#take away our google privileges this is hell

[sgiandubh]

But first, time to say good-bye

It was to be a late departure (bureaucracy will someday kill us all...) from Athens, an endlessly diverted way North through a very early summer and some fitful sleep near the border, where poppies were already in bloom and elusive to the camera:

I promised to share with you my story with Mycenae the day I would leave Greece for good. Yesterday was the day, so here goes.

I first went to Mycenae on a horrendously rainy day, in November 2018. The place struck me as a haphazard settlement of sorts in the wake of some ancient apocalypse, which was absolutely correct. We stayed in my colleague from Culture and Press' car, munched on some horribly stale koulouria as all hell broke loose outside, when she finally told me: ' you know what, I am happy we made it here: in Mycenae, you can only hear and tell the truth, you know'.

I have to say I ogled in suspicion. I was wet, hungry and completely unused to the Greek way of dressing everything up in mythology. She spoke Greek as I speak French and knew perfectly well what she was doing. She was casting a spell - an unbreakable one, for which I will forever be grateful. Oh, and as all myths would have it, the Lion Gate was closed, by the time we arrived.

It took me almost two years to go back there, during the pandemic, scared summer of 2020, when everything was empty and glorious to fully take in, like a big gulp of colors and sounds and life. My digs were to be always the same: unassuming Petite Planète, the last B&B in town, a stone throw away from Agamemnon's treasury, owned by the Dassis clan of archaeologists.

Their story begins in Constantinople, around 1875, when Konstantinos, a young orphan, begged Heinrich Schliemann to take him along to wherever he was traveling. He quickly became indispensable and helped with the first digs in Mycenae. He was the one who found Agamemnon's mask:

When the digging was over, Schliemann bought him a tiny house for two pence and a half and told him to stay there. 'Many people will come to visit and they will need food and a roof. Make sure you do your best and it will make you a rich man.'

And they came. In droves. If you ask nicely, V. will show you their reception rosters, safely tucked away in a bank vault, in Argos. I had the privilege to see Virginia Woolf's signature and I was stunned. Schliemann's two pence house is now doubled by a garish modern addition you can see from the main road as La Belle Hélène B&B ('my cousin Agamemnon is a greedy idiot', says V), but Schliemann's room is piously kept as it was when the strange German gentleman left them to their fate. As is, they did not become rich, but that does not matter. You will always find a place at their wonderful table, where Mamma Dassis cooks the same food they ate back in Constantinople and they would not have it otherwise. The new, bigger and better B&B is called Petite Planète because of V's father undying passion for Saint Exupéry's Little Prince. It permeates everything without being obtrusive, because sometimes 'the essential is invisible to the eye'.

Back in 2020, they were worried. Very worried. The Lion Gate was open again, but the 'cretins at Google' wouldn't have it and kept on listing it as closed, on their maps. People were canceling their bookings. The village stood unusually quiet and forlorn.

I made no promises. But I did phone some people at the Greek Ministry of Culture. The least person I expected to be of any help, H, a transparent, mousey freeloader, who was always the last to leave all of our events in the hope we'd take her to dinner in town, happened to be some sort of underling at the Archaeological Sites Department. She immediately understood what I wanted her to do.

Three days after I left Mycenae, on my road trip to the Mani peninsula, I received this message in my Booking inbox:

This started it all. And from that moment, all my Greek roads will lead there. It's also been a long time since I have trouble forcefully paying them for my monthly stays (booking and paying in advance helps, though), something they adamantly refused last time I went there:

'G., the girl wants to pay.'

'This is ridiculous, of course. This girl is family.'

Someday, I just know I will be back. For good.

After five years and a half, many more fabulous stories (Mycenean potter and poet, anyone? mad postman? Kyria Stamatoula and her goats? Kyrios Pandelis and his jams?) the only thing I know about Greece is that, for all its (many) misgivings, this land is about two things:

Friends and Heroes.

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

If you were offered the same job, like hotel registration in general, but as far away from Florida as possible, would you take it?

If by "as far away" you mean "on Earth," then no, because I rather like living on land instead of at sea 1000 miles off the coast of Perth, Australia.

Honest answer, maybe. I don't think I could ever work for a big chain, because I hate company culture so fucking much. I have a lot of freedom at the little Mom and Pop motel I work at now, and I'd have to give that up if I got a job at a Marriott or Holiday Inn. The job itself is easy, it's just the clientele I hate with a burnimg passion; check out my tag "all tourists are bastards" for the greatest hits.

My boss doesn't care what I do or say as long as I get the job done. No uniform, no fake smile, no manager breathing down my neck. She understands that the customer is often wrong, and doesn't take shit from anyone. If someone complains about something beyond our control, she takes my side and tells them to suck it up or leave.

The absolute greatest part about my current job is that I'm not expected to do anything between customers. Sure, every now and then my boss will give me chores, but that only happens as they're needed

If FedEx drops off a package for a customer, I walk it to their room

If a customer smears their sweaty hands all over the office door, I clean it

If the brochure display runs low, I fill it

But that's all just part of the job. My boss never just finds shit for me to do to fill time. If there's nothing to do, I can go on my phone or read a book or draw, and she doesn't care. I have plenty of downtime, and it does wonders for my mental health. No other hotel on Earth would allow me such a privilege because most front desks are in a public communal area where I'd have to put on my Customer Service Face™ at all times, while the office door at my current job is locked 24/7 with a big neon PLEASE RING DOORBELL FOR SERVICE sign hung up at eye level. I don't have to stand all day, I only have to get up when they buzz so I can open the door for them from the inside. There's no stool at the desk, I stand for every customer, but once they leave I can go to the back room and sit in a recliner (though I'm not allowed to recline it; still comfy)

No Best Western manager would ever let me cuss out a customer who started shit. My boss lets me defend myself, and I appreciate that more than anything. Customers are liars, and she knows it. I love, love, LOVE when they start arguing with me and ask to speak with my manager, only for her to tell them exactly what I did, verbatim. Hell, it's gotten to the point that I offer to get her involved from the start, "oh, you don't like what I telling you? Do you want to speak with my boss, the owner?" We don't need their business, this place has been a community cornerstone for decades, no amount of entitled asshole reviews will ever tank it.

If I could find a nice Mom and Pop place somewhere up north, and if I could establish a mutually respectful relationship with the owner, I'd take the job in a heartbeat, but every time I google a state I want to move to I get met with dozens of horror stories telling me that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Everyone hates where they live, that's a given, but to someone living in Weimar Germany (almost Nazi), those places look like paradise in comparison. Oregon, Washington state, Vermont, Massachusetts, they seem like beacons of hope to lil ole naive me. Ideally I want to move to New Zealand, but that's beyond my budget (and probably always will be). Nowhere is safe from crazy, but some places are more tolerable.

[scorbleeo]

Book Review: Corrupt

Devil's Night (Book 1) by Penelope Douglas

Source: Google Images

Erika

I was told that dreams were our heart’s desires. My nightmares, however, became my obsession.

His name is Michael Crist.

My boyfriend’s older brother is like that scary movie that you peek through your hand to watch. He is handsome, strong, and completely terrifying. The star of his college’s basketball team and now gone pro, he’s more concerned with the dirt on his shoe than me.

But I noticed him.

I saw him. I heard him. The things that he did, and the deeds that he hid…For years, I bit my nails, unable to look away.

Now, I’ve graduated high school and moved on to college, but I haven’t stopped watching Michael. He’s bad, and the dirt I’ve seen isn’t content to stay in my head anymore.

Because he’s finally noticed me.

Michael

Her name is Erika Fane, but everyone calls her Rika.

My brother’s girlfriend grew up hanging around my house and is always at our dinner table. She looks down when I enter a room and stills when I am close. I can always feel the fear rolling off of her, and while I haven’t had her body, I know that I have her mind. That’s all I really want anyway.

Until my brother leaves for the military, and I find Rika alone at college.

In my city.

Unprotected.

The opportunity is too good to be true as well as the timing. Because you see, three years ago she put a few of my high school friends in prison, and now they’re out.

We’ve waited. We’ve been patient. And now every last one of her nightmares will come true.

ISBN: 9781518783876 (2015) | Source: Goodreads

Enjoyable but Also WTF?

Going into this book, I already expected to read some messed up things but I am slightly taken aback that the level of messed up did not reach my expectations? For example, that whole revenge scheme? Taking away everything felt so mild and other than the assault that really disappointed me (in terms of the boys disappointing me), the only thing the boys did that I thought was edging towards evil was that box of remembrance. Maybe because I am a rather sentimental person so I cannot imagine what kind of hell I would rain down if someone destroyed my box of remembrance. Unfortunately, that "act of evil" was not even a planned event, it happened coincidentally just because box was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I would have called that pathetic.

Moving on to the attempted assault, I lost so much respect for Rika, honestly. I knew it was a misunderstanding from a severe lack of communication and so much miscommunication, but her forgiving them for attempting it was just, pathetic. Rika really should have more backbone in this regards and at least get some revenge. Instead, she slept with Michael. Utterly pathetic.

Something else I was not a big fan of. The boys constantly described Rika as fearless and a little screwed up but I don't see that at all. What I saw was a privileged girl with kinks and some amount of guts, that's all. Personally, Alex was a much better badass than Rika. Rika's character arc is something I don't quite like in the female characters I read about.

Corrupt might have been full of flaws but on some level, I enjoyed my reading time with it. Rika's relationship with Michael was boring but I loved reading about Kai. The way Douglas wrote the scenes of Kai with either Rika or Michael were filled with so much tension, it was so fun to read them. I guess that's probably why the threesome was unexpected but I do not mind it.

Oh, before I end this review. Trevor? Man, that boy is one of the most pathetic people I've ever read about.

Rating: ★★★☆☆

P.S.: Do not let my over-usage of pathetic take away the fact that I still ultimately enjoyed the book.

[enderwoah]

SLAMS HANDS ON THE TABLE

C!RANBOO IS A BIOLOGICAL HORRORTERROR THAT SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO EXIST UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE

(all of this is /rp /dsmp)

so my friends and i in our lore discord were discussing our favorite theory/headcanon/we just really wish it would happen already: drownboo! aka, c!ranboo gets executed (for whatever reason) in a water tank, since he's an enderman and it'd be really angsty and we just wanna see how it'll affect c!ranboo and see how cc!ranboo will act it out! because! y'know! angst is fun???

anyways, i brought up that someone in the comment section of that one really popular drownboo animatic said that c!ranboo in a water tank would dissolve like a bath bomb.

morbid, i know. this entire post is morbid. this post discusses lots of blood, lots of drowning, low-key graphic discussions of dissolving and BONES, jokes about cannibalism, morbid jokes about the topic (because this is minecraft roleplay), lots of caps, and...the ph levels of c!ranboo's blood??? under the cut so you can scroll by if you don't want to see that!

ALRIGHT, ONE OF OUR BIG QUESTIONS (that we've asked ranboo directly and he just HASN'T ANSWERED):

DOES RANBOO'S BLOOD SWIRL LIKE A POPSICLE WHEN MIXED?

DOES IT SEPERATE LIKE WATER AND OIL??

DOES IT DISSOLVE???

DOES IT MIX TOGETHER????

it'd be a HELLA nasty color (#987B23) if it did mix together, if it dissolved then the entire tank would be this disgusting brown, but if it stayed separate it would be...fairly pretty. terrifyingly pretty, morbidly pretty, but the perfect separation of the red and green in the water would be symbolic and whatnot. it might even tye-dye his white shirt :skull:

so then we were like okay...what else wouldn't dissolve if our beloved enderboy got executed. his eyes? that'd be disgusting. his clothes, definitely, and that'd be some morbid-ass little nightmares type shit. the fanart coming out of that would be delightful though /s but also /pos

we had a little bit of a back and forth about whether he'd totally dissolve or if he'd just have very severe burns but eventually we all settled on a single question:

WHAT ABOUT THE BONES, CHAT?

if ranboo fully dissolved, WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO HIS BONES?? WOULD WATER BE ENOUGH?? OR WOULD THERE BE 250-ODD BONES ALSO JUST VIBING IN THE WATER WITH HIS TYE-DYED SHIRT AND OVERCOAT?

this, of course, sparked a mad scramble for information. i found out that in sulfuric acid, it takes bones two odd days to dissolve, which is ABSOLUTELY far too much time for poignancy. some take shorter amounts of time, but none that would be finished by the time quackity decided that the water tank full of blood and other various internal organs should be moved from the middle of las nevadas.

so was this it? would we be plagued with having to draw and write about ranboo's clothes and his bones if he ever got executed? would our only out from this horrible fate be having to say "i headcanon that his bones dissolved along with the rest of him?"

no. my friend refused to let that happen.

through their EXTENSIVE research (see: about ten minutes of google searching) they found out exactly what constitutes as "acidic" to an enderman.

pure water is 6.5-8.5Ph, and tears are 6.5-7.6Ph, so 6.5 Ph seems to be acidic enough to corrode skin to an enderman.

you with me? that's just water.

hydrochloric acid, which can corrode human skin, is 1.6Ph. thinking about this, endermen most likely consider acid acid (not just the burnin that water does) to be around 5Ph.

5Ph. That is the Ph level of coffee.

sulfuric acid can eventually dissolve bone and that’s 0.5PH. IF YOU PUT RANBOO IN COFFEE, HIS BONES WOULD PROBABLY DISSOLVE.

so of course, this sent us into absolute fucking HYSTERICS --

-- but then one of our beloved friends started thinking about how efficient dissolving him in coffee would actually be.

with all this said and done, the conversations started to simmer out into more lighthearted jokes. and then my friend decided that we simply could not finish this off without something that absolutely traumatizes all of us.

and so they dropped this.

for you see, my dear readers, human blood is about the same Ph of water. which means that for ranboo's blood to be able to flow through his veins without, well, burning them, the Ph level of it would have to be drastically bumped up about six levels.

which puts his blood at a Ph of 12.

which is bleach.

AND WHILE WE WERE ALL COMPLETELY KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT AT THE ABSURDITY OF THIS SITUATION, THEY CAME TO YET ANOTHER REALIZATION

RANBOO'S OTHER HALF IS WHITE BECAUSE HIS BLOOD IS BLEACH.

RANBOO IS JUST A FUCKING BLEACHED ENDERMAN.

HE'S A BIOLOGICAL NIGHTMARE.

[prettyboypucey]

Weird ~ G.W.

Summary: George is gorgeous. Charlie is a meddler. The snow is cold. (this summary sucks...just read it) 

Pairing: George Weasley x Y/N 

Word Count: 2,404 (who do I think I am?) 

Warnings: mentions of bullying. mentions of food/eating. george is unknowingly triggering? reader cries. idk? let me know if i missed something. 

A/N: part 2? maybe? translations are for romanian via google translate. do not come for me if they are hella wrong. 

Translations: draga - darling; dragoste - love; tampit - stupid 

     I had never been normal. From the time I was a toddler I had stars in my eyes and dirt on my knees. While the other kids in my grade were playing with dolls and dressing respectably, I was riding imaginary dragons and wearing mismatched socks with dungarees and a butterfly headband. Normalcy evaded me even further when at 11 years old, I got a letter declaring me a witch.

     When I first came to Hogwarts I spent the majority of my time alone. It appeared that even children who could wave a stick around and makes things fly wanted nothing to do with the colorful little girl. Meeting Luna Lovegood in my second year was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Here was a girl who allowed me to be exactly who I was with no judgments. And then she introduced me to Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley, and suddenly that little girl who thought her only friends would always be the rocks she painted faces on, had found her people.

     Of course, being friends with Ginny Weasley meant knowing her many brothers. So after graduation when I went off to Romania to work with dragons it made me feel slightly better knowing Charlie Weasley would be there. He quickly took me under his wing and became the older brother figure I had never had. After working together for three years, and electing to stay at the sanctuary for the last two over the holidays, he had finally convinced me to come home with him. I was reluctant to leave the sanctuary - the one place I truly feel safe (despite the massive fire breathing creatures).

     Charlie had warned me that being with one or two of the Weasleys was very different from being with the entire Weasley clan. Obviously I knew Charlie and Ginny, Ron had always been nice to me, and I had met Molly a handful of times in passing. However, Bill was known to be quite intimidating, Percy was supposedly very no-nonsense, and the twins (albeit never cruel) had a reputation of being hell-raisers.

     Apparating to the edge of a marsh with Charlie by my side I could see the rising structure haphazardly balanced slightly ahead.

     Pausing, I glanced at the back of the familiar red covered head, “I don’t know Charles, maybe I should just go back. I really don’t want to be a burden.”

     Charlie very quickly rounded behind me to continue guiding me towards his home, “No, no, no, no, no. No. You’re not a burden to anyone draga. Keep your head up and if any of them give you grief - remind them of the giant, winged beasts you can feed them to.”

     Quickly placing a kiss to the side of my head Charlie bounded ahead again to open the door and announce your arrival. Before I could toe off the first boot to leave next to the dozen other pairs in the entryway, a pair of arms had flung around my neck.

     “Y/N! I missed you so much!”, Ginny pulled back, keeping her grip on my shoulders, to inspect for any major injuries.

     I held onto her elbows, keeping her close, “Hi Gin, I missed you too. A lot. I’m loving this new look by the way.”

     She reached up to brush the now short locks behind her ears. A grin on her face as the two of us looked the other over for the first time in months. Ginny was wrapped in a pretty baby pink sweater with shades of red and white running through it. The material was soft against my palm as I hooked it around her crooked elbow to follow her into the living area.

     “You know”, she started, “I was starting to think maybe Charlie had let you get eaten or burnt to a crisp in the land of dragons. It’s been so long since you’ve come to see me or left the sanctuary.”

     “I’m sorry Ginny. It’s just that after everything, I had to keep myself busy.”

     Ginny’s smile softened into one of understanding. The war had taken a part of all of us. Although Fred had recovered after many months, that fear of almost losing such a vital part of their family had rocked the entire Weasley family to its core.

     “I get it, I do, but I worry about you. I just want you to know you’re not alone Y/N.”

     I pulled the girl into another tight hug, “I know.”

     Ginny pulled away first, clearing her throat, “Okay! Now that’s out of the way - it’s time to introduce the one and only Y/N L/N to the Weasley’s.”

     I hummed, “Hmmm and which of us should be more scared?”

     “Oh definitely the Weasleys.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

     Meeting the Weasley family had gone much better than expected.

     Molly had opened her arms and home to me as if I was one of her own children. By the time the night was over she had me stuffed full of warm food and drink and donning my very own coveted Weasley sweater, the lavender initial in the middle marking it as my own. Arthur had been very interested in my muggle parents and upbringing, questioning me about the functions of a rubber duck. Bill and his wife Fleur were the most stunning couple I have ever seen, and not nearly as intimidating as people portrayed them. Fleur was pleased when she found out I spoke a bit of conversational French and promised to have me over to Shell Cottage (apparently they have an amazing collection of wind chimes that I am dying to see). Percy was a bit more refined. Completely polite and friendly but he seemed reserved. Ginny had explained in one of her letters how much guilt Percy carried after the Battle of Hogwarts over how he had behaved in the years leading up to that day.

     The twins were much different than I remembered them being from the few times we were around each other in school. The physical differences were clear - George’s missing ear and Fred’s dragging limp were both signs of the prices they paid in the war. More than that however, they had matured greatly. They were still happy and made sure to pull at least two pranks over the night, poor Molly nearly lost her voice after they blew up the turkey. However, there was something in their eyes that had been dimmed. Especially in George.

     His twin almost died that night, and it reflected in George’s eyes each time he looked at his older brother. It was clear that he was still afraid because whenever Fred left a room George followed, never letting his brother out of his sight, and if he happened to lose track of him a panic began to swirl in his brown orbs.

     I was in the middle of watching as George yet again made his way to Fred’s side, clapping a large hand on his twins shoulder and throwing his head back in laughter.

     “So which one are you staring at dragoste?”, Charlie whispered as he appeared out of nowhere.

     I ignored the burning in my cheeks as I looked away from the scene in front of me.

     “I am not staring at either of them tampit.”

     “Mhmm, sure, absolutely, I believe you.”, after a quick pause he said, “It’s George isn’t it?”

     I turned and scoffed at him, “No!… How did you know?”

     Charlie let out a chuckle, “Because I know you my little dragon. I also know my brother, and just between us, he definitely likes you as well.”

     At this I let out an incredulous laugh and glanced back to where George was now telling a story, his hands moving animatedly. There was no way that George Weasley had even a remote attraction to me. He was kind, strong, clever, and so bloody gorgeous it truly was a privilege to look at him. And I am…me. Nothing special. Just a girl who had more dragon friends than human ones and whose hands were covered in scars and callouses and whose socks never matched and had never even kissed a man before. So no, there was no way that George Weasley would ever like me.

     “Hey. I know that look Y/N. Stop those thoughts right this bloody second.”

     “Charles it really is annoying when you read me like that.”

     Throwing his arm over my shoulder he began to lead me towards the twins, “Yes I know and I am sorry in advance but this needs to be done. Fred!”

     Charlie’s voice had gone from a rushed whisper to a jovial shout when we reached George, Fred, and Ron by the fireplace. George’s smile as he turned to look at us sent a million butterflies off in my tummy.

     “So Freddy, I was hoping you could help me out with a top secret project tomorrow for mum and maybe show me around the joke shop. I heard you added some new displays that I want to check out.”

     “Sure Charlie”, Fred glanced at George as he spoke, “I’m sure we can make some time for our favorite brother.”

     Ignoring Rons protest, Charlie gripped my shoulders and pushed me in front of him, “Actually George I was thinking you could stay here and show Y/N around the area. She mentioned wanting to talk a walk tomorrow and I would hate to disappoint her on her first Christmas out of the sanctuary.”

     “Um-”

     I interrupted the rejection coming from George, “No please, I would hate to be a bother and make you be stuck with me all day. I’m sure Ginny can take me.”

     George smiled and shook his head, “No it’s completely fine Y/N. I would be happy to show you around.”

     “Okay great! It’s settled then!”, Charlie looked rather too pleased with himself and obviously missed the look exchanged by his identical younger brothers.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The next morning the Burrow was a flurry of movement as everyone began their day. Apparently Charlie and Fred weren’t the only ones on their way out. The others still had some last minute gift shopping to do and Ron was spending the day with Hermione’s muggle family. After breakfast, a quick wink from Charlie, and a slam of the front door - George and I were alone in the house.

     The two of us stood facing one another in the living room for a few awkward moments before George spoke, “Well, um, did you want to head out as well?”

     “Oh sure! Yes, let me just grab my boots really quickly.”

     George led me out the door and onto the snow covered path towards the small, iced over river. Nothing was said for a while, the only sound was the crunch of snow under our boots and the occasional sniffle from one of our red noses. I was mentally imagining all the ways I was going to kick Charlie’s ass when he got back for suggesting a walk in the middle of winter when we came to the top of a hill and stopped.

     Everything as far as the eye could see was blanketed in sheets of white. Stomping my boots down into the fresh snow, I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as the snow gave way underfoot. Feeling a pair of eyes on me I remembered that I wasn’t alone and turned to see George watching me with an unidentifiable look on his face.

     “Sorry, sorry. That was - I don’t know why I did that. I liked the feeling of the crunch of the snow I guess. Sorry.”

     George grinned, “You don’t have to apologize. It was cute.”

     I could feel my face flush at his words. His smile grew even wider at the sight of my heated face. My gaze dropped from his pretty face down to my boots. I could feel the thick socks I had on beginning to grow cold and wet from how long we’d been outside. Looking back up I could see George’s deep eyes glaze over. Assuming it was because he had been apart from Fred so long I glanced out at the view one last time before turning back the way we came.

     “We should probably get back. We’ve been gone a while and my toes are getting wet. I feel bad enough that Charlie forced you to do this anyways without you getting frostbite or something. I’ve had frostbite, it’s not fun. And now I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Sorry”

     George was shaking his head at me and said, “You are so weird.”

     Ouch. My chest tightened and the small smile I had been wearing dropped from my face. If I had been able to see past the tears forming in my eyes that were making my sight blurry, I would have seen George’s face do the same. Unfortunately, all I could focus on was that word. Weird. Strange. Abnormal. Freak. 

     Weird weird weird.

     The walk back was silent. A thick tension surrounded you both as thick snow flurries began to swirl down in the midmorning air. Just as thick was the lump forming in my throat as I fought back tears. I know I shouldn’t let his words affect me. He’s just some guy. But deep down I also know that he’s not just some guy. This is George fricking Weasley. With his stupid perfect face and gorgeous eyes and his loyalty to his family. I couldn’t help but be enamored with him from the moment I walked in the Weasley’s front door. So it hurt to hear the man I liked call me that nasty word that has haunted me my entire life.

     When we finally reached the Burrow, George tried to reach for my arm but I pulled away and ran into the house. I could hear that some of the others had returned and really wanted to avoid a confrontation. Once again, luck wasn’t on my side. Charlie came walking out of the kitchen and saw me in the entryway. His face immediately became concerned at the sight of me and he lowered the sandwich he had from his mouth.

     “Draga?”, Charlie’s voice followed me as I finally reached the stairs and launched upstairs.

     As I reached the first landing I heard him speak again, his voice rough and hard.

     “What did you do?”  

[impossiblelibrary]

Today's rant brought to you by: Queer Eye Japan, can we all just try to be as kind as they try to be?

After watching the Queer Eye Japan super short season, I wanted to google to see the overall reaction to the show, make sure that my western eyes were correct in seeing the care that was given to the culture. Were cultural taboos, other than being outwardly gay, crossed? So I find this article in the top results and other than the perspective, why tho? Tokyoesque.com had an article with a higher reading level, with surface level appreciation but at least better written.

I can't get over this hate article though. Unfounded, dumb, wrong and incorrect. Do not go forward unless you like that blistering kind of anger from me.

But the reasons just get weaker as the article extends: "Hurts the country it set out to save?" Looking for white savior much? They did not go to save Japan, they gave some free shit to like 4-5 people, think smaller.

Their culture guide wasn't gay enough.

You want to suggest any lgbt insta models or celebrities, use your platform to raises some up?

"There is a growing sexless culture in Japan for married and unmarried people, and it is perilous watching Queer Eye present this without any context behind what is driving this behavior."

Sexiness is what the fab 5 embrace, unfortunately and it was probably discussed behind the scenes of how much talking about sex was allowed or polite and the conversation of not having sex is closer to the tip of the tongue rather than the feeling of sexiness. The West is not the ones blasting that information. It is across multiple Japanese printed newspapers and online stories by now and the "context" is still being discussed and debated amongst Japanese. So I don't think any outsiders should be weighing in or "explaining" this phenomenon. We can repeat what we have been told but guessing at the reasons is not our place. The reasons illustrated by the author of the article seem lacking, a take but not the only one, but who am I to speak on that being in a sexual relationship with someone who pulls from that culture?

Kiko begins to lecture Yoko-san on how she “threw away her womanhood” (referring to a Japanese idiom, onna wo suteru) by going makeup-free and wearing drab, shapeless clothes.

The mistranslation by the subtitles fixed by this author was necessary information. But Kiko didn't lecture her on it, it was brought up by Yoko before any of them arrived, that was her theme, that was what she had decided to focus on. Meanwhile, if you watched Jonathan, he understood there was no time to spend on makeup and skincare so provided her a one instrument, 3 points of color on the skin to feel prettier. That and the entire episode being the 5 treating her like a woman on a date, not trying to hook her up, which is what they did in American eps.

"In teaching a Japanese woman, who already struggles to find time for herself, how to make an English recipe, Antoni is making great TV and nothing more."

So Antoni shouldn't have taught her apple pie because it's too exotic for a Japanese woman. (Can you smell the sexism?)

He didn't make an apple pie, altho Yoko did mention her mother made that for her when she was a kid. He made an apple tartine after going to a Japanese bakery who makes that all the time. Then highlighted the apples came from Fuji in true Japanese media fashion. Honey, American television doesn't usually highlight where the ingredients come from. A Japanese producer told him to do that. So all worries handled within the same ep. She got Japanese ingredients, had the recipe shown to her and then made it for her friends in her own house. Did the author actually watch this show or nah?

"beaten over the head with his western self-help logic. “You have to live for yourself,” he says."

The style of build up the 5 went for was confrontational but in a "I'm fighting for you" way. It's hard to describe, but the best I can say is, a person has multiple voices in their head, from parents, siblings, society, and maybe themselves. By being loud and obnoxious, American staples right there, they are adding one more voice. You deserve this, you are amazing, you are worth it. I know this is against most Japanese cultural modesty, but maybe it shouldn't be.

Sarcasm lies ahead:

Apparently: mispronunciation is microaggressions, not just someone who had a sucky school system. Yea okay, They're laughing at the language not at how stumbling these monolinguals are with visiting another country. Mmhm. Japanese don't say I love you and don't touch and that should stay that way instead of maybe, once in awhile, feeling like they can hug. Yeah, let's just ignore Yoko's break down that she had never hugged her lifelong friend after hugging strangers multiple times. Maid cafes are never sexualized in Japan ever, just don't go down that one street in Akihabara where the men are led off by the hand sheepishly blushing. Gag me. And Japanese men love to cry in front of their wives and would never break down once the wife leaves. I have never seen a Japanese movie showcase that move. Grr.

"I identify as many cultures."

So you're a Japanese man when it's convenient for you to get an article published? Are you nationally Japanese or just ethnically or culturally?

Homeland is an inherently racist word?

"After the Bush administration created the Department of Homeland Security after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, a Republican consultant and speechwriter Peggy Noonan urged, “the name Homeland Security grates on a lot of people, understandably. Homeland isn’t really an American word, it’s not something we used to say or say now.”

Yes, let's use a Washington Post article rather than a etymology professor. Yes, the google search results increased after 2001 Homeland Security was used but the word has been around since the 1660s and I've read multiple turn of the century lit on white people returning to their homeland, i.e. the town off the coast they were born in.

"But" is not disagreeing. I think the repeated offender for the author is the not acknowledging the makeover-ees feelings. But, that is how LGBT have decided to deal with the inner voices that invade from society. They are just that, not our own, they are the influence of society, and we can choose, we have to choose, to be influenced by someone, anyone else.

Karamo can't speak about being black when an Asian is speaking about being Asian, even though the Asian gay man was feeling alone. It's called relating bitches, and I'm done with people saying that is redirecting the conversation, it's extending the conversation. That's how we talk, the spotlight is shared, especially when someone's about to cry and doesn't want to be seen as crying, time to turn the spotlight.

The gay monk wasn't good enough, you should have invited the gay politician.

Yeah, causes I'm sure a politician has all the time in the world for a quick stint and cry. They picked a Japanese monk who travels to NY because they had a guest who travels to the West too. Did you want him to stop traveling back and forth? Did you want a pure, ethnic and cultural Japanese gay man who has no ties to the west to talk to this Western educated young man? Seriously?

This is just not how it works in Japan.

Being in a multi-cultural marriage between two rebels, discussions on facets of culture are plenty in my household. Culture should be respected enough to be considered but not held on a pedestal like we should never adjust or throw some things out. LGBT being quiet and private for instance. "Being seen" was Jonathan's advice, and a good one especially for a Japanese gay man that was called feminine since he was a kid. Some gay men can hide, but as Jonathan said, he couldn't hide what he was, he couldn't hide this. So fuck it. Don't hide. It's actually more dangerous for a feminine man to come off as anxious rather than gay and proud. It makes you more of a target if they think you won't fight back. Proud means, Imma throw hands too, bitch.

This is also from the civil rights playbook going back to Black America: never hold a protest or a fight without the cameras, without being seen. LGBT have found the more seen they are, in media, in the streets, the better off we are. When LGBT Americans were being "private" about our lifestyles, we died, a la 1980s. They won't care if you start dying off if they never saw you to begin with.

And hence why I think the author's real anger is from these 5 being seen dancing flamboyantly in Shibuya, in Harajuku, afforded the privilege of doing this safely because of their tourist status, cameras and very low violence rate in Tokyo, loud and obnoxiously. Honestly, they wouldn't have been invited or nominated if they didn't want that brash American-ness coming into their home, just for a taste, at least.

Here's my real anger, my own jealousy: Japan's queer community currently does not have marriage or adoption rights. US does, so we have progressed further. But we are also not that many years from being tied to cow fences with barbed wire, beaten with baseball bats and left for dead overnight. If things are so bad over there, maybe take a few pages from the civil right playbook we took so much time to perfect and produced by the Black Americans who fought first. But so far, I only hear loss of jobs and marriages, which we still have here too. Stop trying to divide us, we are one community, LGBT around the world and we are here to try to help. Take it or leave it, it's not like we're going to go organize your own Pride parade for you.

Rant over? I guess. Is this important enough to be put in the google results along with his. Hell no, anyone with half a mind can see he's reaching more than half the time. And any argument about: this wasn't covered! There are a shit ton of conversations that are not covered in the 45 min they have. They are not a civil rights show, it's a makeover show, doing their best in that direction anyway. Know what it is.

Next blog post, what research I would guess was happening behind the scenes for each of the 5? I'm pretty sure I saw Jonathan doing Japanese style makeup there...

[myrsparv]

I got this message, and I was originally going to ignore it, but I cannot reply to the person, nor can I see the content on their blog, so I assume they blocked me? Which I think is strange, since they asked me a question and now I cannot give them a direct answer. Well, anyway, I decided to get into it.

If you simply googled searched, you would get a very straightforward answer to what ”tradfem” is. As defined by urban dictionary, a tradfem is, 

”a portmanteau of "traditional feminism" in reference to belief that adherence traditional feminine gender roles are better or more correct, especially those held by conservative Christian Americans, especially WASPs. Often in opposition of more modern women's rights and feminist movements, non-traditional gender roles (I.E. women wearing pants, having jobs. Clair thinks a woman's place is in the home. She runs a tradfem blog and posts pictures of women in dresses with long hair and discusses child rearing and cooking.”

Enjoying the aesthetic of traditional femininity (such as long hair, dresses, aprons, pink etc) is not inherently harmful. It is however a red flag for many, especially LGBTQ+ folks, people of color, and non-christians, and I’m guessing indigenous folks as well. There are many reasons why people are put off by this aesthetic, and I’ll get into it, but it is a long discussion and I am not linguistically armed for it, as english isn’t my first language. But I will do my best to explain.

Traditional femininity romanticises traditionally feminine clothes, practices and relationships, and shares many visual ideas as well as patterns of how things were ”back in the day,” when women were stay-at-home-wives who cooked and took care of kids. This idea is very US-centric, very American Dream-esque, but it also borrows elements from Europe from a time where colonisation and slavery  and other more or less questionable and harmful things were at the forefront. There is also a LOT of overlap with fascist and alt-right nationalist ideas within the tradfem community, which should be enough for folks to feel uncomfortable and want to distance themselves from such a community and voice their distaste for it and wish to not be associated with them.

And let’s talk about this ”traditional feminism”. It is not inclusive or productive at all, and only benefits those who are higher up in power, primarily white, cishet women (and hardly them honestly,) in a western society. I suppose it is similar to earlier waves of feminism, which I might add only included the white cishet women, and excluded ex black people. What is it achieving, and for who? Who are included in this idea of feminism? Is it feminism at all, if the pursuit doesn’t have an end goal where equality/equity is achieved?

These blogs who are dedicated to traditional femininity and traditional feminism often say that there is nothing harmful about what they’re doing, that they’re simply enjoying an aesthetic! But here is the thing.

There is nothing wrong with liking to bake pies and share pictures of lambs, and dream of having a humble home with a partner to love and where the only worry you have is if you burnt your bread or not. You may even currently be a stay-at-home-wife, and there’s honestly nothing wrong with that. That is your choice, and if that makes you feel good and empowered, good for you.

However, this choice in your way of life is not an act of feminism.

On the contrary, it is anti-feminism to limit the freedom of others and infringe on their ability to make choices for themselves, such as careers, how to dress, how sexually active they want to be and if they want abortions or not, wether or not trans people should have access to transitioning, how people practice their religions, the list goes on. As soon as you say ”women belong at home” or ”abortions should be illegal”, you are taking away people’s rights to make choices for themselves, and oppressing others in your quest for feeling un-oppressed. It is not feminism to oppress, but to work against oppression, so once again you would be more-so aligning yourself with sexism and other more, aha, traditional ideas of what people’s place in society are - usually with the white man on top of the rest, the white woman second in command. That is not feminism.

Additionally, to say that feminism is only about men and women isn’t true - it goes hand in hand in combating racism, fascism, homo- and transphobia etc, and if ”your” feminism doesn’t include everyone then it simply isn’t feminism. So, when we look at this traditional femininity-aesthetic, we do not see inclusivity of these marginalised people. We only see the white christian and privileged woman, who may have the choice to decide for herself that she wants to be a traditional wife, a traditional mother, whatever it is - but other people are not able to make this choice for themselves, but are rather forced into a place where they are controlled and oppressed against their will, and it would certainly leave a bad taste in their mouth to see people choosing to do the same and say it is feminism, when it very clearly is not. You are in a privileged position and you need to realize that.

You cannot turn a blind eye to the harmful ideas that you are putting forward by engaging and spreading these types of images and posts that are being echoed within the tradfem community. You need to reflect on yourself and your values and where you got them from.

To say you know trans people in real life does not exempt you from holding transphobic ideas, and you should still practice some introspection on your own values and biases, and try to understand why on earth a trans person would feel uncomfortable and a distaste for ”traditional femininity” that ultimately doesn’t recognize trans people, or people of colour, or non-christian folks. You may love your trans nephew, and your black college, and your jewish neighbour - but that does not mean you don’t hold prejudice and carry harmful ideas that you may spread around and signal to these people around you that they ultimately cannot trust or rely on you because of your stance with traditional values, that has over the course of time excluded and harmed and ignored and killed these people.

To say that you are not infringing on me is also a lie. You are aggressive in your message to me, and showing a lack of understanding to where I am coming from with my stance, and you didn’t ask me to explain in a polite way. I do not know who you are, and I do not care much either, but your ideas could be harmful and damaging to me and the people I want to protect and help. I am not personally attacking you when I say ”tradfems stay away from my blog”, I am taking a stance and saying I do not align myself with their ideals, and stand in solidarity with LGBTQ+ folks, people of color and non-christians. If you feel like that is a personal blow and attack upon you, then I really suggest you practice some self-reflection and ask yourself if you are making the people you care about feel safe around you - like your trans nephew that you mentioned.

There is a vast difference in relationship with the content we consume based on our identity. Me as a white queer person from southern Sweden will have one kind of a relationship to cottage core, whilst an indigenous person from the USA has a COMPLETELY different view on the aesthetic and what it means, because of our differences in culture, history, power in society, location and identity, and it is very important that I, as a white person, ask myself what ideas I am putting out there. I do not wish to cause harm, so I have to look at the content I consume with a critical eye and ask myself what ideas and values I put forward, and who they benefit, and who they oppress. It is important to listen to the voices of others and create a space where communication and inclusivity is welcomed - and ”tradfem” isn’t a welcoming community, as it only portrays the traditionally feminine and traditionally accepted woman - the white young woman who is blind to the world around her and can’t see past her own privilege. Hell, cottage core isn’t a welcoming community either, and I have been vocal in my criticism of it since I first started interacting with it two years ago.

Simply not being transphobic, not being racist, not being a fascist and not being sexist etc isn’t enough for people to feel safe, and isn’t enough to keep people with those harmful ideals away from you - you have to be actively AGAINST these things and talk about it and show it to people in order for it to matter. Silence is a violence too, now more than ever. 

Sorry that this post is so long, I hope I’m making any sense at all with this. So yeah, uh, tradfems can fuck off my blog.

[jyndor]

You know, the conversation about sea shanties is just another chapter in what seems like the endless story of people of color, in particular black and indigenous people, telling us to learn the history of the things we like and white people hearing that it means we have to lock those things away forever and burn our books and stamp on our records. As if that isn’t what white people have done to black and indigenous stories, to black and indigenous cultures, to black and indigenous arts, wealth, etc for centuries. As if that is what the people of color who are educating us on the things we like are actually advocating for. News flash: part of the history of oppressors is fearing the tables turning, when that is never been the goal of civil rights and social justice movements. Ever.

So fun fact: I grew up loving good ol’ classic rock n’ roll. My first concert was the Allman Brothers Band, which is one of the most interesting rock bands of all time imo. I really love a good southern twangy jam, the way the guitars sing, the bluesy sunny vibe. Ramblin’ Man? Jessica? Simple Man? Carry On Wayward Son? Hotel California? Perfect fucking driving music if you ask me.

If you know anything about southern rock, you know the iconography - the Confederate Flag is everywhere, in the crowds, for many bands it’s in the album covers and the photoshoots, etc. You know what you get when you wade in the Southern rock water*.

The lyrics from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama have been parsed and interpreted in all kinds of ways -

In Birmingham they love the governor (boo-boo-boo) Now we all did what we could do Now Watergate does not bother me Does your conscience bother you?

And yeah, you could read this as ironic or satirical. In fact, that’s what guitarist and co-writer Gary Rossington says according to NPR -

"A lot of people believed in segregation and all that. We didn't. We put the 'boo, boo, boo' there saying, 'We don't like Wallace,' " Rossington said. But he also added that there were "a lot of different interpretations. I'm sure if you asked the other guys who are not with us anymore and are up in rock and roll heaven, they have their story of how it came about."

And yeah, maybe they didn’t like George Wallace or Nixon. Sure. Whatever. I could buy it, actually. Because this song actually is indicative of how many privileged people feel when they perceive being called out, even if the criticism isn’t about them. Call it wjhat you want - white fragility, white liberal sensitivity, etc. This song was written in response to Neil Young’s Southern Man, which goes:

Southern man, better keep your head Don't forget what your good book said Southern change gonna come at last Now your crosses are burning fast

Southern man I saw cotton and I saw black Tall white mansions and little shacks Southern man, when will you pay them back? I heard screamin' and bullwhips cracking How long? How long? How?

Yeah, writer Ronnie Van Zant was so bothered by Neil Young talking about l*nchings, abject sl*very and reparations in Southern Man, a song that isn’t even about them or Alabama in particular, that he wrote Sweet Home Alabama.

Well I heard Mister Young sing about her Well I heard ol' Neil put her down Well I hope Neil Young will remember A southern man don't need him around anyhow

Sweet home Alabama Where the skies are so blue Sweet home Alabama Lord I'm comin' home to you 

So ironically, even though Neil Young was just talking to racists in the US South, someone who ostensibly didn’t agree with segregation took that song as a personal attack because he liked “southern culture” and his home state of Alabama, despite its flaws.

But Young never says that the South is irredeemable. He just says white southerners need to come to terms with their history (and yes make reparations). In fact, according to NPR he has some issues with his lyrics. “I didn't like my words when I wrote them. They are accusatory and condescending.” I don’t agree. It needs to be said.

So Van Zant and the Skynyrd guys heard a criticism of white Southern racism and at BEST thought, “well that’s an unfair portrayal of me, a southern white man.” Van Zant can’t answer this question for himself since he died in a plane crash with two other band members and their manager in 1977.

In my opinion, knowing how white people can be when confronted with the reality of racism, this feels a lot like every other time a well-meaning white person (myself included) has said, “but not all white people.”

Not all Southern whites supported segregation at the time, but most did - and all white people benefit from the legacy of sl*very. I might not be a descendant of people who enslaved others, my ancestors might have come here as refugees, but after they fled Ireland for New York, they threw black people under the bus for whiteness.

Rock is a genre that owes everything to Black musicians - to blues and spirituals and gospel and yes, Black work songs. Black history is in the DNA of rock music. That I grew up thinking it was white music is mortifying to be honest.

But I don’t really like Sweet Home Alabama and I never have. It’s kind of just meh to me. Not a big loss.

And that takes me to the Allman Brothers Band. As far as I am aware, ABB (through many, many iterations - this is another band plagued by tragedy) has never been cool with racism. According to Vulture:

The Allmans respected not just black art but black players; as kids, Gregg and Duane got lessons from an older black guitarist their mother once refused to allow into her home, and later, they caught hell having Jaimoe and bassist Lamar Williams in their ranks in their adopted home state of Georgia. “If a musician could play, we didn’t look at his skin color,” Gregg wrote in his 2012 memoir My Cross to Bear.

“Nobody around here had seen guys who looked like them,” soul food legend and friend of the band Mama Louise Hudson said in Alan Paul’s 2014 oral history One Way Out: The Inside History of the Allman Brothers Band. “A lot of the white folk around here did not approve of them long-haired boys, or of them always having a black guy with them.” Southern rock occupied a peculiar axis of Mason-Dixon pride and reverence to blues and soul veterans who were hampered and harangued by the politics of the South. Gregg always pushed back. He didn’t placate audiences’ blind patriotism and racism the way Charlie Daniels and Hank Williams Jr. have. Last year, he spoke out against North Carolina’s transphobic “bathroom bill,” and when asked about the confederate flag in 2015, he told Radio.com, “If people are gonna look at that flag and think of it as representing slavery, then I say burn every one of them.”

And that is great.

But.

Whipping Post. Written by white ally Gregg Allman, bluesy and wild and passionate on a level that is hard to imagine, this is... one of the greatest songs I have ever heard. And it also makes me wonder if it’s maybe belittling a part of slavery.

My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you I drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same, And I can't run Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel Like I been tied to the whippin' post Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.

Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve researched it, I’ve used google. There isn’t a lot the internet has to say about this song that isn’t “this song fucking slaps man!!!” Maybe part of it is the larger context - Allman was staunchly against racism and was taught by a Black guitarist and played with Black musicians and loved Black music. A white man comparing an emotionally abusive relationship with being whipped might feel different without that context.

(Whipping posts being used for people besides enslaved Black people does not mean Allman wasn’t referencing what Black American slaves experienced, so don’t even go there. I know. The Romans also had slaves. It’s different.)

But if some people of color on the internet critique this song someday, the appropriate response is not to act as if “hey here is where this comes from, please be mindful about historical context and get educated” means “never listen to that devil song again,” folks.

It’s about learning our histories so we can do better in the future. Not canceling entire genres of music. Some things are best left in the past but mostly it’s just about understanding what the things we love mean. And these things are more than their aesthetics.

*I also really, really love African American work songs. Always have.

[shoyomeow]

WINTER WONDERLAND

- a @babythotshq collaboration

❀ characters : motoya komori x gnl! reader

❀ genre : fluff

❀ warnings : mentions of alcohol, language , mentions of the pandemic

❀ wc : 2444

❀prompt : game night

shoutout to @sempiternal-amour . i got you for the secret santa event and i hope you had a wonderful christmas.

USUALLY CHRISTMAS WAS YOUR FAVOURITE HOLIDAY.

There had always been a set routine that you had adopted during this time of the year that always filled you with more happiness that you could imagine and once you had started dating Motoya, who had been just as enthusiastic as you and would not only tolerate but add on to your extreme love for Christmas, it seemed that nothing in your life could go wrong.

At least during Christmas.

That was until this year of course.

2020, the year that you hope you never have to relive again and the year that has filled you with so much pain, anguish and exhaustion that the disconnection you felt from Christmas was not even unexpected at this point.

There was no part of you that felt like it was Christmas time and you figured that the same could be said for your beloved boyfriend as well since he didn’t show you any signs of holiday spirit either. Going through the year had been hard on both of them, while neither of them were extroverts who liked going out there was something oddly stifling about being forced to stay home instead of choosing to.

As the months passed by and the virus didn’t show any signs of going away, their irritation at being forced to stay at home morphed into sheer fear for themselves and their loved ones so you suppose it was understandable that neither of you felt up for Christmas this year,

You flinched as cold and slightly damp skin came in contact with your exposed arms, the sleeves of your hoodie having been rolled up to give you more comfort as you kneaded the dough, “How many times have I told you not to hug me after working out? You smell gross babe.”

You teased as you turned your head to see your boyfriend better, his bangs were sticking to his forehead, no doubt because of the sweat but there was a bright smile on his face which even after all these years made you swoon.

“The love of my life looked so serious how could I not comfort them by bestowing my loving embrace upon them.” he pouted prompting an automatic eyeroll.

“Okay you dork,” you pecked his cheek to reassure him before pushing him away, “Now go take a shower before you stink up the whole place. I didn’t spend that much money on scented candles for you to ruin it with your sweat.”

“Whatever my love commands, i shall do.” With one last kiss to the back of your neck, Motoya walked away from you and into the washroom.

God, even though three years had passed since you started dating the volleyball player you couldn’t help but feel giddy over him. You used to think that it was only in fiction that people didn’t get completely and utterly bored with their partners.

“So i was thinking,” Motoya started as the two of you lounged on the sofa with your legs perched up on his lap as the two of you searched for something to watch.

“Oh dear, that’s never a good sign now is it?”

You laughed as he flicked the back of your feet, briefly making a quip about how you should moisturise more before looking at you and continuing his earlier sentence, “What if we have a game night or something for Christmas?”

“Hah?” You sat up at that and frowned at him, “Babe won’t that be like really irresponsible? We’re still in danger from the virus and shit.”

“No no,” he shook his head vehemently as if the very thought of breaking safety protocols was terrifying, “Like a virtual thing. I was talking to a few of my old teammates from high school and shit so they were telling me how they had a virtual party for a birthday so I dunno.”

“Look, I know we’ve both been in sort of a funk recently and you haven’t been feeling the vibe for this year either but I just thought it would be nice to go through our routine and just try to enjoy ourselves?”

“What would we even play though?” You mused as you looked at the boy who seemed to beam at the prospect of not having his idea shut down.

“I already googled that shit,” Motoya giggled as he leaned forward to press a light kiss to your lips, “You really should start moisturising babe.”

“Yeah yeah,” you pecked his nose, briefly wondering if people would hate how absolutely cringey the two of you were as a couple, “Does that mean we’re going to go through all the traditions?”

“Mm, of course. The others might not want to but we can do it ourselves right?”

“Yeah,” your enthusiasm for Christmas was still pretty much nonexistent but as you looked at your boyfriend who was showering you with kisses you couldn’t help but think that you didn’t have to be enthusiastic for Christmas at all.

Christmas Eve was surprisingly amazing.

The two of you had woken up at the same time, which was odd considering that Motoya always woke up before you for his training. A part of you wanted to stay snuggled up next to him in bed but there was a slightly bigger part of you which wanted to start with the festivities already.

Like all Christmases before today, it started with baking. Of course neither of you were that great at cooking so you had ordered the batters for everything that you were supposed to make.

The cookies and plum cake were first, considering that the mixes for them were the easiest to navigate through , the gingerbread house was next. You and Motoya had always had a certain amount of fondness for assembling the house , maybe it was because of the food fight that usually used to follow that used to prompt you to head to the backyard to hose each other down.

The second event was of course getting ready to wear the ugliest possible Christmas outfits the two of you could find. There was one Christmas, the very first one that you two spent together where you dressed up in attractive clothes taking inspiration from the Mean Girls outfit and while Motoya had appreciated that he had immediately made you swoon when he said that he would love to dress up in ugly outfits starting next year.

With your and Motoya’s nails painted with bright red and green nail polish and the two of you dressed in equally bright (and horrendous) red and green sweaters, you sat down with your laptops in front of you and logged into the zoom meeting.

Sakusa was the first one there of course, always the one to be ten minutes before the given time no matter how much he hated events like this, you and Motoya smiled triumphantly as his eyes narrowed in to look at something on the screen and his nose turned up in disgust.

“What in the hell are the two of you even wearing?”

The look of sheer disgust filled the two of you with a sense of pride , after all that was always the wanted reaction for you two. Second to horror of course.

“Are the others not here yet?”

“There are a few in the waiting room, I’ll just let them in.”

“Babe didn’t you disable the waiting room?” You questioned as you saw Motoya accept everyone individually.

He just looked at you with wide eyes with his eyebrows scrunched up, “Wait you can do that?”

You let out a snort before taking his laptop from him, out of the two of you you had always been the more tech savvy one.

“Heya everyone!” You tried to mask the awkwardness you were feeling as you greeted the handful of people who had joined in. Motoya and you wanted it to be a “small event” so you hadn’t invited many people in the first place except for a few of your mutual friends and Sakusa, “Thank you for joining us. Motoya and I didn’t want Christmas to suck so we figured something like this would be sorta fun.”

The circle you and Motoya mostly ran in was a close knit one where everyone knew each other and honestly you preferred having this than being surrounded by a bunch of fake people with whom you couldn’t be yourself.

Akira, your oldest friend and the person who had introduced you to Motoya in the first place was adorning her favourite cosplay , one of some character called Uravity and she smiled at you (well you assumed it was at you) before opening her mouth, “MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU WHORES.”

You winced at the loudness of her tone, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to connect your laptop to the Bluetooth speaker, “Akira my love, are you drunk already?”

“What’s Christmas without eggnog?” Akira grinned at you before picking up a piece of fried chicken and biting into it, “Besides, I’m exhausted as fuck this Christmas so you can’t judge me.”

“If you’re all exhausted and shit then why the fuck are you cosplaying?” Ryo, a teammate of Motoya's, grumbled as he looked at his screen. Surprisingly enough Ryo and Akira went to the same college, when you and Motoya got together it was a bit surprising to see that so many of the people you knew were somehow connected to him.

“Ryo stop being mean to Akira, she can do whatever she wants to do.” Like a true mom friend Azusa let out a soft sigh as he looked at the people on his screen. Azusa, was probably the only “new addition” you had to your group.

It was a bit surprising to say this but it was Sakusa who had introduced you and Motoya to the purple haired man who became your friend instantly. Apparently Azusa was one of the only people Sakusa respected enough to introduce to his circle, even his MSBY team members hadn’t received that privilege yet.

“Why can’t you all just shut up?” The final person in your tiny little group spoke up as he hid his face with the cloth of his turtleneck , “You guys are way too loud.”

“Now now,” Motoya intervened, “Why don’t we all start with the games already?”

Ryo’s lips turned up to form a competitive grin, “Of course, I’m going to pummel all of you to the ground.”

“Not if i pummel you first you stupid hoe,” Akira yelled at her screen but it was obvious that the declaration was meant for the only person who considered to be her rival (who she used to watch disney movies with and cried)

Sakusa had won all the games.

They didn’t play many games , just a few basic ones like Pictionary , bingo, and some trivia. They added a little spice to it by incorporating sharpies, drinks and junk food into the equation but at the end of it all, Sakusa was the only one who was fully sober while the rest were stuffed and tipsy and had drawings all over their face.

“FUCK,” you raised your head from Motoya’s shoulder and looked at the small square box where Ryo was staring at his lap? table? well whatever it was, “WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THAT I WAS USING A PERMANENT MARKER ON MY FACE?”

You let out a loud laugh as you looked at his face, there were drawings all over it - a proof that he lost miserably against Sakusa’s prowess - and the fact that he couldn’t get rid of it easily combined with her tipsy state , she burst into laughter.

The kind of laughter that made it hard to breathe and was so painful that you had to clutch your stomach , despite knowing that doing so had absolutely no impact on the pain you felt. Your laughter must’ve triggered a domino as everyone who was present in the zoom meeting started cackling, except for of course Ryo who was staring at all of you angrily.

“Whatever I’m leaving you assholes,” Ryo grumbled as he moved towards his laptop before moving back, “I’m only leaving because my mother is calling me so don’t bother pestering me to join again. Merry Christmas and bye you dicks.”

“Hey guys,” Akira’s girlfriend, Sumire, popped up on her screen and smiled sheepishly at the group, “Kira’s completely knocked out so I’m just gonna tuck her in. I’m sure she appreciated this, she’s been feeling funky lately.”

“No problemo Sumire,” you smiled at the girl, “the pleasure was all ours. Merry Christmas beautiful!”

Sumire blushed at the compliment before smiling at everyone, “Merry Christmas everyone, good night.”

“Aight I’m gonna sleep. I have work to finish tomorrow , this was fun guys.” Azusa smiled at them wryly as he clutched his head , he had always been the most sensitive to alcohol in their group.

“Good night Zuzu!”

The boy blushed at the nickname before growling angrily , “STOP CALLING ME THAT.”

You and Motoya shared a laugh as he left, the only people who were left in the meeting now were the two of you and Sakusa who seemed like he was on the verge of falling asleep then and there.

“Goodbye.”

Never mind , Sakusa left as well.

You laughed at his antics , already expecting an eloquent text about how the event was fun from the MSBY player, before you moved forward to shut down your laptop and Motoya’s laptop.

“Are we gonna get up to wash our face?” Motoya grumbled as he pulled you back into his arms.

“We can wait till tomorrow can’t we?” You nuzzled into his neck before placing a soft kiss there, “Thank you for doing this love. It was really fun.”

“Mm,” he nodded slowly , “it was. Maybe next year it will be better?”

“We can only hope can’t we?” You raised your head to press soft kisses on his face, “Besides as long as I’m with you, every Christmas is amazing.”

Motoya stared at you for a moment before the two of you burst out laughing, “That was so cheesy!”

“I know right? I almost couldn’t keep a straight face when I said it.”

“I love you so much,” Motoya leaned down to kiss you languidly before resting his forehead on yours, “I’m gonna marry you someday.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes.”

“I know you will. Weren’t you the one who asked me to marry you on our first date?”

“That was because you gave me cake!”

“Yeah yeah,” Motoya moved in his position to make you more comfortable as you laid on his chest, “Merry Christmas love.”

“Merry Christmas handsome.”

[theschizoidblog]

Loneliness and Solitude

Blog 2: 14/06/2020

After nearly a month, I’ve returned with another blog post.

I’ve had a few interesting therapy sessions in the meanwhile. It turns out I’ve also got severe depression along with my schizoid personality disorder. Next session we’re starting with EMDR – which is eh… something I don’t fully understand myself - yet. I’ll gladly talk more about it once I have a better idea of what it actually does. It sounds a little bit like hypnosis, but not fully, and it would probably be considered an insult to the practitioner to label it as hypnosis. I might write about it in an upcoming blog post.

But for today, I’d prefer to stick to a topic I understand better. Solitude. Loneliness. The two are not the same for many schizoids.

The shortest way in which I can put it, is to say that many schizoids don’t experience loneliness when they’re alone. But they might feel it when they’re in a group.

Let me elaborate.

The definition of Loneliness according to Google, might already offer some insight:

Loneliness; sadness because one has no friends or company.

You often hear loneliness described in old people. They’re in a home, they get no visitors, and they are lonely. Or people who lose their partners then die of loneliness because suddenly they are physically alone and cannot bear it. They ache in the absence of others.

For the majority of people, being the only person in a house could trigger feelings of loneliness. With covid-19, many people that were in lockdown also felt terribly alone because they could not see their colleagues or visit random friends whenever they wanted to. They complained about the loneliness and lost productivity and some parts of their sanity as a result.

During the lockdown, I felt better than I had in a very long time. Not seeing friends or family gave me an energy boost. Then the lockdown restrictions were slowly lifted, I got to visit family again, got to see colleagues again, and the energy boost is gone again.

My brain is perfectly content being alone for weeks in a row. I do not experience loneliness when I’m at home. I do not cry myself to sleep at night because I feel lonely. I do not long for companionship or make plans to invite friends the moment I can – far from it. I didn’t do that before Corona so why would I do it now?

Yet the concept of loneliness is not alien to me, nor is the feeling.

I have felt overwhelmingly lonely at festivals and parties, in the midst of both strangers and friends. And if the definition is “sadness because one has no friends or company”, it is not fully true. Because at parties we might be among our friends. But maybe we can’t talk to them. Maybe the music is too loud. Maybe they’re distracted by other things and you’re just a wallflower that doesn’t get any attention in that moment. Maybe they’re drinking or doing dumb stuff you can’t relate to. Maybe you’re questioning why they are even your friends in the first place. Maybe they aren’t doing anything wrong at all but you still feel like the odd one out.

Even that can be the moment we feel like we are without company, even if the company is standing 3 feet away.

Maybe whatever makes people feel connected to others, isn’t working 100% the way it works for other people in us schizoids.

Where does it come from?

Why do we enjoy solitude? Why don’t we feel lonely?

I can only make an educated guess that our childhood trauma and probable emotional neglect have taught us to rely on ourselves from a terribly young age.

If you look at Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, you see that Psychological needs, in the middle of his pyramid, are described as “Belongingness and love” – but I don’t think we are very likely to reach that stage. We are stuck at the bottom two layers of the pyramid. Maybe our physiological needs and safety needs are met, but that’s only the case for us privileged schizoids who have a place to live. In the homeless population in New York, they discovered there were way more schizoids than is the norm. To those people, even the bottom of the pyramid isn’t met.

But even the privileged schizoids like you and me, who are able to read this blogpost, probably will have trouble feeling like their psychological needs can be met or are being met. Or maybe you can “think” they are being met, as in “I have family and friends”, but you don’t feel it. As in: you don’t feel the love or intimacy that comes with those relationships. You cognitively know it’s there and you can acknowledge it, but feeling their love is harder, as is feeling your own love for them.

If you have feelings of love, they’re likely to be hidden so deeply within yourself you don’t feel it at all.

In a way, we are “the walking dead” – sure, we’re still walking around and we’re not completely falling apart, but what are we truly feeling anyway? Don’t ask us, we’re not sure if we’re not feeling anything at all or if we’re burying it deep inside. (And then usually it erupts in bursts of anger or incessant tears of sadness.)

As a result, I think we don’t experience loneliness a lot because we’re cut off from our own emotions most of the times anyway. And being alone is one of the only comforts we have in a cold and uncaring world. To us, it’s great. It’s safe. It’s secure. And we like feeling safe and secure.

Stopping traditions

I used to love going to a pagan festival in the Netherlands. It was a rather quiet festival, with nice food and people who were dressed up and not giving a fuck about anything, and there was nice (not too loud) music and it was a welcoming place to all. I travelled there once a year, for about ten years in a row, and had some friends at the festival who I only saw on Facebook during the other months, and I would listen to bands, browse the stalls, even sometimes dance and eat so much of the good food there.

I knew a lot of people there. Not intimately, but enough to know their names and recognize their faces and know which ones were fans of which bands and music. Enough to have a stop and chat when I saw them.

But the final time I went, I wasn’t in a great mindset in the first place, and I went there and I tried to look for some of the people I knew, but I saw none, just strangers. The festival had been growing exponentially and with the influx of visitors and the commercialization of the event also came the side effect that many old folks no longer went – and that it was harder to find those who did in the crowd. Even the bands had changed.

I couldn’t find a friend (and she was also not really into meeting me first thing in the morning, she was content bumping into me later in the afternoon), and I was sulking and feeling like an alien in a place that I had considered home for so many years. Suddenly I felt like the stranger and the outcast, and I was not in the mood to mingle with new folks. There were too many, it was too loud, the crowd was too much. (And yes, I’m aware it was probably a mild anxiety attack that was making that feeling worse.)

I did see some friends later on and spoke to them, but it all felt terribly hollow and I stopped going afterwards. I did feel very lonely that weekend, even among my friends and acquaintances of the event, and I just wanted to go home and never return.

That event was like Christmas to me, something I looked forward to all year, but I just felt like “Fuck it, I don’t care if it’s tradition, I don’t want to do this ever again, it’s not worth it.” I haven’t gone in years now. I wouldn’t go again now, I don’t think it’s gotten better.

At family gatherings I might also look at the people there like I’m the alien looking in, and feel like I have no one to talk to or connect to. I feel like I’m constantly engaging in conversations on other people’s terms, about their topics of interest, not about mine, and I’m listening to them, but they’re not listening to me. They might ask me questions, but only about things I don’t want to talk to them about. Everything feels cringe. It’s terribly lonely when you feel like you’re speaking a language no one understands or is interested in learning, and when you’re expected to respond to people on command, like a dog forced to do tricks no one is even giving him a reward for.

So naturally, I have also stopped attending family gatherings. No one there is like me, it’s draining, and I gain absolutely nothing from it, except the feeling of loneliness among your own kin. It’s not a charming feeling.

Then what’s left?

I can enjoy crowds at conventions, since these people usually skip small talk and would prefer talking about geeky stuff that I enjoy as well, so I hardly ever feel lonely there. Some of the folks there have interesting brains to pick and there are usually activities (watching Q&A panels or gaming) that you can do alone.

I do not feel lonely among my colleagues on the work floor. I like it there. I like my colleagues. I can even go for a drink with them sometimes. However, I would not enjoy going to a party with them, where there are strangers. Then suddenly I’d feel like the alien again and I’d just want to go home. (Mind you, at first I was just neutral about being there and it took years to develop into a like.) (But now with covid-19 I don’t mind if I don’t have to see them until 2021 when a vaccine is found.)

Put a schizoid in a house alone, and we enjoy our own company. There won’t be feelings of loneliness there, but put us in a crowd, and you’re more likely to cause sadness in our hearts because we feel out of place and out of touch.

And many schizoids don’t even want to belong to particular crowds of people. It’s not a direct wish to be included in the particular group we are beholding. Take any group you can think of, we might see them and think “hell no I don’t want to be a part of that” and simultaneously think “they do seem happy though, I wish I could be as content”. But faking it is draining, and not rewarding at all with the wrong crowd of people, so you won’t see us try to mingle in such cases. (And practically everyone is “the wrong crowd of people” – we aren’t generally very trusting of strangers.)

The idea of a group of like-minded people that you can trust and have fun with, who really see you as you are, is alluring though. But most of us have given up on dreaming such groups exist for us. Some schizoids might have hope that they will encounter such groups to belong to, but have to be content with just being allowed to “exist” as part of a group. I don’t think it will be easy to feel full elation or full grief along the other members in the group, and thus we might feel a need to fake it or to just blend in. In doing so, we are, perhaps only subconsciously, also reminding ourselves we were never truly part of the group in the first place, since we do not fully fit into the collective. And thus our souls will feel alienated even more.

True connection with other people is rare.

I’d like to believe it’s not impossible though. There are schizoids who have found love and have long-term partners. So I’d like to believe there is still a possibility for true connection out there. We can be fiercely loyal to those who we deem worthy, but we can also be easily hurt if that person decides to break our trust.

I think those schizoids that don’t struggle with loneliness are also the ones that have accepted that love and connection is probably not going to work out for them in the long run. Why hope for an impossible dream when it’s more comfortable to just enjoy your own company and try to be content with that?

I won’t make a declaration on whether it is healthy or not to think that way. That’s up to a psychologist to decide.

But in my opinion, being able to be alone is an undervalued skill in modern day society. Especially in these covid-19 times when you see people go nuts when they can’t be alone for a day. So don’t let anyone make you feel bad for being different in that way, and for enjoying solitude.

Maybe we have this skill because we have been broken before, but the skill of comfortable solitude in itself is an asset, not a curse. And even when we are ‘fixed’ by therapy, it is still a skill we can rely on for the rest of our lives.

And as a final note to today’s blog post, allow me to add a very cheesy song as a recommendation in the same theme. From the soundtrack of the Phantom of the Opera movie, Learn to be Lonely, or as someone in the comment section on youtube said: “Ah, the anthem of the emotionally neglected child.”

[kainumbernine009]

I literally cannot do anything else until I get this out.

I’m... really not okay.

And when I say that, I’m not mentally unstable. I say that because I’m tired of waiting on empty promises, I’m tired of never having money in our account, I’m tired of living in a fucking city where half of the white people fucking worship the ground Trump walks on, and where most of the gay community has so much messy drama that it’s worse than middle school. And I went to a rough middle school.

I never talk about my past, because I don’t like to. It sucked. HARD. Being and only child in my family was nothing less than torture, especially as a closeted queer person. We grew up in the white Christian part of Nashville that dominated Music Row in the 90′s and early 2000′s. I played basketball with Alan Jackson’s daughter, and being around famous people was just no big deal. But, my parents decided to leave Nashville after my dad lost his job at TPAC, and we moved down south an hour to the town where the KKK got started (Pulaski, TN).

I had maybe two non-white people in my private Christian school growing up. I was never afraid of Black people, but my parents showed their racist asses quick when we moved there. The KKK has never left America, guys, no matter how many articles you read or studies you do. From 2005 to 2009 I saw a white town show its very worst to the Black community. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a march for “White Christians for Purity” the summer before Obama got elected. The disgust I felt inside was palpable. I had all kinds of friends in school, and I didn’t give TWO SHITS who they were or what they looked like... but I saw children my age, being brainwashed by their parents, that “white” is “right.”

Ever since then, I have been learning and growing about the issues of race. I remember my white classmates using the N word and getting away with it. I remember hearing about the principal at the high school punishing all the Black kids but not the white kids. I remember being invited to a church south of town that was a historically Black church, and how nice the ladies were to me for coming.

But I’ll never forget the racism that the religious groups promoted there, especially First Baptist Church and the 12 Tribes. I’ll never forget how FBC told me that my friend was going to Hell because she killed herself. I’ll never forget my mom telling me not to marry a Black man because of “impure genes.” I WILL NEVER FORGET THE INJUSTICES I SAW WHITE PEOPLE DOING TO BLACK PEOPLE THERE. NEVER.

And thank God, I have shaken the burden of religious guilt, but I still fight against this mentality. I live in a place that’s usually not even 10 minutes away from Trump-humping, sister-fucking, meth-addicted Confederate cunts in any direction. And we’re even closer to the rich white people who silently supported him, upset that their taxes would go up because of Biden.

And in the past four years since Trump got elected, I’ve gotten married, graduated college with honors, started my own photography business, and was making more than my husband there for a minute. I did my own taxes, marketing, editing, and everything. And then I came out as trans.

I lost everything.

I lost my studio. I lost friends. I had rumors started about me. I had people post hate messages on my wall. I had people at my drag shows tell others not to tip me, for whatever fucking reasons. I’ve had bosses give cis people jobs over me, and I’ve had government workers give me second looks when I hand them my license.

It. Fucking. Sucks. To. Live. Here. Like. This.

Oh yeah, did I mention I’m also a witch/medium? I’ve talked to dead people before and have told their relatives things I shouldn’t have known otherwise about their grandparents. Like, this information doesn’t even exist on Google. And I’m attuned to reiki. I’m always aware of what’s happening on at least SOME metaphysical level. This is a gift that I’ve had to go through life developing and learning about myself, with no one’s help but me.

I didn’t even know until I was an adult that I have autism and ADHD.

I’ve taken bullets from people who were about to kill themselves. I’ve yelled at 5th grade music classrooms for doing racist dance moves and appropriating Native Americans (I have a degree in Music Education K-12). I’ve consoled kids in classrooms who suddenly have panic attacks. AND I’ve told horny teenagers to stay in their fucking lane and respect the girls around them. I’ve apparently been an inspiration to those around me, but inspiration NOR exposure pays the bills. I’ve already had COVID, and so has my husband, but I knew that after graduating college that I would never have a fulfilling life being a music teacher in Tennessee’s public schools.

And now that we have COVID, and an orange, small-dicked, pedophilic, rape apologizing, dirty, crusty white president who STILL REFUSES TO CONCEDE, who is DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE FOR HAVING HIS FOLLOWERS SEND DEATH THREATS TO MY FAMILY, I really don’t know what the fuck else to do other than go burn down all the houses I know of in North Georgia that belong to these Christian sex cult pedophiles and call it a day. My girlfriend unfortunately was born into one of those families, and I know just how bad it can get. In fact, her dad’s lawyer threatened me with blackmail earlier in November, so that was fun!

And now, on December 11, 2020, I’m still sitting here in the same fucking house, doing the same fucking things I’ve been doing all year - trying to get a job and failing horribly. I’M SICK AND TIRED OF THIS COVID BULLSHIT AND OUR INCOMPOTENT CUNT OF A PRESIDENT! And there’s only ever one other person I’ve ever called a cunt... my own mother.

I’ve lived in many places. I’ve met many different people. I’ve made mistakes, and have grown, but there’s one thing for damn sure that I always make sure to do, every single fucking day.

I ALWAYS try to do better.

In addition to this, I treat everyone with the same amount of respect, unless they have done something directly to me to negate that. If I know that someone believes in something that directly harms me or my family, I don’t even associate with them. I don’t spend my energy on things that don’t need it. And everyone else should, too.

The problem with some of y’all is that you care about the wrong things. Like will Becky text me back or did I get front row seats to that concert, or did I slave my life away to capitalism just so that I can own a Mercedes and have my friends jealous. I’ve had way too many dear death experiences to know that EVERY single fucking day is a gift. EVERY day.

I don’t want to be remembered first for the art I create. I want to be remembered for my character. I want to be remembered as the courageous person who never backed down in the face of adversity. But when you live in a place that already hates you and that is against you, that’s really fucking hard. Trust me. My marriage went from a cis straight passing couple to a white gay passing couple. I’ve seen how people’s attitudes changed around me as I transitioned. I know what it feels like to slowly lose a piece of your privilege you were born with.

So yeah, I kinda get a little fucking upset when I see people saying All Lives Matter, or when I see doctors refusing to treat trans patients in pandemics, or when I see cops YET AGAIN harassing Black people only a few blocks away from my house for no other reason than racism. And at this point, anyone who thinks they know me but only knows what people think they know about me can suck my entire ass and eat ten dicks. I don’t give a FUCK about who you are or what you’ve done. If you treat me or other people with no respect for no reason other than to be an asshole, you’re just plain shit. If you SERIOUSLY believe every little rumor and lie that someone tells about me before meeting me, fuck you AND the horse you rode in on.

What I can’t stand is people doing or saying things just to get a rise out of me or others. I thought we left petty shit in high school. Some of the people that “know” me really need to fucking grow up and grow a pair and either say what they want to my face, or stay mad. I’m tired of playing fucking petty games with y’all. We have a whole ass pandemic to solve.

So here’s the ultimatum... if you agree that Black Lives Matter and that queer people deserve basic human rights, EVEN THE ONES YOU HATE, then that’s the bare minimum to even be a decent person. If you can’t even do those things, then I don’t fucking know what else to say to you.

So NBC, maybe not have John Mulaney joke about my license debacle with my gold van on SNL, and Seth Meyers... maybe HIRE ME INSTEAD of Mulaney because clearly y’all don’t know about the south as much as I do? Oh, and that gazeebo joke with Lee University... I caught that. I may have autism, but I’m not a fucking idiot. I mean. I’m funny when I’m given the chance. And yeah, I’m on a watchlist, but who the fuck isn’t these days? At least all my secrets are out for the world to see, and I have a bangin’ tattoo.

I’m tired of everyone being like “omg, I’ve seen what he can do, it’s fantastic!” or “omg you’re so funny haha” and bragging on me and then NOT FUCKING HIRING ME. I’m TIRED of waiting on something that’s clearly at this point never coming.

I don’t even have testicles, and my balls are bigger than most of the cis men I have EVER met.

So, if you want to help me, or hire me, or get me out to an audition... I’ll be there. But until then, I’m so fucking MAD at some of these producers. Yeah, my mom is a cunt, but she worked in various forms of digital production from the 1980′s until she retired this year. She taught me SO MUCH about directing, writing, shooting, and more. I know how these things are supposed to run behind the scenes. I know what the fuck I’m doing, and I don’t take constructive criticism like a bitch. I actually WANT to be criticized, so I can do even better.

So PLEASE, for the love of Christ... y’all need to get your priorities together AND PLEASE STOP LEAVING ME OUT OF THE LOOP WITH THIS BULLSHIT. Grow a fucking pair and either call me, email me, or leave me alone. It’s really not that fucking hard. Looking at you, Lorne Michaels.

Oh and someone tell my husband what the fuck’s been going on because I’m tired of him gaslighting me about it.

[negativefouriq]

Nothing on this Earth is easier than excuses. No matter what I do, no matter how guilty I am, I’ll always find some way to excuse myself, to explain away the problem. It can be for small things, like using my depression to convince myself that it’s okay that I was too tired to get out of bed this morning and submit an assignment on time. It can be for bigger things, like justifying letting myself go without talking to any other person for weeks at a time, because “my social battery is just dead”. Or for even bigger things, like convincing myself that manipulating someone is okay, because as soon as I’m out from under my parents’ regime, I can repay them. And it can be for huge things, like convincing myself I’m not good enough compared to the philanthropists I see everywhere, and so if I just repost an informative tweet about how Yemen children don’t have enough food to survive for another day, then my civil duty is done. Explain, justify, excuse. Explain, justify, excuse. Explain. Justify. Excuse.

Explain, justify, excuse. Explain. Justify. Excuse. Explain. Justify. Excuse.

Explain.

Justify.

Excuse.

Over and over. Rinse, lather, repeat. As much as I like to believe I’m an activist, I’m just not. I’m not better than anyone else on the planet, convincing myself I’m doing alright. It could be worse. I’m changing the world. Just a little bit, but a little bit is okay. Right?

 No.

 I can convince myself to the moon and back, but no matter how hard I try, there will always be a little stain of guilt, too stubborn for me to wash away. No matter how hard I try, I can’t just wish away others’ pain. I can’t close my eyes and pretend that “things will just work out”. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

And I can whip myself around in circles, scream at the guilt that I’m just a kid, I’m just a goddamn kid, how can I be expected to take on the weight of the world? How can I go out on the streets, and throw myself in between a dirty cop and an unarmed black man? How can I take every penny I’ve every saved, and give it away to foreign countries that aren’t my responsibility? Why do I feel the weight of the fucking world on my shoulders? I’m a kid. I’m a goddamn kid! I don’t even have my license! I don’t have control over any money! I can’t even vote! How can I be expected to help those in need, when I can’t even help myself?

I can scream and cry and fit at that guilt all I want. I can read thousands of articles about how kids shouldn’t have that much responsibility; I shouldn’t invalidate my own feelings because others “have it worse”. Hell, I’ve comforted people with those exact words.

 That doesn’t change how disgusted I am with myself. With every person around me.

 Every time I complain because I didn’t get dinner at the time I’m used to having it, when I binge eat because I’m too weak to stop myself, when I let myself have “five more minutes” and sleep for two days straight, I’m fucking disgusted. I hate myself.

And yea, okay. Maybe it’s the stupid depression talking. Maybe my mind isn’t in the right place. Maybe I am being to hard on myself.

But maybe I’m not.

I’ll see the pictures, of kids so starved you can count every bone. I’ll see videos, of an unarmed black man begging for his life as a cop kneels on his neck. I’ll see art, showing the twentieth trans kid this month to throw himself into traffic as his family screams at him that he’s an abomination. I’ll open Twitter to see hundreds of men yelling at a woman that she asked for it, if she didn’t want to be raped then she should have covered up, she should have done better. I’ll scroll down Instagram and hear speeches, of advocates begging, pleading, “Please, please, the children are in cages. The guards are killing them with chemicals, Mr. President, please, let them go, sir, please – ” and suddenly I can’t breath, my vision is blurry, my head is pounding, “Jackie please, please, you can help us, we need your help, please, they’re killing us, please, our children our dying, we’re suffocating, please, help us Jackie please –”

 Screaming. I’m screaming, because I can help. I have the money, so much, I could use it on those kids, I could save lives, and I’m trying to pay some rich white men to teach me something I could Google? I’m paying someone to live in a shitty apartment when I have an adequate house with my parents? I’m paying five dollars a month for a music subscription; those five dollars could save someone’s life!

The guilt eats me alive. It gnaws my flesh, devours my soul, until I have to run away from my own self, until I’m wiping my brain, I’m numb, because feeling nothing is better than the guilt and the pain that consumes my soul.

I have to think of nothing, because thinking of everything will kill me. And as much as I’m not doing nearly enough to help people now, I can’t do anything if I’m dead.

 This guilt doesn’t consume me every day. No, usually I can push it right back into a box in my brain that I avoid at all costs. I can shut it up, yell over it, move on in my life.

But every once in a while.

I’ll read some sort of poem. I’ll see a picture I can’t rip out of my mind. I’ll see a kid, lying in the street, tears spilling over as she begs for a dollar, please, just a loonie, I need a meal, I haven’t eaten in days –

Or maybe I’ll read a book. I’ll pick up the new Hunger Games book, because hey, I love this author. Let’s see what this is about!

And I’ll read this book, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, and I’ll be disgusted with this protagonist, who thinks he’s better than everyone else because of his bloodline, who worries about his education more than the people his city kills, who is unbothered by his government’s brutal murder of children. I’m horrified that the citizens of this fictional city, the Capitol, just allow their leaders to demand the sacrifice of twenty-four children each year of their own entertainment. I’m revolted that these people are out, spending money dyeing their skin and curling their hair when their poorer citizens can’t even feed themselves. I’ll enjoy the story, though – it’s well-written, intriguing, contrasting. I’ll finish in a day, then settle down into bed, smiling, because, hey, I liked that book.

And then the insomnia kicks in. The hours will tick by, and I’ll stare at my ceiling, and I will see, I will see that the log in my eye is thousands of times bigger than the speck in my neighbour’s eye. Throughout this book, I sat and judged these people, these fictional people. I put myself on a pedestal, because, woah, I’m not THAT bad. Jesus, they’re barbaric!

And then I’ll realise. Slowly, as the seconds flit away and all I’m seeing is the white of my ceiling, the weight of my blanket, and I’ll realise.

I am just as bad as Coriolanus Snow.

As I worry about affording a fancy university education, people, teenagers, in my own community are living on the streets. (As Snow worried about affording university, people in the districts were homeless, without any promise of their next day.)

As I bake my fifth pie today out of boredom, 80% of Yemen’s population is in crisis, most of them haven’t eaten in weeks. (As Snow stuffs himself on Capitol delicacies and worries about his image, children are dropping like flies in the district. Hundreds of them.)

As fearlessly play cops and robbers with my siblings, black children are shot for having toy guns. (As Snow helps find ways to make the Games more interesting, twenty-four families each year mourn the deaths of their children.)

As I giddily twirl around in a dress I liked and bought at the store, a trans girl is beaten by her father for growing her hair. (As Snow wears his pressed and perfected Academy uniform, children in the districts wear threadbare rags, and die of exposure.)

As I complain about having to share a tiny room with my brother as my new room is being built, disease spreads through the cages children of illegal immigrants must share in detention centres. (As Snow fears losing his prestigious penthouse, people in the districts live in one-room shacks.)

And as the realisation sets in, the guilt grows. And the soul-eating panic sets back in, because I can not hold it back. I cannot pretend with it standing to defiantly in front of me, with my disgust reflected right back at me so clearly. I have all this money, all this privilege, and yet I am ungrateful.

And I realise.

My minimal efforts are not enough. I am going to have to make sacrifices. I am going to have to speak out. I am going have to say goodbye to the comforts I am used to, because it’s just not fair. I can’t sit under my weighted blanked and hide from the cruel world. I am no longer a child. I must face the pain of the world, the crying of the dying children, and I must step up. I must help in all ways I can to see the lessons of the book, se the clear correlation between my life and the life of the character I so despise, and I must change the world.

[fortheheavenssake]

MM ANON II - 2.

72. July 1

MM ANON ……… Hong gone ………… Melbourne hellbourn……… Britain made a wedding profit ??? …………… 4 th July closed. …………… Independent’s bug. …………Maple Kate forever……… George is upset…………… 🎼follow er of fashion 🎼………………… MM, a legend in her own lunchtime ……………… Wigan bin in ……………………air Bridge of size.

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73. July 2

MM ANON ………OMG your under arrest………… video link………… across the border Scotland ……………surprise George …………… Charlotte leads………… Kate&William on top again ………… MM pathetic and mendacious ………… fakency lies……………… “ nice to be going soon cabbage“………… “ yes , I’m looking forward to a drive around the grounds” ………… “ shooting party’s this year” ……… “ doctors approval Philip “ …………” we’ll bring Sydney “……… “ Ahhh, that reminds me,Sydney!!”……… “Philip, it’s tic toc.”

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74. July 3

MM ANON ………… 0600 hr. ……………… build,build,build, drink ,drink,drink …………… 🎼Braaaaaazil🎼……………… business as unusual …………… speak to the Guinness ………… TSDONY………… Subpoena ad testomonium…… theatre/ no theatre ……………… but not America ………… Lone Ranger……………… Mt, Rushmore ………… a bad day in LA ………… still hiding

—————-

75. July 4

MM ANON ……… formula sprog………… madness will spill………… stupid father………… no she wont’ yes she will……… Nigel’s illegal pint………… Williams cider………… Spain’s pain……………… ahhhhhh, blonde bits …………… 🎼only the lonely🎼……………… for love or MONEY …………… HMTQ ( NENC) ………… with the contempt she deserves …………… it’s all a gamble , Arrrrrr!!

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76. July 8

MM ANON ……… girl up the creek………hostage man. ………… half free meal………… drug exposure …………… …staff redundancy at HMTQ …………… boarding rules …………… most popular royal ……………… mines a cider……… ( where’s pg 💜💜) ……………”it’s Balmoral Philip, but not as we know it) …… out of his Depp-th… “ more 🎼Braziiiiil🎼…………… Spanish flu?? ……… 🎼we’re all going on a summer holiday 🎼

—————-

77. July 9

MM ANON …… HMTQ The long wait ………… BLM Trumps ………… no taxes………… boarding Charlotte 🥳🥳🥳……Boarding George 😱😱😱😱………… open the Jim…………… Brazil el Presidente……… Amber Amber,red……………IOC allow protest? ………… school 😷 masks. ……………cricket lovely cricket ………don’t cruise ………………glee, not today …………… tic-toc down. ……… red crane down.

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78. July 10

MM ANON …THANK EVERYONE WHO ATTEMPTS AND GIVES SUCH CREATIVE ANSWERS. MY CONGRATULATIONS AND THANKS TO YOU ALL. 💜💜💜💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

79. July 10

MM ANON …… fly high Vera…………… Johnny poo…………… Murray mint Kate…………… now Pneumonia …………… Break cover……………… without merit ……… cover up Boris………… stop and search 😱😱😱…………… open theatre …………………… “ we want gan gan !! “ …………… “ we can visit Catherine “ …………… “ yes’ before Scotland “…………… “ clandestine William “ ……… “your grandfather will be ecstatic 🤣🤣🤣”

—————

80. July 11

MM ANON ………… relaxed on zoom…………… Leeds bleeds ………… office no office ………… compulsory …………… Brooklyn!! Yawn. ………… Smith, Will deny …………… “Well” , solve the mystery???…………… STONE cold guilty………… Bollywood in hospital ……………Beach sleep………… Tapes😱😱😱😱………… In secunda Eboracum venit ………… Boo-Hoo !!

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81. July 12

MM ANON ……… keep my sex life private…………… farm infectious …………… we don’t have to wear them…………… elephants virus ……………… sad swim ……………… down and out in LA…………… Burton blocks…………ROYAL BUTLER. ………… Fourteen Times!!!! ……………… Ritchies holiday camp …………ATMs lockdown ……………… electric scooters😱😱😱😱😱………… Kate tops poll

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82. July 13

MM ANON ……… heartbroken …………… musky Amber…… sleepy ice cream………… sad Lake……………… more organ warnings …………… huge slave factory’s ……………… tin foil………” never call your babies…???………………… second safest road ……………Forest Rambo…………………” you go old thing , it’s for the best” …………… “ I may stay!! “ …………… Ken. Palace bubble.

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83. July 14

MM ANON …… NO BAIL……… happy little people ………… gymnast aghast ………… George is not happy ………… a woke joke…………………… masked rats………………… carry on up the Amazon …………… “ so are White People” ……………… a new rash ……… HMTQ Royal zoom…………Black-burnt ……………… cut my card up………… veggies break out………… blame the dog-poo………………up up and Huawei………”

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84. July 15

MM ANON …… Now a “married”abomination ………… girlfriends!! …………… HMTQ,will she , won’t she…………… Kate’s amazing ascension ……………… the feeding machine ………… a future Queen in all but name. …………… “ Yes!! A homogeneous bubble” …………… a sterile palace ………black Colorado ……… sir Tom?? …………… a hush hush holiday. …………… awoke to a scathing review.

—————-

85. July 16

MM ANON …… “ after re-watching the Crown how on Earth did HMTQ accept the DOEs dalliances…………… it’s a miracle she never castrated him……… GBHMTQAOGC

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86. July 16

MM ANON ……… TODAYS RIDDLE IS A TRIBUTE TO OUR GLORIOUS MONARCHY … GBHMTQAOGC. …… Dear anons, take your time , this riddle is not a race …… GOD BLESS THE QUEEN.

——————

87. July 16

MM ANON …… HMTQ ……… The engagement …… The courtship …… The wedding …… The commonwealth tour……THE CORONATION …… The dalliances of Philip ……Her stoicism……… The children …… The 50/60/70/80/90…………PC/… W&K…… OUR MAGNIFICENT MONARCHY ……… The future legacy. ……… GBHMTQAOGC 🇬🇧

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88. July 17

MM Anon for PG💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

MM ANON ……… DEAR PG. such a magnanimous and eloquent tribute for all anons to enjoy and wonder at your historical recollections and memorable facts. A thousand thanks. A labour of loving and informative joy. My thanks is to say we’re so lucky and blessed to have a PG. …… BRAVA!!

We are indeed! This was such a labor of love, truly wonderful, we are blessed indeed!🙏🏻💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

—————-

89. July 17

MM ANON …… Bea-discreet …………… “ give them a wave Philip, its a wedding “…………… “ I’m looking forward to congratulating the happy couple and sharing a few jokes “ ………… “ No Philip”…………… “ don’t be silly, I won’t say anything ……… “ NO PHILIP!! “ …………” what’s this Philip” ……… “ just a few notes” …………… “ you can’t say this!! ……… “ OK… bloody hell , it’s a joke” …………… “ if you said this , Italy would declare war!!” ……… “ bloody hell !!”

—————-

90. July 20

MM ANON ………… honeymoon Italia…… “hello my old China “…………… more engagements ………… Balmoral cottages ………… secret snaps ( eyes only) ………………”once upon a time “…………T. R. Ah. …………… the green eyed trasher ………… close the beaches …………… a coach full …………… Bea-frugal ……… unknown posie.

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91. July 21

MM ANON … Hello anons , I have a hospital appointment today at 10.00. At the RD&E for tests and an MRI ,Sounds all a bit dramatic, I hope not , things could be better but ……… one day at a time ! I love you all ,dear Skippy,PG , LK …… all you beautiful anons who fill my world with love and humility. I sincerely love you all , acceptance is the answer to ALL my problems. 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜much love and hugs. ☘️☘️☘️☘️☘️☘️☘️☘️

———-

MM ANON...” in hospital at the moment, RD&E , so I cannot sleep, catheter!! I’ll attempt a riddle to keep myself awake. Much love to all

Oh…poor you! Prayers for you dear MM Anon..we are here for you❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

———-//—

92. July 22

MM ANON ………7 into 99…………The “wishing well”……… “ I can hear a canary singing “ …………… “ good news MM ANON, it’s not c***er🙏🏻………… By-polar …………… “ what , not the nurses” …………Biker Justice …………… Cor,i bin apologising …………… “ I wish her hell”……………… LA to stay away ……………… kiss and MAKE UP ………………Colonel Cam. ………… scouse rouse.

—————-

93. July 23

MM ANON ……… love life exposed …………… gift of jewellery ……………… it’s all a mask ………………… sister protection ……………… yippee ,Balmoral …………… 15 Bank accounts??……………… return to school??? ……………… “ it’s the theatre Jim, but not as they show it”………… Sending in Federal Troops ……………………Bojo crabs ……………… a strong union 🤣🤣🤣……………… 4 million. …………” are you coming Sydney”………… “indubitably sir”…………… “ stock the cellar!! “ ……… “ your request is my command sir” ………… “ and don’t tell anyone I’m driving the LR.”

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94. July 24

MM ANON ……” since 1948 ,no changes ………… wags wobble………… phone a drone ………… Kim-vorce ……………… masked burger………… flowers for team Johnny ………… bailed out by old Bailey…………… Ban her from the palace ………………… tell all will destroy her……………… K&W&LCG will sunny fly to island???……………” I’ll drive Sydney!! “ ……… “ I’ll walk sir” …………… “ bloody get in”😱😱😱

—————-

95. July 25

MM ANON … … “ SHOWGIRL”…………… “that girl” ………… “ I don’t trust her “……………… quarantine …… “we never consulted the authors”😂😂😂……………”it’s a gym Jim, but not as they row it”………… “coming for a swim”…………… knock em for SIX……………Four!!!…………… “jump Frankie”…………” it’s only to the Glen Sydney “ …………… “ it’s three miles sir” ……… “ get the bloody hamper” ……… “I’ll drive back sir” ………… “ not a bloody chance Sydney” ……… “ then I refuse sir” ……… “get your bloody arse in the LR” … “reluctantly sir “😱😱

——————

96. July 26

MM ANON ………… BARC-ALONE-A……… no Transport home………on ya bike …………… obesities ………… floating for Vlad…………… Kim-jong-corona ………… Hurriicant ………… Moderna………Daisy down……… dog collar reunion …………………”more than kin and less than kind” ………… “ a three-pounder Sydney,the Gillie can smoke it” ………” Sydney, Sydney ……… SYDNEY???”

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97. July 27

MM ANON:…… arrivals !!…………… HMTQ, “ ego lava manus meas”……………” you bloody talk to them”……………Kate cry’s lies………… lying interview……… O ‘no!! …………… one man and his dog…………… a foggy moggy……… “ let’s go shooting Sydney “………… “ with guns sir” ……… “ lots of bloody guns” ……………” O dear”

——————

98. July 28

MM ANON …… colourful Cam !!…………… Fast Far-raar-ri blast. …………” let your daughter breathe “…………… A niece wedding …………… Inappropriate funds??………… Bush tragedy ……………… inappropriately shamed royal ………… a pricey disinfect ………… “ you’re a spot on gun Man Sydney!!”………… “ a privilege sir” ……… “ how’s the shoulder?” ……… “ I’ll recover sir “……… “ it’s stopped bleeding “ ……… “ just a flesh wound sir “ ……… “ next week Sydney? ……… “ I hear the Gillie comes highly recommend sir”……… “Ahh, spiffing!! “

——————

99. July 29

MM ANON………… Peter,Crouch with William ………… 🎼Son in Law🎼…………Facebook , Apple, google …………… 5 friends , Shhhhhh !!!……………… very upset islands………… MM is leaking 🤣🤣………… Refund , Shmeefund.…………Heath-row row!!……… “Why is ones arm in a sling Sydney ??…………… “ I slipped exiting the LR ma’am………” where was Philip ?………… “ sitting in the back ma’am”……” hello old thing, what’ho Sydney “ ……… good afternoon sir”……” Sydney had a hiatus Philip “……… “ O dear, looks sore Sydney “ ……” yes sir”…… “VERY!!”

————-

100. July 30

MM ANON ( BALMORAL ANON )…… “ who’s this Sydney?” … “ Mr Angiss sir, he’s come to install Netflix “… “ Ahhh, EPIC, what’s your first name?”… “Angus sir “…Ehh !!!, Angus Angiss”…”yes sir “… “ bloody hell, that’s unfortunate “ … “ My mother had a sense of humour sir”… “ bit like me then, what say you Sydney?……………” indubitably sir” …… “ bloody marvellous, The Queen wants to watch Ozark, she loves a bit of the old ultra violence “……… “ right ‘ refreshments Sydney,I’m parched!!”…… “yes sir “

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101. July 31

MM ANON …… Kate being scilly ……… ……… Borix nails down the caughin ………… roving explorer …………… phew! What a scorcher …………… Lions Arm-y…………… climate is a changing …………… ( get well mr, skippy 🌈) ……………beaches,stay away 😱😱………………Peer- pressure ‘ O brother!! …………… tick tick bite!! ……………”doctor, what’s growing on my arm.” …………… Williams conservs film

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[mirandagoing4baroque]

Agrippina at the Met

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away, back in the before times, I traveled to New York to see Agrippina. I saw the last production in the show’s run, and one of the last operas performed at the Met this year. I returned from that trip on March 9 and entered social distancing March 13, when the guidance came out that people who had been to New York should self-quarantine. I say the above partially as an excuse for why this review is so late, and partially for some context. Agrippina was supposed to be the highlight of my season this year. Instead it was the end.

My father and I bought our tickets for Agrippina as soon as they went on sale, over a year before the night we intended to attend the show. The plans were made, the train tickets to New York booked, the arrangements to stay with friends made. Dinner reservations made. A week before the appointed hour, we got a text from our friend “are you still planning to come? People here are freaking out about the coronavirus.” We talked it over, and determined that if the opera was on, we would go. The opera was on, so we went.

After a lovely dinner at an Italian restaurant (also my last meal in a restaurant) on the way to Lincoln Center, we made our way to the opera house. Both my father and I had been to the Met before (I had a particularly memorable trip to see La Donna Del Lago), but we had never been together. We took a tour around the various levels, admiring the history and art, before taking our seats. The curtin was bedecked with a giant painting of a wolf with engorged teats, upon which two human infants were suckling. It was clearly a depiction of the twins and the founding of Rome. 

For you see Agrippina is a story of Agrippina the Younger and her attempts to get her son Nero (in this opera called Nerone), on the throne of Rome. I usually try to race through these, but when there's a lot of distance to cover, there's only so fast you can go. The story begins, she has just received word that her husband the emperor Claudius (here Claudio) has been drowned at sea. She plots to seize the opening to have her son named emperor by popular acclaim. The senate consents and Agrippina and Nero begin to ascend the steps to the throne, but this is only like half an hour into this opera, so there’s no way this is going to work. And sure enough, before they reach their (well Agrippina’s, Nerone is a little more conflicted) goal, a messenger arrives saying that Claudio has survived, saved by the general Otho. The two men arrive in the city and everyone except Agrippina rejoices. 

It is announced that Claudio has named Otho his heir. Agrippina is furious. But then Otho lets it slip to Agrippina that he loves Poppea and cares more for her than the throne. Agrippina uses this info to manipulate Poppea into rejecting Otho, by telling Poppea that Otho gave her up in exchange for the throne. You see Claudio also loves Poppea, though unlike Otho, his love is not reciprocated. Agrippina further tells Poppea that she can get revenge by telling Claudio that she can’t see him anymore because Otho said so. Claudio storms off in a huff. I swear I am trying to do this quickly; I’ve cut several subplots already.  Otho’s coronation day arrives. Claudio, angry about the Poppea thing, disavows Otho. One by one, all the other characters turn their backs on him. He despairs. 

Poppea is moved by the despair and wonders if her beloved might be innocent. She sets up a trap, and discovers Otho’s innocence. Agrippina convinces Claudio that Otho is still plotting against him, and implores Claudio to abdicate in favor of Nerone for the Emperor’s own safety. Nerone declares his love for Poppea because why the hell not. In a scene in which three people (Nerone, Claudio, Otho) are hidden in the closets of her bedroom, Poppea rejects Nerone, and convinces Claudio that Otho is not plotting against him. Nerone, in a fit of rage forswears romantic love in favor of political ambition. Claudio calls everyone together and announces that the throne will go to Otho and Poppea will wed Nerone. Everyone freaks out, as this is the opposite of what everyone wants. Claudio changes his mind. The end. (Deep breath).

Agrippina was the first major operatic work that Handel wrote, and it definitely shows. I mean, that plot, am I right? But there is a lot to like, musically, here. The orchestra was excellent, though frequent readers of this blog will not be surprised that I lament the lack of period instruments. But Harry Bicket can do no wrong stylistically and the orchestra acquitted themselves admirably. I found the second act much stronger than the first. I think this is just that the first act is mostly set up (it takes up more than two thirds of the summary above) and the emotional pay off mostly comes in the back half, which is where Handel can truly shine.

I was a little nervous, because the reviews of this production had been mixed. It appeared that the staging was a “strong flavor” and the reactions had been intense, with some loving the somewhat madcap, updated staging, and others finding it distracting. I was somewhere in the middle. Overall, I think the staging was a value add. The director seemed to be on a mission to see how far he could stretch the original libretto to accommodate new situations. There were times when it worked (turning the racing clouds in Nerone’s final aria to cocaine), and times when it did not (setting Poppea and Otho’s reconciliation in a bar). The secondary mission of the director seemed to be to make things as difficult as possible for the singers, who by and large rose to the challenge with aplomb.  Kate Lindsay was given a particularly hard row to hoe, and my lord she triumphed. 

The cast not only surmounted the acting challenges laid before them, they were all quite capable vocally.  As I have mentioned before, when it comes to roles originally written for castrati I am generally in the camp of sisters (mezzos) before misters (countertenors). Sorry guys, it’s not personal, some of you are quite lovely. And with respect to the thumb headed henchmen, I would have rather had mezzos in those roles. But Otho was played quite capably by Iestyn Davies. I had the great fortune of hearing him sing Eustazio at the Lyric Opera almost a decade ago, and he was an exceptionally winning Otho. My heart broke for him when he was rejected by all his friends one by one and was left alone. It was one of the most moving moments of the opera for me.  Matthew Rose was a capable Claudio, neither particularly distinguishing himself, nor giving me any cause for complaint.

The true standouts of this production were the women. As you may remember from my trip to the Lyric opera over a year ago, Brenda Rae is not a new name to me. She was a highlight of Ariodante, so I was very much looking forward to her performance as Poppea. Her voice was lovely, but at times seemed too small for the house. I quite enjoyed her interpretation of Poppea though: a savvy, good hearted woman who is doing her best. Hashtag relatable. (Especially in the scene where she eats a whole box of chocolates in an oversized sweater).

I’ll get to Joyce DiDonato in a minute, but you all already know that I’ll think she was awesome. I want to talk about Kate Lindsay. Who took every curveball the director threw at her and said “Yeah I can do that; I can make that awesome.” Her tatted up, bad boy Nerone channeled Beiber, and did coke, and moonwalked up stairs while singing arias. And after all that, when most of us mortals would be curled in a small ball, she sang an aria WHILE HOLDING A PLANK. Sang the aria beautifully, loudly, as if she were standing in her shower. I don’t know what supernatural creature got bored and decided being an opera singer on earth would be fun, but I’m super glad one did. I had heard of Kate Lindsay, but I had not heard her, and, friends, I was missing out. Her voice had pop. It had feeling, it had control, it had everything. She is doing Sesto next season (god willing and the creek don’t rise), and I am ready to cry my eyes out when she sings Cara Speme.

Joyce DiDonato. I don’t have a lot to say I haven’t already said before. To quote Hamilton “Look around, Look around, How lucky we are to be alive right now.” Right now being the time when we have the privilege of hearing Joyce DiDonato sing Handel. I am so, so, grateful to be able to type the following: this was not the best Handel I’ve heard her sing. The role is just not as good as some of the roles in his other operas. But Joyce DiDonato singing Handel is like pizza. It’s just gonna be good. And this was. As always, she had the highlight of the show for me. It wasn’t one of the big showy arias though. It was the small quiet moment Agrippina has with her husband at the very end of the show. She sings:

“Se vuoi pace, oh volto amato, l'odio reo fuga da te!...

“If you want peace, my love, Banish hate from your mind!...

[My best attempt at a translation aided by three years of Latin and Google Translate]

Yes, as per usual, Agrippina is manipulating him. But Joyce DiDonato is such a master, and she paints such a lovely and peaceful image that it’s hard not to want to live there. May everyone who wants such a place be able to find it in these trying times.

[thismightbeaterribleidea]

Accidental Snowbirding

So I went to Florida and accidentally became a snowbird. I drove south in September with no real timeframe for anything in mind, and I ended up staying on the Gulf coast north of Tampa (Pasco County) for almost three months, minus a couple of weeks I was in Georgia.

Some friends have asked me how the new, nomadic life is going, and I tell them that it hasn’t really felt that nomadic. I’ve enjoyed being close to my friend Ron — I had a regular rotation of several campgrounds, none of them more than half an hour from his place. It reminded me of the decade-plus ago when we both lived in Denver, in old, cheap apartments within walking distance of each other. A friend calls and says “do you want to come over?” and you just go over. It’s lovely. We both got into paddleboarding (more on that later) and explored some rivers. We even took an airbnb trip to the Smokies and northern Alabama before the pandemic escalated. So it’s been interesting and good, if different from the types of images that motivated me to buy this big-ass van (wilderness, solitude, aspen groves, desert mesas).

Here’s what I remember from the last few months:

A cotton-candy-pink bird forages on a shoreline and it is so quiet that you can hear its three-clawed feet pattering in the mud. Ninety minutes later we are scarfing down fried chicken in the car in a crowded parking lot.

In the trailer park, people drive golf carts around in loops: maybe this passes for exercise, or maybe they are hoping to run into someone to talk to.

Until November, I sweat and sweat and sweat, and then it cools off enough for me to run in the morning and it’s glorious. 

During the day, there is constant traffic and the lights are always red. There are a lot of billboards, all promising different things, but the one that makes us angry is the one that says “Jesus promises stability.”

I spend the night at a trailer park and the ladies in the office are sweet and efficient and wearing masks. But the spot I’m assigned is across from a mobile home with one of those flags that is half the U.S. flag and half the Confederate flag, and although my privilege probably keeps me safe here, I keep running through the equations with slightly different variables: who would be safe in this spot, in this trailer park/this county/this state/this country, and under what circumstances? What could make all of us safer? And the people who chose to pay for and display that absurdity of a flag, why is that flag the story they tell themselves? And what is the topography of the shared responsibility for all of this bullshit?

We paddle the Hillsborough River and see no other boaters but two alligators. One is basking on a log, and when I turn my head for a second it drops into the water with a massive splash: one moment there was a six-foot alligator; the next moment there was nothing but ripples. It was that fast. My friend decides he will not paddle here alone.

I see live oaks that have Spanish moss hanging from their branches, sure — but they’re also covered in lichens, and on the horizontal branches there are carpets of multiple kinds of moss and clusters of foot-tall ferns. It’s a whole ecosystem in one tree.

I’m driving “home” (most frequent campground) late one night and I am alone on a very dark road. In my headlights, I see a human figure in the middle of my lane, facing directly at me. I think: goblin! But it is a human person. I swerve into the other lane in case he moves. But he doesn’t move a muscle. He is in a half-crouch with his hands on his knees. I catch a glimpse of him in profile as I pass: his face is set in a rictus, jaw clenched. He is still staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if he hasn’t even seen me.

I call Ron just to reassure myself that I haven’t slipped out of the real human world and into someplace else.

“Oh my God,” he says. “But no, you’re still in the real world. There’s a lot of meth around here. He’s not a demon or anything. It’s just Florida.” He is wearing a dark sweatshirt and standing in the dark on a dark road; what if he gets hit? I call the police and I hate that to this day I still wonder if that was the right decision.

We get into paddleboarding. Ron already has an inflatable paddleboard, and I buy one with money I should be saving for things like van insulation or the loose crown on my lower left molar that is already living on borrowed time. But the paddleboard is amazing. Previously, I hadn’t gotten it: why stand when you could sit? I’m lazy and I have crappy feet; I hate standing. But this isn’t regular standing. It’s walking-on-water standing. In our favorite river, the Weeki Wachee, you can see all kinds of things from a paddleboard that it’s harder to see in a kayak, just because of the angle. On a paddleboard, you look straight down and there’s a fish striped like a zebra, an old pine log submerged ten feet down in the clear water, a scurrying blue crab, a bed of rippled sand.

We start at the public park and paddle up against a stiff current. Twice, we get to the three-mile mark and there is the same black-and-white cormorant in the same tree both times. We are familiar with the fact that if you time it right, so that you get back to the park as late as possible without actually paddling in the dark, and the crowds taper off so you have the river to yourself, the deepest pools are turquoise on our way upriver and viridian on our way down.

There are sometimes manatees on the river. In this part of the world, manatees are THE charismatic megafauna. And they are charismatic as hell. Once we are out late, a couple miles up the river with no one else around, and we see a mother and baby grazing on eelgrass in shallow water. We watch for minutes, mesmerized. The baby is tiny for a manatee: about the size of a Corgi. It must be very, very new. There is another manatee that I’m pretty sure I see several times on different days: it is very plump, with three pink slash marks across its back. We get to the point where, if there is a throng of other boaters stopped near where manatees are feeding, we don’t try to stop and see the manatees. We’ve seen them before, and we’ll see them again, when we don’t have to worry about the people and their kayaks and canoes in the current.

The last time I went to the Weeki Wachee, I went alone. The leaves were turning, because the calendar’s close-to-Christmas is Florida’s fall. I hadn’t ever planned on seeing a blazing orange maple next to tropical blue water, but it happened. Close-knit formations of big, soft gray, doe-eyed fish darted under my feet, and at the appointed time the water started turning dark green. In one of the final bends just upriver from the park, there is a deep spot called Hospital Hole. As I paddled down towards it, I saw one manatee, then another break the surface to breathe. I drifted over the hole, away from the manatees near the surface, and I saw the outline of another one eight or ten feet down against the very dark blue of very deep water.

The Weeki Wachee is a very narrow river, usually not more than thirty feet across and often only twenty. It’s also shallow, four or five feet on average, twelve where the current has carved a deep groove or pocket. Hospital Hole is at one of the river’s widest points, I’d guess maybe 150 feet from bank to bank. The hole itself — technically a sinkhole, but with a couple of small springs feeding into it — is only about 30 or 40 feet wide, but 140 feet deep. It goes down so far that there are different layers of water: freshwater, saltwater, a layer that is anoxic, another layer that is so full of hydrogen sulfide that divers can smell the rotten-egg odor even though they’re breathing compressed air. I read online that the manatees often go to Hospital Hole to sleep at night. The sinkhole-spring, like a big deep pocket, gives them space to stay together and still spread out. They can sink down below where they have to worry about boat engines or curious paddle boarders or whatever else manatees worry about. Every so often, they come up to breathe, then sink down again. Respire, rest, repeat.

It’s 7:17 p.m. as I am writing this, so they’re probably there right now.

***

So that’s Florida! Other, more nuts-and-bolts things that have happened include...

I installed lights and outlets. This was a big project and a big deal, since it means that I can have things like a fan (to keep me from sweating to death in the summer), an electric cooler (a.k.a. mini-mini-fridge) for things like vegetables and hummus and cheese and cold boozy beverages, and, well, lights at night that aren’t a harsh blue-white solar lantern, which is what I was using before October, when I made these improvements. Anything electrical is always a little scary; I’m nervous every time I have to go into the breaker box and always surprised when I’m able to touch it without shocking myself. I also had an extremely minimal understanding of how to splice wires together and how to connect all these lights to each other, to the dimmer switch, and to the breaker box. This involved a lot of googling, and even though the DIY van blogs seemed to say that installing lights would take half a day, it took me the better part of two days. But it’s done, and I’m very happy with it. Fiat lux, motherf***er!

My new favorite public agency is the Southwest Florida Water Management District. Occasionally, if I’d had a few drinks at Ron’s house, I spent the night parked in his driveway. Sometimes I stayed in private RV parks. (This was mostly driven by the need to empty the van’s port-a-pot once a week or so — public dump stations are not easy to find in this area of Florida; the closest was about an hour away.) But mostly, I stayed at campground operated by the SWFWMD. These campgrounds are in big tracts of forested, marshy, watery land, and they are great primitive campgrounds that cost $0. There’s no water, no showers, no other fancy campground amenities, but there is usually one outhouse, and each campsite has a picnic table and a fire pit. They’re basic and beautiful.

My favorite campground is called the Serenova Tract. It’s about 15 minutes from Ron’s house, and the campground is in a bunch of pines and live oaks. Horses are allowed, and on one of the last weekends I spent there, several people with horses stayed overnight and hung up Christmas lights. The next morning, they were joined by a dozen other horses and riders who all went for a morning trail ride through the woods. I was insanely jealous.

The other SWFWMD campground I stayed at was called Cypress Creek. It’s a little farther from Ron’s place than Serenova, so it was my second choice when Serenova was full but my van’s shitter wasn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, with tons of big pines. But right now I’m a little wary of it because the last time I stayed there I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:51 a.m. when I heard someone singing and talking to themselves. (The campground had been totally empty when I got there and still was as far as I could see.) It was probably just someone who had come in on foot and was drinking because it was cold (40 degrees) outside, but it was still a bit unnerving. 

I also have a favorite RV park. I was thinking that my relationship with these places would be strictly utilitarian, and it still mostly is. But out of the three RV parks that I’ve stayed at, there’s one small one called Suncoast that I actually kind of enjoyed: even though I only went there occasionally, the three staff people remembered me when I called or came in, and they often gave me a discount on their regular rates because I don’t use any electricity. They (both staff and most guests) also seem to be taking pretty good pandemic precautions. (I actually saw someone get kicked out of the office when they tried to come in without a mask, something that I’ve never seen in any other business since March!) The place has nice big pine trees, and by the office there’s a table where people put free food that they aren’t using, or occasionally two-day-old bread that someone got from Publix for free. The last time I was there, some people had decorated their campers and RVs with lights and it was kind of charming. I still heavily prefer to be out in the woods by myself and not spending any money, but I’m glad I found someplace pleasant for my once-a-week-or-so sewer/water needs.

I figured out how to stay warm while sleeping. This is a bigger deal than it sounds because a) I haven’t insulated the van yet, so at night, it’s only a few degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is outside, and b) I’m a very cold sleeper. Florida is SUPER WARM compared to any other place I’ve ever lived, but in December, it started getting a little chilly at night: down into the fifties, then the forties, then, a few nights ago, 30 degrees. I’ve camped in near-freezing or slightly-below-freezing temperatures before, but sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable — even with good long underwear and socks and a hat and a zero-degree-rated sleeping bag. But I’ve figured out a system for my bed that uses four blankets, layered like a licorice allsort: a quilt, a heavy wool blanket, another quilt, and a faux-wool blanket. If it gets below 40, I can add my zero-degree down sleeping bag and be not just comfortable but actively toasty, like a baking croissant.

Unrelatedly, I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

I’ve found that my life in a van is basically like my life has been anywhere else. I work. I sleep. I stay up late reading things on the internet when I should be sleeping. Sometimes I go running or do yoga (while trying not to bump into the cabinet or kick the front console or hit the ceiling). Sometimes I do fun things, like paddleboarding or talking to friends. I make goals and plans and don’t follow through on them, except when very very occasionally I do. But when I’m looking up van stuff online, I often run across photos of people who are #selfemployed #vanlife and the photos of them working are:

A woman is seated propped up on pillows in the bed in the back of her van. The doors are open, framing a view of the cerulean sea, so that you can practically smell the gentle breeze blowing over the dunes. She has a laptop on her lap and is looking thoughtfully out to sea while a cup of tea steeps on a tray that is on the white coverlet of her bed.

Or

A man is seated at the dinette in the back of his van. He has a laptop, a French press, a mug of coffee, and a plate with two scones on it on the table. The table, and in fact the whole dinette with its two upholstered benches, would be at home on a small luxury yacht, and it’s the kind of dinette that you make into a bed at night. The astute, intent expression on the man’s face give the viewer to understand that he is competent and disciplined and never stays up two hours past his bedtime because he’s too lazy to lower the dinette table and rearrange the cushions and put on all his sheets and blankets. We are also given to understand that the electrical system in his van would have no problems handling the power drain of a bean grinder, even though he is clearly parked in the high Rockies — again, with the back doors open, the better to take in the late spring air and see the fresh green of the aspen trees — and it’s often cloudy. Lastly, we are given to understand that he baked those scones himself, because when he’s not working, hiking, lumberjacking, or otherwise living his best life, he enjoys unwinding by baking bread and pastries. (Not in the van; don’t be silly! He bakes outside, over a wood fire.)

(A tangent: Why do so many people have their van doors open in photos I see online? Do they only stay in places with no bugs? If I tried that in Florida, or even Maryland or Colorado half the year, I’d be awake half the night swatting at mosquitoes and/or flies.)

In contrast, a photo of me being self-employed in a van would look like:

A woman is sprawled in an ungainly fashion on her narrow bunk. Her laptop is braced by her lower ribs and propped up with a pillow placed over her gut. The pillow has a cat on it. The windows of the van are covered in silver bubble-wrap, so very little light gets in. Absolutely no doors are open, because the van is parked behind a Dunkin Donuts so the woman can get free wifi and not burn through all the data on her phone plan. She takes a break to heat up a can of Campbell’s soup on an alcohol stove, adding a handful of dehydrated mixed vegetables, to be healthy. As she stirs the soup, she gazes contemplatively out the windshield towards the adjacent parking lot, where there is an IHOP. #vanlife

Or

A woman is sitting in the passenger seat of her van with her feet on the dashboard and her laptop on her lap. Beside her in the cupholder is a steaming Hydroflask full of the cheapest tea she could buy at Publix. The van is parked in a grove of live oaks. Spanish moss sways gently in the morning breeze. Behind the woman, in the dark recesses of the van, sets of clothes are hanging: leggings and a shirt, still sweaty, by the side doors, a bathing suit over the sink, a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in by the rear cabinet. Several kitchen towels are draped on the driver’s seat and on the dashboard because the cab leaks above the sun visors when it rains, and even though she’s tried caulking it three times, she still can’t get it to stop. #vanlife

The good thing, though, is that I’m still getting work and making a living. I can do it someplace that’s safe, without having to risk my life to do it. And I’m getting paid a fair hourly wage. But then the very terrible thing is that everyone should be able to say what I just said, but so many people can’t: they’re not making a real living through their work, they have to risk their lives to do it, and they’re not getting paid a fair wage.

(Brief interlude as I stare at the ceiling angrily.)

***

Here’s what I’m doing next: I left Pasco County on the 16th. I’ll be in what I think of as “traveling quarantine” until the 30th, staying in a national forest near Jacksonville. (With a couple of stops at state parks to refill water, empty the port-a-pot, and maybe take a real shower.) I’ll be in Maryland on New Year’s Eve and will stay at my parents’ while I insulate the van, build interior walls, and do a bunch of other stuff so that I can call it (mostly) finished. Then I’m thinking of going to New Mexico and spending late winter/early spring there… parked on top of a mesa… sipping a cup of French-press coffee on my white coverlet while I thoughtfully gaze out the open doors of my van… (I really would like to park on top of a mesa though.)