becomes louder and louder; Ghost walks backwards shielding you from the snow that’s being picked up by the gusts of wind;

- he climbs the heli; Nik greets Ghost, as Soap and Gaz pull him and you inside; the ride is silent, no one says anything; the Russian pilot takes you to a better equipped safehouse

- you wake up to someone entering the room; you’re in a warm comfortable bed, IV connected to your wrist fluid being pumped in your veins; you open your eyes to a dark-haired man bringing in a tray of food; you panic again when you hear him greet you, voice laced with a deep Russian accent; he sees the look on your face and he slowly puts the tray on the table; ‘Don’t vorry, I’m Nick. A friend ov 141. I von’t hurt yu, agent’; he tells you it’s nice to finally put a face to the name, and that you are prettier than Gaz told him; you watch him in silence, regarding him with apprehension; when he stops talking, you look to the door and ask for Ghost

- he chuckles knowingly and then informs you that “your boy” is being ripped a new one by the captain just outside, and he leaves you to tell Price that your awake; you don’t have time to correct him cause he already out the door; Price walks in soon after, you’re glad to see him; ‘Ah, there you are’ he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes; he asks you how you’re feeling; numb thanks to the morphine; he wants to know what happened

- it was a trap; they were waiting for you, Russians; they wanted to know who you were and who did you work for; you told them nothing; he knows; he asks you about your time in the facility; you don’t quite remember much, just the torture and the questions; he tells you that you did good, and that you need to rest now;

- Gaz and Soap stop by to talk to you a bit; you tell them you’ll be fine; and then you ask for Ghost; they rub their necks a little ashamed; you asked them what happened; Ghost got scolded for going AWOL in search for you; Price even threatened him with the court martial; you huff; and swing the blanket off; you sit at the ledge of the bed; you’re glad to find you’ve been clothed in a pair of slacks and a long sleeve shirt; you grab the IV needle and pull hard on it; then you stand grabbing the table for support

- the two sergeants move forward to catch you if you fall; you wave them away and move towards the door; you search the living room for any signs of Ghost; instead, Price and Nik talk about something at the dinner table; when Price sees you up and about, despite him telling you to rest, he mutters a ‘Bloody stubborn they are’ and points toward the kitchen; you thank him; you can hear Nik commenting something about you and Ghost deserving each other; but you keep walking, slowly, one hand on the wall for balance

- Ghost stands by the window, his back turned to you; he ignores your poor attempt at greeting him; without thinking you cross the distance and hug his waist burying your nose in his hoodie; he tenses

- ‘I’m probably high right now,’ you nuzzle your face in his back inhaling his scent: soap, cigarettes and something you can’t quite tell; ‘thank you, for coming after me’; you let go of him turning to go back to rest; he grabs your upper arm and gently turns you; he watches you closely, you can feel his breath on your face, and smell the cigarette on his lips; his balaclava is pushed up his nose; he stares into your eyes as he speaks ‘Tell me to stop’ his eyes shift to your lips

- ‘Please don’t’; he kisses you, deeply and for a long time; you pull away for air ‘Ghost, I…’ ‘No,’ he cuts you off; ‘Simon, my name is Simon’ you smile lost in his pretty brown eyes; ‘Simon Riley’ and he surprises you taking his balaclava off; you stare at him, trying to memorize every scar and blemish; he’s handsome, in a rugged way; blonde hair, pale skin, and brown eye; you kiss him again.                                                

Previous part here.

[winniemaywebber]

100 paired prompts - ¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea (or unsweet tea, really, it's your ball game) for Olive!

hi, friend! thanks so much for this and I'm sorry it took so long. It felt so good getting back to writing for my sweethearts! Under the cut to save space <3

As Dougie had stuffed the last wad of paper into a drawer, he had turned to Olive with a furrow in his brow.

***

It was in the run up to D-Day when Olive had found Dougie snoozing in a chair in the Silver Wings Club. James Douglass had forced himself out of his stuffy office for a drink, his desk surrounded by miscellaneous paperwork and important documents, the once companionable silence filled with Croz’s muffled tones into the phone across the room, a hushed voice requesting to speak to a Subaltern Westgate. 

“What the hell is a sub-el-turn anyway?”

“Subaltern, lover. It’s a rank.”

“I got that part, but why on Earth is he asking for one?”

“Jeez, not Croz married and in a situationship.”

“A–a what?”

“Never mind,” she sighs, giggling. “Maybe she’s got something he wants for whatever this is,” she gestures to the mess of papers strewn here and there on his desk. She lowers her voice to a soft whisper. “Can I know what’s going on yet?”

“Sworn to secrecy, baby doll. I hate to keep things from you, but this,” he gestures also, almost replicating Olive’s movements, “this is big stuff.” He kisses her before taking her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. “I promise I’ll tell you when I can, okay?”

It’s when Olive comes back with a whiskey for him that she catches him dozing the first time, soft little snores leaving him for a moment before she pats him on the shoulder and hands him the glass.

“Baby, I think it’s time for bed.”

“No, no, not yet,” he protests. He takes her hand from his shoulder and kisses her palm, looking up at her with his sapphire blue eyes. “I want to spend some time with you.”

How ever deep Olive was with her conversation with Helen, she couldn’t help but notice him dozing again a few moments later, the whiskey glass nearly slipping out of his hand on to the polished floor beneath his feet. 

“Right, that’s it,” Olive urges, taking the glass from his hands. “Bed!” 

He opens his mouth to protest again, but is overtaken by Helen who speaks first. “She’s right, Douglass. Ev was sensible and went to bed hours ago.”

“Ugh, fine,” he whines, beginning to stand in order to leave. Olive kisses Helen on the cheek in farewell, promising to be back in a few moments to walk with her back to their hut.

“Are you taking me to bed?”

“Sure am. Thought it was time I returned the favor,” she replies, standing up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek before sitting in the drivers’ seat of the Jeep. She takes a long look at him, how his sweet face looks withdrawn, his eyes having lost a little of their usual cheeky sparkle. They arrive at the officer’s hut within moments, Dougie slowly exiting the Jeep due to his tiredness. 

“Tell you what,” she says, tucking him into bed. “After this is all over, why don’t we all go out? Take an evening, get off base.”

“That sounds wonderful, honey girl. I’d love that.” 

***

The days following this had been full of chaos - Harry Crosby had forced himself to stay awake for three days, working himself into a self induced coma. Initially being scooped up by Jack Kidd, the duty of getting the comatose man into bed had fallen on Rosie and Dougie, Tattie zooming them from their office to their barracks where they’d put him to bed. It was this whole incident that the group - Olive, Val, Helen and Tattie, joined by Dougie, Ev, Kidd and Rosie - were mulling over, cackles and yelps echoing across the pub. With drinks flowing along with the conversation, they seem to lose track of time before the landlord rings his bell, yelling “last orders.” 

Olive excuses herself and walks to the bar, getting a small measure of whiskey for Dougie when she has the spark of an idea.

“Sir?” she calls over to the landlord, his back turned to her as he pours the whiskey she ordered. “Are any rooms vacant tonight?”

“Yes, madam,” he says, turning away after placing the glass on the bar and fiddling with a small cabinet, handing her a key. “Last one. Top of the stairs, turn left, it’s at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks so much,” Olive smiles, digging in her purse for the extra money she now owes the man. She places the notes on the bar before nodding in thanks, returning to the group. 

“Darling,” Olive murmurs, sitting next to Dougie and handing him the glass. His eyes light up in surprise, his hand instantly finding her thigh and gently squeezing. “How would you feel about staying here tonight?”

“Can we do that?” he replies, his brow softly furrowed in question as his eyes soften.

“All paid for.”

“You’re a dream, Ollie. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, heart melting at the sight of his puppy dog eyes. “I thought we needed some time together, that’s all.”

“I agree,” he says, turning to her. His voice lowers, turning more towards her to keep this conversation just for them. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind…” he pauses, his eyes suddenly downcast. “But I’m too tired to…y’know. I’d just like to snuggle up. Is that okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Olive replies, confused. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, sweet girl. Why on earth would you think that, huh?”

“There’s a hotel room available and you don’t want to use every inch of it?”

“Next time, absolutely,” he laughs, that sparkle finally back in his spirit. “But not tonight. Right now, I just wanna hold you.”

“Okay,” she shrugs, gripping his hand as he turns back to the group, reigniting his conversation with Rosie. 

Olive turns to Val, who instantly spots the confused and upset look in Olive’s eyes. 

“What’s up, chickie?” she asks, patting Ev gently to have him untangle himself from her. “You look a little morose.”

“I’m fine, it’s just…can I ask you something?”

“Anything, doll,” she smiles, taking her hand. “What’s up?”

 “Does Ev never not want to…y’know…”

“Have sex? You can say it, Ol, it’s not exactly a taboo subject between us.”

“Right,” she giggles, breathing out a little from the comic relief Val has instantly provided. “It’s just that, well, Doug and I are staying here tonight, and he’s just told me he doesn’t want to do that and I’m just wondering–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” she says, a softness accompanying her sternness, just one thing Olive loves about her friend. The niceness in serious situations, Olive getting a good talking to in the nicest way Val can muster. “There are plenty of nights Ev and I just snuggle down and talk.”

“Really?!” Olive replies, voice edged with shock.

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, taking a sip of her drink. “Sometimes he’s so exhausted, or one of us is so damn homesick that we can barely muster up the energy to do anything like that. We lay there and talk. Ol, it’s wonderful. Being with someone who wants to genuinely listen to you, not just use you for their own desires.”

“Oh!” Olive says, realizing exactly what Dougie is wanting. “Shit,” she exhales, clutching her chest in relief. “I thought I’d done something for Dougie to not want to–”

“Oh, hush up, English,” Val laughs. “You know that man worships you. We all see it.”

The pair of friends smile at one another as they hear a record begin to play, Tattie Spaatz stood next to a record player and blowing smoke rings. “Come on, gang. One last drink and dance before we have to go back to real life.” She stubs out the cigarette, making her way back to the table, holding her hand out to Jack Kidd and pulling him out of his seat. 

“I don’t dance, Tat,” he complains, shaking his head.

“When you’re with me, Jack, you do.”

The other couples join them, leaving Helen and Rosie alone at the table. They see him stand and offer his hand to her.

“Just til Crank comes back, and I get home to Jo. Whadda ya say, Helen?”

“I say, I won’t tell if you won’t, Rosie!” she squeals, taking his hand and giggling. Olive sees Val whispering in Ev’s ear, obviously relaying the conversation that was just had, Ev looking pointedly at Olive and shaking his head, chuckling. 

“See!” Val yells across the room. “Even he thinks you’re being silly.”

Dougie presses his forehead to Olive’s as they move slowly on the spot, their noses touching. 

“What’s all that about?” he titters, his eyes darting in Ev’s direction.

“Just–I thought I’d upset you.”

“No, baby,” he coos, his hand now stroking her face. “Why would you think that?”

“You said you didn’t want to do anything with me and it confused me for a moment, that’s all. I haven’t been with anyone that actually wants me around to talk to, to actually listen to. It just shocked me, that’s all.”

“Babydoll,” he murmurs, his hand tipping her chin up to meet his gaze. “I always want to listen to you. And right now, I’d just like to go to bed and hold you. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” she whispers in reply. He kisses her gently, taking her hand in his.

“Let’s go do that then, hm?” 

He pulls away a little, the pair turning towards their friends to bid them goodnight.

“Goodnight, lovebirds,” Val calls, blowing them both a kiss as they ascend the stairs. 

***

The pair enter the room, which contains a double bed and a small desk. The bed is covered by an obviously homemade patchwork quilt, adding such a coziness to the room that Olive instantly feels herself getting drowsy. She pulls the blanket back before beginning to undress.

“I did not think this through,” Olive complains, quickly realizing that she didn’t bring pajamas. 

“Uhm, no,” Dougie laughs. “No, you didn’t.”

She laughs along with him, shrugging comically. “Guess we’re snuggling naked.”

“Oh, how terrible for both of us. Hell, in fact. The worst. Horrible, diabolical–”

“I mean, if it’s a no…” she teases, clambering into the bed. “Come on, sweetie. Come lay on me.”

He snaps the light off before joining Olive in bed, his head falling to her shoulder as he lays on his side and wraps himself around her, her hand running through his hair in order to soothe him to sleep. She pushes his hair from his forehead and kisses it softly, tenderly massaging his scalp with her fingers.

“Is it just the past few days, or is there something else bugging you?”

“There is something else,” he replies with a small sigh. “But it’s nothing new. I think I’m just homesick.”

“Tell me about it,” she soothes, feeling him relax against her even more.

“It’s so silly,” he begins, shaking his head.

“Not to me.”

There’s a pause, that final statement hanging in the air as he breathes deeply. She thinks he’s asleep when he begins to speak again, the sudden break in silence making her jump.

“It was hot here for the first time in I don’t know how long, and it just made me think of my mom.”

“Does she fix you something cool on a hot day? Something refreshing?”

“Big jug of sweet tea,” he sighs, almost humming in satisfaction as the words leave his lips. 

“Is it like iced tea?” Olive asks, the ever oblivious Brit, still getting used to American things.

“Similar. Just a hell of a lot more sugar. It’s delicious, cools you right down. It’s why I can’t get behind you all drinking hot tea all the time here,” he laughs. “I miss the good stuff.”

“I can understand that,” she giggles, kissing his forehead again as he nuzzles in. “Do you think I’ll like it?”

“The tea or Michigan?”

“Both, I guess,” she shrugs, a smile on her face. “Are you sure you want me to go with you?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life, honey girl. You’re gonna love it. It’s small but super pretty, especially–”

“Especially in the fall,” she interjects, finishing his sentence. “I remember you telling me that the first time we met.”

“See, I’ve always known you were gonna come with me.” He pauses for a second, reaching in the dark for her hand. “Downtown is nice. Main Street has so much, there’s a lot to do. There’s a movie theater and a few stores. City Hall is there too.” 

“City Hall?” she asks, closing her eyes and letting his descriptions soothe her as much as her holding him is. 

“That’s where we’re gonna get married, the moment we’re able to.”

Olive’s eyes snap open and turn to him, glad of the moonlight streaming through the window so she is able to see his face. His eyes open to meet her gaze, the pair of them smiling at each other.

“Are you asking me?” she grins cheekily, winking at him.

“Well, I don’t have a ring. But I’d like to ask you. Soon.”

“Darling, you won’t even have to finish the question before I’m yelling yes.”

“I know,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss her tenderly on the lips. “I’m sleepy, Ollie.”

“I see that, sugar,” she coos, going back to stroking his hair.

“Will you sing for me?” He requests, closing his eyes and nuzzling into her neck, snuffling softly.

“Oh, of course.”

She clears her throat and begins to sing the record that was playing downstairs as they’d left their friends:

Now in a cottage built of lilacs and laughter

I know the meaning of the words "Ever after"

And I'll always see polka dots and moonbeams

When I kiss the pug-nosed dream.

taglist: @blakelysco-pilot @sagesolsticewrites @hephaestn @manonsmanicmind @archival-hogwash @derry-rain @lestweforget5 @butterfly9012 @ptvstvrrr

[probablyasocialecologist]

Poulantzas expands Gramsci’s notion of crises by discussing their threefold character: economic, political/ideological and state crises. These forms of crisis are not directly related. Economic crises do not automatically become political crises nor do the latter immediately become crises of the state. Neither do the different forms of crisis necessarily have to coincide. Given the interconnectedness of the state and civil society, he does not assign priority to struggles that are either inside or outside the state, and, instead, suggests that these “two forms of struggle must be combined”. Hence, if Gramsci argued that the dislocation of consent in civil society was to be achieved by an alternative hegemonic project and from there advanced to political society, Poulantzas added that subaltern groups could occupy “centres of resistance” within the state, which were to be strategically coordinated and increased in number until they become “real centres of power”, capable of staging “real breaks” with the established order – or, in the terminology of Erik Olin Wright, whose work in many ways built upon Poulantzas – “ruptural transformations”. As a corollary, Poulantzas encouraged both the amplification of subaltern voices within state institutions and representative democracy as well as popular movements for establishing new forms of deliberative elements, including principles of direct democracy. While this may involve a “war of position” (Gramsci) within the state itself, this does not mean that the struggles in neighbourhoods, communities, workplaces, campuses and so on are to be neglected.

Max Koch, Rethinking state-civil society relations

[msmc-796-official]

Correspondences from Pilot NET #1

[BEGIN CHATLOG] calibanhammer: Phoenix, why is Pilot NET telling me you've been in correspondence with Recruitment? What on Cradle did you do this time? Exspiritus_Sancti: I don't wanna hear it, Kennedi. I voiced my opinion, the IPS-N Intern agreed with that opinion, IPS-N's PR team took issue with that, and now they're in a bit of hot water. That's all that happened. 70KU-N4H-W4: wait wait hold up - Phoenix started beef with IPS-N and I missed it??? holy shit homegirl you really do have a death wish Exspiritus_Sancti: I didn't start anything!!! Intern did this themselves! All I did was let Recruitment know that we might have a refugee coming in from IPS-N. Honest. calibanhammer: "Refugee"? You offered the IPS-N intern refuge under MSMC? Exspiritus_Sancti: Well, what the hell else was I supposed to do? Sit back and let them die??? Of course I did! Besides, they already have a hell of a track record at IPS-N, especially after that whole debacle with their UNCLE COMP-CON cascading. The last thing I want is for them to end up dead because of a PR blunder. 70KU-N4H-W4: she makes a fair point Kennedi. I'd probably have done the same thing if I knew one of my corpro-employed buddies was in a tight spot calibanhammer: ...I suppose. They wouldn't be the first former brand representative to find their way to MSMC, at any rate. 70KU-N4H-W4: no shit. definitely a safer alternative than fucking off to whatever HORUS splinter cell they belong to Exspiritus_Sancti: I already told you, Slipshod, Intern isn't a HORUS operative! They just... have connections, that's all. 70KU-N4H-W4: suuuure they aren't. just like I'm not a [AUTO-CENSORED BY PILOTNET] piloting a jailbroken tokugawa calibanhammer: I thought I told you to stop using that kind of language on our work server, Ieremia. This is Pilot NET, not a HORUS chatroom. 70KU-N4H-W4: and I thought I told YOU to stop using my real name on here. do that again and I'm shoving a plasma gauntlet so far up your caliban's chassis it'll see RA. do I make myself clear? Exspiritus_Sancti: Hey! That's enough fighting, both of you. We're all members of the 796th here. We gotta stick together. calibanhammer: Phoenix is right. There's no use in infighting over something so trivial. I apologize, Slipshod. I'll refrain from using your real name on here in the future. 70KU-N4H-W4: apology accepted. do you think Intern's gonna bail while they still can, or are they gonna stick it out? Exspiritus_Sancti: I don't know. They dropped me a line saying they appreciated the offer and were genuinely considering it, so who knows. Then again, they did mention changing all the passwords, so IPS-N might have to keep them on for the time being. 70KU-N4H-W4: wait what??? holy shit that's amazing, they'd fit right in around here Exspiritus_Sancti: That's why I offered. I do hope they bring UNCLE along if they do decide to jump ship, he doesn't deserve to get caught in the crossfire. calibanhammer: If memory serves, you mentioned that UNCLE had finally acquired a subaltern body. How is that going? Exspiritus_Sancti: He's doing alright, from the sounds of it! I told Intern to tell him we all said hi. 70KU-N4H-W4: maybe he'll finally get to put that caliban license to good use if they do end up signing on with us. those annoying fucks on trunk security can bite my toku's shiny metal ass Exspiritus_Sancti: You better watch it, Slipshod, or IPS-N's gonna cancel you next. 70KU-N4H-W4: HA! I'd like to see them try. have fun dodging an overcharged annihilator you weaboo shits

[END CHATLOG]

[clove-pinks]

Tired and drained, but I'm reading Charles Carrington again and having weird nostalgia feelings about it since it's been 20 years since my first First World War phase. Back in the day I read Soldier from the Wars Returning (1965), and also Carrington's 1929 memoir A Subaltern's War. My memories are intertwined with thoughts of the charming library in my home town (and Rhode Island's superior public library system); and I wish I could remember who wrote the interesting book about Vimy Ridge.

I was reading Carrington in pre-YouTube days, and it's wild to find television interviews with him. He lived until 1990! I love his "voice" in his books, and his actual speaking voice is also out there. I didn't quite appreciate this before, but Carrington is pretty much the Opposite of the sad gay poets with complicated feelings about nationalism, as WWI veterans go, and his memoir is one endless pacifists DNI, The Boche DNI, historians who don't like Douglas Haig DNI,

[tgirldarkholme]

Tumblr representational fandom politics are so often wholly disconnected from any real-life progressive political concern in a way that can easily seep into the worst subaltern conservatism. Indeed in term of real-life politics (where ethnic and sexual minorities can also have their own strands of reactionary politics not to mention internalized oppression so "X voices" means jack shit) this side of fandom can be just as right-wing if not more than the "anti-woke" *gater camp.

Half the time, if I click on a (cis) lesbian fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're a TERF. Half the time, if I click on a Black fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're an antisemitic (etc.) Black nationalist. Half the time, if I click on a (white) Jewish fandom account with typically Tumblr representational fandom politics they're a Zionist (and not even just liberal Zionists! there's a major white Jewish Marvel fandom account on here who is an alt-right pundit under her real name! if you follow me since a while you know who I'm talking about).

Y'all need to ask yourself why this happens all the fucking time! (Even assuming that this is just reflecting the prevalence of reactionary views in the general population, which I have no hard numbers to refute, surely a subculture that prides itself over its progressivism should be to the left of the general population, uh?)

[zurich-snows]

The two sentences go a long way to legitimize each other. One never encounters the testimony of the women’s voice consciousness. Such a testimony would not be ideology-transcendent or “fully” subjective, of course, but it would constitute the ingredients for producing a counter-sentence. As one goes down the grotesquely mistranscribed names of these women, the sacrificed widows, in the police reports included in the records of the East India Company, one cannot put together a “voice.” The most one can sense is the immense heterogeneity breaking through even such a skeletal and ignorant account (castes, for example, are regularly described as tribes). Faced with the dialectically interlocking sentences that are constructible as “White men are saving brown women from brown men” and “The women wanted to die,” the metropolitan feminist migrant (removed from the actual theater of decolonization) asks the question of simple semiosis— What does this signify?—and begins to plot a history

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Can the Subaltern Speak?: Reflections on the History of an Idea

[hussyknee]

Hello, I just wanted to ask—do you have any indigenous blog recs to follow on Tumblr? I found a few already, but so many blogs in the indigenous tags are non-natives promoting news links about indigenous conservation (which is fine! but like, I want actual indigenous activists directly on Tumblr, not word-of-mouth conservation news). You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but your blog’s made me think hard about the internal, colonialist dynamics on Tumblr, and I want to uplift more marginalized voices.

Hi! Sorry about the late response. Unfortunately I'm woefully ignorant about indigenous peoples, although I'm trying my best to read more about them. My area is mostly subaltern colonialism. But I think @chukchi-bible could help you out! Volga is one of the Chukchi Indigenous people in Siberia who now lives in the US. It def knows more than me.

[curtwilde]

I was so pissed when I first saw this but then. I get it. Tell me more about the subaltern Miss Upper-caste bramhin Private convent school to Presidency to Columbia University professor generational wealth pipeline! You must know everything about adivasis of India from your swanky office at Columbia having left the country when you were twenty years old. You must know a lot about whether or not the subaltern can speak, since 1. you benefit from silencing subaltern voices and 2. you have made a career of their oppression.

The entire subaltern studies group were privileged fucks. Also wtf is subaltern. Just one of those useless jargons academics create to gatekeep knowledge. Call it what it is. Dalit. Aadivasi. Or is that too on the nose for you, not very good for the optics huh?

[omaticwriting]

A little downtime

Eric sat by his newfound bed, his eyes glued to the slate, his gaze focused on the information yet to be while the gentle hum and whirls of machinery of the station blurred out into the back of his mind as time felt still.

A gentle hum of contentment left his lips, the gentle breath slightly fogging the screen, his mind sought many questions that he had found since his joining the SRT and now taking residence at Hell's Gate, buzzing ceaselessly while monotony took root in a bare room he now called his home.

until the sound of the door opening brought everything to a brief halt, seconds that went by felt as if a mere hour had passed.

"So, this is where you've been" Spoke a familiar voice. Looking to the door stood a subaltern in a dark coat and hat, his visor showed two cyan rectangles that resembled eyes looked over to Eric with a placcid expression, finding no objection the subaltern simply walked in, sitting beside him.

"lonely?" He asked, Eric said no words, and yet his expression was all he the answers he could say as the subaltern gestured him to sit beside him.

Eric could only sigh, yet a break was as tempting as the information he wished he sought. shuffling around, he placed his slate to the side, his head leaned onto the shoulders of the subaltern as the tension he never knew faded away as a soft smile took its place.

the two sat silently with only the silence they found themselves in and the stars that shined from his room's window.

[titleknown]

HELLOWEEN #32: ANDUELLE

-ANDUELLE is the Empress of Falsities or the Fools-Gold Queen, known  in hell, with zero estates and zero legions to her name. She may produce grand palaces; furnishings; apparel; garments and other and finery out of mean materials, and teach in the arts of schemes for ascendance; unconventional thinking and civic planning.

She appears as a diminutive woman bedecked in pyrite and glass finery, with a one-eyed crown in place of a head, and I pity for her sad state. I cannot help her from her pain, but I grant my blessings to those who wish to do so.-

...Have you heard of Imcubi? I had not until I began this series. They are a subaltern in Hell, combining the lowliness of imps and the political suspicion towards the succubi and incubi. I am told, especially by Acabus, that their origin involves fornications between the two, but I am told by Giobella that they are spawned from spontaneous energies summoning in a new age of Hell. 

I suspect both are true amongst others. Hell has multitudes of ways of spawning new demons. But few I have seen in such a pitiable situation as Anduelle. She is underneath the grotesque fortress of the Baron of Hell known only by his nickname of the Concrete Regional, upon the backwaters of the 9th layer as a petty tyrant mocked by Hell's other nobility, on a nightmarish house upon what most suspect to be a Leviathan sinkhole but none will tell him.

It is there which Anduelle exists in a situation between servant, pet and prisoner, working for him and treated as, in a cyst upon his house she has decorated as something of a palace amongst the concrete brutalism of his abode. It is unknown how she got there, though whispers say she is one of his daughters, the one he treats with shame. He has tried to warp her body to her liking numerous times, to make her a "true" spawn of the Concrete Regional, but... for some reason she remains incorruptible.

This is perhaps what spurs her ambition, as from what I can tell asking other servants and those friends of hers she has placed many plans into motion where she can, during her master's parties, those rare festivals that come to town, those few contests or missions she can do from her home, attempts at cults and MLMs, she's apparently tried a lot of it. And all of it has failed.

It is usually due to either the failure of those around her to follow-through, the limits of her means, or her own hubris and self-grandiosity. But, that self grandiosity is itself a mechanism derived from what seems like her brutal treatment underneath. 

She is not a person with reach even as she tries, most of her friends are even lower on Hell's political levels than her aside one; and that one is a... strange case, that I may speak of in the future. They are not a demon, I may say that much, so even they cannot even do much. 

I was able to talk to her once, and asked her about her plans. She elaborated on her current plans to take over Hell, all with... varying degrees of holes to them, but it was perhaps a bit difficult still to decline even as she begged me to help, as her conviction... well, there is conviction.

I asked her what she planned to do when she took over Hell. She spoke of improvements to the lives of both demons and souls, how she had read so much civic planning and she was sure she had found the problems that Hell's leadership could just solve if they were just able to listen. 

And I asked after that. And she said taht once she took over Hell, fixed it up, bright and shiny... she would go up to Heaven and apologize for all of Hell and say that they're sorry for the fall, and that she fixed Hell up better, so maybe they could all come back? Maybe someone would love them again?

She said that in the voice of someone who hasn't seen love in aeons. Not enough to live on at any rate. Before I left, I gave her something. The Sign of Lillim that Giobella had given me. She was the other one I was told to tell of it, as Giobella remembered her from a letter she had sent, decades ago.

 She looked at it, and her eye lit up. I could hear laughter of both joy and mania. I hope it helps...

-Xavier X. Xolomon , Monsterologist and Understudy to The Librarian Of Babel

--------------------------

AND WITH THAT, the actual finale to Helloween. Sort of. I might have a few ideas for appendicies, but those are for later. This character was one I thought of before any of the others in here, and she would likely be the protagonist of any stories I might tell focused solely on Hell and its affairs.

She's based on a real person I know, who... well, she's got to deal with so much shit, and I wish I could help her. If she had a means to send donations to her via Paypal online, I would link it, but she doesn't have much of a prescence, though she's made a couple of things you might like.

As per usual the whole descriptions, designs, ectcetera from this project are free to use as you see fit under a CC-BY 4.0 license so long as I; Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as their creator!

[winniemaywebber]

[ comfort ] for Olive (for the kiss prompts), please.

(I really enjoy reading your MOTA stories, BTW!)

hi, nonnie! thanks so much for the request (prompt list here! inbox is open) and your sweet words!

As soon as the Red Cross Girls had heard Colonel Harding - Chicky, as they liked to playfully call him - murmur to Red over their morning coffee that “the time is almost upon us,” they knew they'd be in for a rough week. It was as if the mood on base had shifted, the girls feeling like they were walking through clouds of tension every moment they were around the men.

It's Saturday morning, a day off for the girls, which they'd usually spend walking around the village for a change of scenery. Helen would then retire to the hut, writing to her mom and other family members while Val and Olive would go visit their men, if only to bring them a coffee and a sweet nothing whispered in their ear to pass the time. On this particular Saturday, they're holed up in their offices, the air stuffy from constant cigarette smoke plumes that clouded both offices - a sure sign Ev and Dougie were present, the pair of them taking to chain smoking through the long hours crouched over paperwork, sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, planning for the biggest mission of all: the invasion of Europe.

Val and Olive wave Helen off with a friendly kiss on the cheek, they both pour a coffee and grab a candy bar from the Clubmobile for the fellas before making their way to their offices. They split off with a wink; Ev sharing an office with Rosie and Dougie sharing his with Croz. Ev had basked in the decision, telling Val and Olive as much in a hushed voice in the club one evening.

“I definitely lucked out with Rosie as an office mate. He's great, so level headed and together. Unlike our nervous buddy over there,” he pauses, nodding towards Crosby who was downing whiskey like it was going out of style. “He's all over the place.”

That much is proven the second Olive walks into the office, wafting Lucky Strike smoke from her face as she enters. She places the first coffee and Hershey bar on Harry's desk, the anxiety wreaking havoc on him as he hunches over the phone, speaking in hushed tones.

The second, she places in front of Dougie, wrapping her arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, sugar,” she says.

“Hi,” he croaks out, not looking up from the mound of paperwork stacked on his desk. There's a moment of awkward silence, the tension rising in the air as Olive clears her throat.

“So,” she starts again. “It's Saturday! Shall we go for dinner with the Blakely's? Maybe stay the night and have a cuddle?”

“Not tonight, Olive. Busy,” he sighs, him using her whole name causing her breath to stutter a little. Her heart starts pounding so loud that she can feel it in her eardrums, her hands beginning to get clammy. She casts her mind back to the last few days, recounting every interaction and wondering if there was one that irked him, one that maybe had pissed him off. She comes up empty, her mind racing at thousands of miles an hour.

“O-okay,” she says, trying to take a deep breath and feign togetherness. “So, just a drink at the bar–”

“I said I'm busy, okay?”

Olive takes a step back, surprised at his tone. The step back is almost muscle movement, knowing it's best to protect herself when a man gets angry. She'd been on the other end of Kyle's rants too many times to understand that.

“Are you mad at me?” she squeaks, her eyes involuntarily filling up with tears.

“For fuck sake, no, I'm not mad at you,” he replies, finally looking up from his desk, his body turning in Croz's direction. “Crosby, quit whispering into that damn phone and go to bed!” Forehead now leaning on his hand, he goes back to what he was reading moments before, mumbling to himself as he turns the page over. “What the hell is a Subaltern anyway?”

A soft rap on the door comes before it opens, Val poking her head in. “Everything okay?” she asks softly. “I heard shouting.”

Before anyone can answer, she's let herself in and crossed her arms, that all too familiar brow furrow coming into vision at the sight of Olive’s pale face. “I'm waiting,” she says, turning to Dougie who is turned away from her. Olive hears him take a deep breath, her fingers rubbing together in nervousness, the skin burning as she repeats the action over and over to try and steady herself. He stands slowly, Olive quickly beelining for the door and pushing past Valencia.

“Ol? What–” she hears her say, before she loudly asks, “what did you do, James?”

—

Sitting outside of the Red Cross hut, knees to her chest as she tries to focus on breathing, she feels a presence appear above her. Valencia stands tall, yet relaxed before shifting her skirt to sit down next to her.

“You'll be happy to know he still has kneecaps,” Val says casually, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to Olive. “And he is alive. But he did tell me what happened, and I sternly reminded him that he shouldn't talk to you like that.” She holds her close, their free hands clasped together. “I've never seen you like this. Not even when you two fought all those months ago. What's all this, doll, hm?”

“It's so silly,” she squeaks out, closing her eyes in embarrassment. “I know he wouldn't physically hurt me but…it's angry men. Men who get angry.”

“You're gonna need to give me more than that, girly.”

“My ex, Kyle,” she winces, the mention of his name causing bile to rise up in her throat, so much so that she can almost taste it. “He was so angry. The smallest things I did set him off…I was on the other end of an angry man's hand for a couple of years and now, the second a man gets angry. I don't know,” she takes a deep drag of the cigarette. “I believe they call it self preservation.”

“And I'd call it ‘I'm glad that asshole is seventy years in the future, otherwise he'd have no kneecaps, elbows or ears.’” Olive giggles, breathing out and relaxing into her friend. “From what I can gather, this mission is huge. So huge that even I can't know yet, and Chicky is usually fine with getting me knowledgeable. Dougie is just overwhelmed. Ev just handles it better because he's paired with Major Level Headed Rosenthal. Your guy is with the man who couldn't find France because he couldn't stop puking, who is so anxious that I'm sure he'll end up worrying himself into anemia.”

“Yeah,” Olive sighs, smoking the last of the cigarette. “Still shouldn't have spoken to me like that, though. He could have said he was overwhelmed.”

“Olive, look at me,” she says seriously, holding her chin in her hand. “He is a man.”

Olive tries her best to keep a straight face, but drops it the second Val breaks into roaring laughter. As she opens her eyes again, she sees James making his way over in a Jeep.

“I'll leave you to it,” Val says, squeezing her hand as she gets up.

“Thanks, Val,” Dougie says, sitting in the spot she just left.

“I'm sorry, Ollie,” he says, holding her head on his chest and kissing her hair. “I'm just–it's a little overwhelming. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, I was outta line.”

“So you're not mad at me?”

“Jeez, no,” he reassures her, lifting her chin to have her look at him. “I could never be mad at you.” He kisses her gently before holding her again, squeezing her close to him.

[eavanyhuang]

The Ghost of the Subject

In Toward A Global Idea of Race (2007), da Silva raises several trenchant questions that are extremely relevant to the Palestinian context. For example, read the following quotes:“How does social scientific knowledge justify the murder of people of color? My reply is, How does its arsenal explain it?” (xiv) If God was dead in late eighteenth century Europe, “should we not expect that a lesser entity would eventually share the same fate?……if the Subject, the thing that actualizes reason and freedom, had been born somewhere in time, would it not also eventually die?” (xx) Meditating on the co-occurrence of subaltern voices and the announcement of “the death of the subject” under “postmodernity” among Western academics, da Silva recenters many indigenous and black women’s political sensibility. Whose death? Who is perceived as terrifying and threatening to kill? Who’s lamenting the fragility, mortality, and perceived death of the universal Subject? In the name of what do they defend this Subject, science or history?

We are living in the aftermath of such announcement and the paranoia it produces. I cannot but read this as a painful reminder of Israel’s targeted assassinations of prominent writers, journalists, and scholars in Gaza. Most recently, the beloved Dr. Refaat al-Areer was killed yesterday amidst Israel’s targeted bombardment of his house. The history of white supremacist settler colonial modernity must defend its Subject, a Subject predicated on the absolute annihilation of all traces its others. No wonder any mentioning of Palestinian lives is immediately (and pathologically) deemed as a call to wage war on the Israeli Subject. Such is the onto-epistemological premise the modern Subject in the form of the nation-state operates upon. It is not self-victimizing, it is by definition a victim. Victimhood is its unnegotiable onto-status.

To whom is this death of the Subject real and relevant? Consider the following scenario from her reflection:

“Many of my undergraduate students, some actively involved in the struggle for global justice, stare blankly at my mention of the death of the subject. ‘The death of whom?” they ask, demanding clarification. After my initial surprise, I usually find myself trying to explain why the political significance of his death derives precisely from the ontoepistemological irrelevance of his death: the subject may be dead, I tell them, but his ghost—the tools and the raw material used in his assemblage—remain with us.” (xxiii)

In the following pages of the Introduction, she firmly rejects the impulse to interpret subaltern voices through the paradigm of inclusive representation, especially considering that this “epistemological emancipation” of the Subject or Human “seemed out of sync with the concept’s ontological inheritance”. (xxi) Following this, she simultaneously rejects reformist accounts of the Subject. This includes, among others, the anti-racial-capitalist Subject, arguing that historical materialism’s privileging of historicity fails to take racialization (as a post-Enlightenment strategy of power) seriously. That is, by theorizing race as merely a byproduct of capitalist modernity, historical materialists in effect relegate any racial project as ahistorical and therefore excluding them from the realm of the Subject. It remains unclear why any political project should prioritize historicity at all at the cost of subjugating discussions of race. It is for this line of thinking that I deem the Leninist-historical inquiry of “What Is to Be Done” at the moment as a dangerous betrayal of the Palestinian cause. Likewise, I find her critique of anti-colonial transnational feminist Subject spot-on, as it too falls into the tropological trap of representative inclusivity.

If the problem is not inclusivity and exclusivity, what then? Following Joan Scott and like Gayatri Spivak, she seems to target the discursive power of modernity-coloniality per se. It indicates that any modern political projects that presupposes a universal Subject, in its countless forms, fails to get to the root of the problem. This gives rise to a whole different set of questions, but at the core of these is “why, despite its moral ban, the racial still constitutes a prolific strategy of power.” (xxxi) Unlike Scott and Spivak, however, she explicitly refuses to center her project around the documentation and demonstration of historical-discursive exclusivity. Instead, she seeks to investigate the seemingly unbroken triangle of ethics, morality, and justice, that is, the mental gymnastics of the Subject:

“engage in the kind of analytical groundwork necessary for a critical account that moves beyond listing how each excludes, and, instead, examine how the racial combines with other social categories (gender, class, sexuality, culture, etc.) to produce modern subjects who can be excluded from (juridical) universality without unleashing an ethical crisis.” (xxxi)

In other words, this is a critical project that stretches the narrative glue of the modern Subject to its limits in order to test what sustains it. What Paul Ricoeur calls the “ontological vehemence” undergirding his theory of the narrative self would be, in da Silva’s eyes, a self-defeating (and self-deceptive) insistance on the transparency thesis and its promised interiority. By unpacking the modern “symbolic trinity” of the national, the racial, and the cultural, she refuses to overlook the predicament that narrativist approach to anti-racism cast on our collective emancipatory projects. Narrative activism based on racial identities serves as a form of auto-inclusion into the transparent social configuration governed by universality and historicity.