#that is a i wish it was a self imput moment

[angelexlife]

*writing a book and making your main character quote Taylor Swift anf have the other character pick up on it*

[radical-revolution]

GRASPING AT EMPTINESS

By conquering Mara and his army, Siddhartha realized the emptiness of inherent existence. He understood that everything we see, hear, feel, imagine, and know to exist is simply emptiness onto which we have imputed or labeled a certain “trueness.”

This activity of labeling or perceiving the world as true is born out of a strong individual and collective habit — we all do it. The forces of habit are so strong and our concept of emptiness is so unappealing that few have the will to pursue a realization like Siddhartha’s.

Instead, we wander like a disoriented desert traveler who sees a lush oasis in the distance. The oasis is actually just the reflection of heat on sand, yet out of desperation, thirst, and hope, the wanderer identifies it as water. Using his last strength to get there, he discovers it is only a mirage and becomes filled with disappointment.

Even though we don’t consider ourselves to be so desperate, and believe that we are well educated, sane, and sober, when we see and feel that everything truly exists, we are behaving like the man in the desert.

We rush to find authentic companionship, security, recognition, and success, or simply peace and quiet. We may even succeed in grasping some semblance of our desires. But just like the wanderer, when we depend on external substantiation, eventually we are disappointed. Things are not as they seem: they are impermanent and they are not entirely within our control.

If we really analyze, as Siddhartha did, we will find that labels such as “form,” “time,” “space,” “direction,” and “size” are easily dismantled.

Siddhartha realized that even the self exists only on a relative level, just like a mirage. His realization brought an end to his cycle of expectation, disappointment, and suffering.

At the moment of his liberation, he thought, I have found a path that is profound, peaceful, nonextreme, clear, wish-fulfilling, and nectarlike. But if I attempt to express it, if I try to teach, there is no one capable of hearing, listening, or understanding. Therefore I shall remain in this peaceful state in the forest. It is believed that, upon hearing Siddhartha’s plans, Lord Indra and Lord Brahma appeared and requested him not to sequester himself in the forest, but to teach for the sake of others. “Even though not everyone will understand all of your teachings,” they said, “there are a few who might understand, and to help even those few would be worthwhile.”

Respecting their wishes, Siddhartha set out for Varanasi, which even in those days was a great city where intellectuals and thinkers gathered by the river Ganges. When Siddhartha reached Sarnath, which is near Varanasi, he came upon his former colleagues, those who had deserted him long ago when he broke his vows and drank the milk that Sujata offered.

When they saw Siddhartha approaching, they quickly conspired to ignore him. They would not greet him, let alone stand up and prostrate to him. “Here comes that phony,” they sneered. But for a being who has understood emptiness, as Siddhartha had, notions such as praise and criticism, veneration and contempt, good and bad are utterly inconsequential.

They are all a matter of flimsy interpretation, and thus there is no need to react as if they are solid. Therefore Siddhartha approached without a trace of vanity, hesitation, or pride.

Because of this lack of self-consciousness, his gait was so majestic that the five meditators had no choice but to stand. Siddhartha delivered his first sermon then and there, with his former colleagues as his first students.

Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse - What Makes You Not a Buddhist

[zaluh]

Bare hands (part I)

I have always reserved a special place for my shame, as a trophy earned from my mistakes, as a frame big enough that would cover the giant wall of my spirit. Impossible to pass by without seeing it, impossible to pass by without being contaminated by it. It has been the biggest piece of me, slowly eating what was left from my regrets. I contemplated the frame thinking it was all I ever owned, all that was inherently and exclusively mine. As Sisyphus, I would carry the frame wherever I would go, heavy on my shoulders, taking space in my tired journey. I would scratch it on the floor with its weight, dragging it without manners, damaging whatever was on the way. I enjoyed those marks, they were a proof that my shame was day-by-day becoming larger and therefore, more lethal. I would let it sink on the floor, leaving irreparable marks into what I believed was destined to fail. And as they did, an avalanche of satisfaction would vail me, proud I was for living by the words of my masters, who plagued me with a destined destiny, a bad karma to be fulfilled, a martyr for their incorrect behaviors. The plague would speak louder in my ears as my shame was growing. It would wait for the moment in which the remaining pieces of my Self would be defeated by Shame, merging with one another, so that my masters would relate to who I was becoming. I was doing what I was being told, and being what the passage that I was spoken to me told me to be. It was the only way to be, they told me. My Self being destroyed by Shame was a mission to be fulfilled. Shame was their only child and I helped to raise it. As time would pass, my frame and I were becoming one single thing. I would hide myself behind it, scared of being liable for my actions. It was my monster and my muse, what I was most scared of, yet most identified with. I could not imagine who would I be without its weight on my shoulders, carving in history an evil omen. It was the only part of me that was visible to my eyes, because I inherited it. It was what I was willing to carry with me until death so I could honor this offering. Deep beneath my skin, I held a desire to become what it was, to live comfortably in the frame, benefitting from its tragedy. Living the only narrative that was ever portrayed to me, the only possible one. All I knew was shame and its self-inflicted karma, holding me to its punishments. My wrists carried it with pride, as the only ever gift that I possessed, so leaving it behind would mean abandoning my roots, saying no to the destiny imputed to me. Slowly, the pain on my shoulders for carrying it would become stronger and stronger, impairing me to continue the journey. A choice would have to be made. My monster and my muse would rebel against its inheritor, fearing it would disappear completely, fade in my shadow. The voices would tell me to carry it so I could honor my masters' past, otherwise it would vanish altogether. The work would become unbearable and I would start to resent the frame. I would no longer appreciate its marks on the floor, its weight, its retreat when others would approach it closer, its noise on my ears telling me to be who I was deemed to be. I would feed it with my sadness, just so the frame continued to exist. The carrying would become exhaustive, and all I cared was that my masters knew I was fulfilling the written path. When all resources were used and the Sun would chase me, I would deem the carrying unnecessary. I saw this urge growing inside of me, wishing my frame would be left behind. I knew what that required, and that the gods would be mad at me. Yet, I realised carrying the frame was enough punishment, as the prophecy was being fulfilled by the carrying, one I did not belong to, I did not relate to, I did not wish to, I did not want to. The frame was not mine to carry. My wounded hands still held the strength to hammer the frame, piece by peace, using the resentment and angst in my chest to ensure no part of the frame takes refuge in my shoulders.

[heritage-metal-sonic]

Your wisdom is an enviable, and admirable trait, Shadow the hedgehog, you always seem to know the correct thing to say or do.

[if he could, metal sonic wouldve sighed. his eyes just turn into horizontal stripes, mimicking closed eyes.]

Shadow, I do not wish to burden you with issues in my software, but...

My self-stablished-directive is uncertain. I... cannot run a simulation that can give me clearance on what will I do once I complete it.

At this current moment I do not even know if my mission can even be achieved now that I know there is more of him.

If possible, may I request your imput on this issue?--what should I do now?

great, great...

*the fox anon snaps their fingers before a machine drops metal sonic right before you*

will be seeing you, Shadow :)

*the blue-eyed fox makes his leave, four tails trailing behind him, and the small machine leaves with him, leaving the robot inactive in the floor... looks like its seen better days*

>.>

I'm sure that's all fine...

I suppose...

pokes robot gently

You look like you could use a tune up.

[dwellordream]

“Texts about petty treason clearly depict where and how women murder their husbands, but they have more trouble explaining why women do so. Just as the murderous wife challenged the conceptions of women's legal and moral stature on which marriage and social order depended, she also posed a problem for the many writers-hacks, ministers, legal personnel (judges, justices of the peace, clerks, and theorists), chroniclers, playwrights, and balladeers-who rushed to tell and sell her story. These authors attempt to tell a story in which a wife becomes the protagonist without conferring too much authority, prestige, or sympathy on a criminal, married woman. 

For only through transgression could such women, usually wives of yeomen, shopkeepers, tradesmen, and small landowners, demand attention outside of the household and neighborhood; only thus could they become the topic of debate in legal treatises and on streetcomers, the focus of attention in courtrooms and on scaffolds; only through transgression could they command a place at the center of a popular narrative as the protagonist of the story. If killing her husband made it possible for a wife to be at the center of a story, it remained a difficult story to tell. Certainly pamphlets describe who did what to whom with ease. Yet the texts that struggle to tell the story of a wife's transgression attempt to redress it through a didacticism that restricts the narration of her motives and desires. 

Once the writers begin to explore motives, they lose control of the moral of the story, for the more the reader engages with the wife the less simple the lesson becomes. To imagine, let alone sympathize or identify with, the frustrations of a wife is to question the legal and moral assumption that in the household there is only one citizen, one legal agent, one property owner, one decision maker: the husband. Some sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts employ an explanation for the behavior of murderous wives that we often see in today's news and in popular culture; they represent the murderer as a battered wife who resorts to violence in despair and self-defense. Contrary to reductive analyses of the early modern family and the position of women in it, these period texts suggest a popular perception that husbands sometimes beat their wives to an extent that exceeded lawful correction and prudence and that beatings put wives in "a fit humour for the devill to worke on." 

Alice Clarke, for instance, is described as having visible bruises at the time that she is apprehended and examined for killing her husband. Even Henry Goodcole, the minister who counsels her and writes the gruesomely titled The Adultresses Funerall Day (1635) about her case, sees a connection between those bruises and her actions. The beatings described in such texts include not only drunken and impulsive assaults "with the next cudgell that came accidentally unto his hand" but also sadistic, eroticized rituals, such as "tying her to his bed-post to strip her and whippe her, etc." Although pamphlets exploit the titillation of such stories, despite the coy propriety of that "etc.," they also suggest that husbands could be uncontrolled, savage, and "unnatural," and that wives, especially those isolated from friends and neighbors by shame, distance, and religious or ethnic difference, might have felt that violence was their only recourse. 

Under common law, husbands had a legal right to beat their wives; however, the limits on this right were debated in conduct literature and explored in ecclesiastical courts when members of the community feared that excessive beatings threatened the wife's life and the peace of the neighborhood. The law did not spell out the limits on discipline except to assume that husbands did not have the right to kill their wives. As Martin Ingram explains, "Domestic relations were thus on the borders of public and private morality in this period-matters to be influenced by exhortation but not ordinarily by the exercise of formal discipline." To say that domestic relations remained outside "formal" discipline is not to say that they were unobserved or unregulated; neighbors and the local community exerted informal control over marriage and domesticity in many ways, including confrontation, shaming rituals, and bringing the offending couple before the justice of the peace for "unquietness." 

A husband's authority over his wife remained legally and morally ambiguous, even if the community's scrutiny constrained him. Since a husband's treatment of his wife remained largely beyond legal regulation, conduct literature appealed to the husband's judgment, urging him to regulate himself. In one of the many discussions of wifebeating in conduct literature, William Gouge suggests that beating one's wife undermines household governance because it opens up a space between the husband and wife, revealing that they are not one flesh, not one legal agent, but two: "Now a wife having no ground to be perswaded that her husband hath authority to beat her, what hope is there that she will patiently beare it, and be bettered by it? Or rather is it not likely that she will if she can, rise against him, over-master him (as many do) and never doe any duty aright?"

The husband's violence threatens to incite a contest for mastery; once the context of violence enables the wife to enter the fray as a combatant, the outcome is uncertain. One account of a wife's reaction to a marital rape, which we might not expect to find recognized as an offense in this period, clearly shows how a wife's subjectivity is constructed as violent, as a choice of her own life over her husband's life. In her examination recorded in A Hellish Murder (I688), Mary Aubrey (or Hobry), a French midwife, describes a history of dissension with her husband because she would not cooperate with him "in Villanies contrary to Nature." 

On the night of the murder, after beating her savagely, "he attempted the Forcing of this Examinate to the most Unnatural of Villanies, and acted such a Violence upon her Body in despite of all the Opposition that she could make, as forc'd from her a great deal of Blood, this Examinate crying out to her Landlady, who was (as she believes) out of distance of hearing her.” When she insists that she cried out, Aubrey employs the strategy of the rape victim, who had to demonstrate that she had made a "hue and cry" and thus had not consented. In presenting Aubrey's compelling testimony about this assault, A Hellish Murder not only suggests limits on a husband's rights to and power over his wife's body but also constructs a subjectivity for Mary Aubrey out of her despair, her sense of grievance, and her determination to escape. 

Aubrey finally demands of her husband, "Am I to lead this Life for ever?" only to receive more threats in response. In asking that question, Mary Aubrey is portrayed as raising a voice and imagining herself as having a life separate from and in conflict with her husband's. By depicting her reaction to abuse and her contemplation of retaliatory violence, this text constitutes Aubrey as a self-conscious, speaking subject. Later, beside her sleeping husband, she thinks "with her self," "What will become of me? What am I to do! Here am I Threatned to be Murder'd, and I have no way in the World to Deliver my self, but by Beginning with him." Aubrey's subjectivity is seen not only as the midwife's deliverance of herself but as a birth that depends on a death. 

"Immediately upon these thoughts," she stoutly undertakes the murder of her husband, strangling and dismembering him, and lugging parts of his body around in her petticoat to dispose of them. Popular accounts of petty treason usually shy away from such risky representation of a wife's conscious articulation of rights that are allied to violence by their very conception. The resulting attempts both to account for the complexities of domestic friction and to achieve some sympathy for the abused wife, while keeping authority vested in the husband, however tyrannous, can verge on the absurd. 

Goodcole describes one "young and tender" wife, who, repenting after administering poison to her "old, peevish," and abusive husband, fruitlessly pleads with him to take an antidote to preserve his life. "Nay thou Strumpet and murderesse," Goodcole reports him as saying, "I will receive no helpe at all but I am resolvd to dye and leave the world, be it for no other cause, but to have thee burnt at a stake for my death." * Although the wife is executed at Smithfield, Goodcole regards the husband, in his spiteful insistence on dying, as the agent. Sarah Elston, in her scaffold confession as recorded in A Warning for Bad Woo (1678), "protested again most seriously, that she never in her life had the least designe or thoughts of killing [her husband], onely it was an unfortunate Accident; and whether it came by a blow from her, or his violent running upon the point of the sizzars as she held them out to defend her self, she could not to this minute certainly tell."

These comic moments reveal how pamphleteers who wish to portray murderous wives as penitent and pitiful must awkwardly scramble to shield them from the imputation of intending to kill, just as they are presented as shielding themselves from blows. To characterize such women as assessing their hopeless situations and deciding to take violent action to escape them, that is, to present them as subjects, is also to remove them from sympathy and to open up disturbing implications about the marital relation of authority and submission. Writers in effect displace responsibility onto the husbands, positioning them as still in charge, even if drunken, violent, and absurdly self-destructive. In representations of domestic conflict in early modem popular culture-ballads, pamphlets, and plays, shaming rituals and jokes- the wife diminishes or usurps her husband's claims to authority as she asserts herself by committing adultery, beating or bossing her husband, or plotting to kill him.

For instance, Arden of Faversham (1592), a play about an actual case of petty treason, can be seen as an extended cuckold joke. Like such jokes, and like popular shaming rituals such as the charivari, the play holds the cuckolded husband responsible for his wife's adultery and insubordination. If the husband and wife become a joint subject at marriage, then, these popular representations seem to suggest, the wife's enlargement into volition, speech, and action necessarily implicates, diminishes, and even eliminates the husband. These popular representations push the logic of coverture to suggest an economy of marital subjectivity that leaves room for only one subject. They constitute the wife as a subject only to the extent that they qualify her husband's claims to subject status by silencing and immobilizing him and casting doubt on his authority and potency. 

The fact that popular accounts of such crimes acknowledge the role of abuse in inciting women to murder challenges assumptions we still have about women's rights within marriage and the monolithic power wives who defied the patriarchy during this period. It also complicates the notion of petty treason by introducing the possibility of tyrannous household government and by suggesting, albeit hesitantly, that there arc some justifications for rebellion. Certainly, contemporary debates about the limits on conscientious submission to civil and domestic authorities have a bearing on relations within the household and the understanding of petty treason. Writers of sermons and conduct books about marriage explicitly include the situation of the godly wife in their considerations of the limits on obedience to earthly authority; they advocate a demanding balance between submission and resistance, silence and good counsel.

In those cases of petty treason that resulted in convictions and made it into print, however, the circumstances in the household did not mitigate the wife's guilt. These women were executed as petty traitors despite their husbands' inadequacies as household governors. Although juries may actually have taken extenuating circumstances into consideration when they deliberated over cases of petty treason, these texts hold the husband responsible as well as depict the execution of the guilty wife; they recognize limits to a husband's power over his wife, yet present a wife's violent resistance as ultimately unjustifiable and destructive of the political order. Popular representations make these contradictions between husbandly authority and wifely submission visible, but they do not resolve them.”

- Frances E. Dolan, “Home-Rebels and House-Traitors: Petty Treason and the Murderous Wife.” in Dangerous Familiars: Representations of Domestic Crime in England, 1550 - 1700

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sun., Apr., 11, 2021

4th Sunday of Great Lent

Commemorated on the 4th Sunday of the Great Lent, and March 30

The Monk John of the Ladder

     The Monk John of the Ladder (Lestvichnik; Klimatikos; Climaticus) is honoured by Holy Church as a great ascetic and author of the reknown spiritual work called "The Ladder", whereby the monk likewise received the title "of-the-Ladder" [Lestvichnik (Slav.); Klimatikos (Grk.); Climaticus (Lat.)].      About the origins of the monk John there is almost no account preserved. Tradition suggests, that he was born about the year 570, and was the son of Saints Xenophones and Maria, – whose is celebrated by the Church on 26 January. The sixteen year old lad John arrived at the Sinai monastery. Abba Martyrios became instructor and guide of the monk. After four years of living on Sinai, Saint John Lestvichnik was vowed into monasticism. One of those present at the taking of vows, – Abba Stratigios, predicted, that he was set to become a great luminary in the Church of Christ. Over the course of 19 years the monk John pursued asceticism in obedience to his spiritual father. After the death of abba Martyrios the monk John chose an hermit's life, settling into a wild place called Tholos, where he spent 40 years in deeds of silence, fasting, prayer and tears of penitence. It is not by chance that in "The Ladder" the monk John speaks thus about tears of repentance: "Just as fire burns and destroys firewood, so thus do pure tears wash away all impurity, both outer and inner". His holy prayer was strong and efficacious, as evidenced from an example from the life of the God-pleasing saint.

     The Monk John had a student, the monk Moses. One time the instructor ordered his student to bring ground to the garden for bedding. Having fulfilled the obedience, the monk Moses lay down to rest under the shade of a large rock, because of the strong heat of summer. The monk John Lestvichnik was at this time in his cell resting after a prayerful labour. Suddenly a man of remarkable appearance appeared to him and, having roused the holy ascetic, said to him in reproach: "Why dost thou, John, rest peacefully here, when Moses is in danger?" The monk John immediately woke up and began to pray for his student. When his disciple returned in the evening, the monk asked, whether some sort of woe had befallen him. The monk answered: "No, but I was exposed to great danger. A large fragment of stone, having broken off from the rock under which I had fallen asleep at mid-day, just barely missed me. By luck, I had a dream that thou wast calling me, and I woke up and started to run off, and at that very moment the huge stone fell with a crash on that very spot, from which I had fled..."      About the manner of life of the monk John is known, that he nourished himself by such as what is not prohibited a fasting life by the ustav, but – in moderation. He did not spend the night without sleep, although he slept not much, only as much as was necessary for keeping up his strength, so that by an unceasing vigilance he would not destroy the mind. "I do not fast excessively, – said he about himself, – nor do I give myself over to intense all-night vigil, nor lay upon the ground, but restrain myself..., and the Lord soon saved me". The following example of humility of the monk John Lestvichnik is noteworthy. Gifted with a deeply penetrating mind, and having become wise by profound spiritual experience, he lovingly received all who came to him so as to guide them to salvation. But when there appeared some who through envy reproached him with loquacity, which they explained away as vanity, the monk John then gave himself over to silence so as not to give cause for blame, and he kept silence for the space of a year. The envious realised their error and they themselves returned to the ascetic with the request not to deprive them of the spiritual profit of his conversation.      Concealing his ascetic deeds from people, the monk John sometimes withdrew into a cave, but accounts of his holiness spread far beyond the locality: incessantly there came to him visitors from every rank and calling, wanting to hear his words of edification and salvation. At age 75, after forty years of ascetic striving in solitude, the monk was chosen as hegumen of the Sinai monastery. For about four years the monk John Lestvichnik governed the holy Sinai monastery. Towards the end of his life, the Lord granted the monk grace-bearing gifts of perspicacity and wonderworking.      During the time of his governing the monastery, – at the request of the hegumen of the Raipha monastery Saint John (Comm. on Cheesefare Saturday), there was written for the monks the reknown "Ladder", – an instruction for rising to spiritual perfection. Knowing about the wisdom and spiritual gifts of the monk, the Raipha hegumen on behalf of all the monks of his monastery requested him to write down for them "a true instruction for those following after invariably, and as such would be a ladder of affirmation, which would lead those wishing it to the Heavenly gates..." The monk John, noted for his humble opinion about himself, was at first perplexed, but afterwards out of obedience he set about fulfilling the request of the Raipha monks. The monk thus also named his work – "The Ladder", and explained the title in the following manner: "I have constructed a ladder of ascent... from the earthly to the holy... in the form of the thirty years of age for the Lord's maturity, symbolically I have constructed a ladder of 30 steps, by which, having attained the Lord's age, we find ourselves with the righteous and secure from falling down". The purpose of this work, is to teach – that the reaching of salvation requires difficult self-denial and demanding ascetic deeds. "The Ladder" presupposes, first, a cleansing from the impurity of sin, the eradication of vices and passions in the old man; second, the restoration in man of the image of God. Although the book was written for monks, any christian living in the world receives from it the hope of guidance for ascent to God, and a support for spiritual life. The Monks Theodore the Studite (Comm. 11 November and 26 January), Sergei of Radonezh (Comm. 25 September and 5 July), Joseph of Volokolamsk (Comm. 9 September and 18 October), and others – in their instructions relied on "The Ladder" as an important book for salvific guidance.      The content of one of the steps of "The Ladder" (the 22nd) discusses the ascetic deed of the destruction of vainglory. The monk John writes: "Vanity springs out in front of each virtue. When, for example, I keep a fast – I am given over to vanity, and when I in concealing the fasting from others permit myself food, I am again given over to vanity – by my prudence. Dressing up in bright clothing, I am vanquished by love of honour and, having changed over into drab clothing – I am overcome by vanity. If I stand up to speak – I fall under the power of vanity. If I wish to keep silence, I am again given over to it. Wherever this thorn comes up, it everywhere stands with its points upwards. It is vainglorious..., on the surface to honour God, and in deed to strive to please people rather than God... People of lofty spirit bear insult placidly and willingly, but to hear praise and feel nothing of pleasure is possible only for the saints and for the unblameworthy... When thou hearest, that thy neighbour or friend either afront the eyes or behind the eyes slandereth thee, praise and love him... Does this not shew humility, and who can reproach himself, and be intolerant with himself? But who, having been discredited by another, would not diminish in his love for him... Whoever is exalted by natural gifts – a felicitous mind, a fine education, reading, pleasant elocution and other similar qualities, which are readily enough acquired, that person might yet never obtain to supernatural gifts. Wherefore whoever is not faithful in the small things, that one also is not faithful in the large, and is vainglorous. It often happens, that God Himself humbles the vainglorious, sending a sudden misfortune... If prayer does not destroy a proud thought, we bring to mind the leaving of the soul from this life. And if this does not help, we threaten it with the shame of the Last Judgement. "Rising up to humble oneself" even here, before the future age. When praisers, or better – flatterers, start to praise us, immediately we betake ourselves to recollection of all our iniquities and we find, that we are not at all worth that which they impute to us".      This and other examples, located in "The Ladder", offer us an image of this saint's zealousness about his own salvation, which is necessary for each person who wishes to live piously. It is a written account of his thought, the collective fruit of many and also of his refined observation from his own soul and his own profound spiritual experience. It reveals itself as a guide and great help on the way to truth and good.      The steps of "The Ladder" – this proceeding from strength to strength on the path of man's proclivity to perfection, is not something suddenly but rather gradually to be reached, as in the saying of the Saviour: "The Kingdom of Heaven is taken by strength, and those utilising strength shalt delight of it" (Mt 11: 12).

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Saint Eustathios the Confessor, Bishop of Bithynia (9th c)

 April 11/March29

     Saint Eustathios the Confessor, Bishop of Bithynia, was already at the start of his efforts a fervent monk, meek and wise, filled with great faith and love for neighbour. For his virtuous life he was made bishop of the city of Bithynia (a Roman province in north-west Asia Minor) and for many years he guided his flock, giving them example of virtuous life and perfection. During the time of the Iconoclast heresy, Saint Eustathios boldly came out against the heretics in defending the veneration of holy icons. Iconoclast enemies reported against him to the emperor, and the saint suffered imprisonment and fierce beatings. Finally they deprived the holy Bishop Eustathios of his cathedra and sent him off to prison. The holy confessor died during the IX Century in exile, over the course of three years having undergone insults, deprivation, hunger and want.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

John 21:15-25 

15 So when they had eaten breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me more than these?" He said to Him, "Yes, Lord; You know that I love You." He said to him, "Feed My lambs." 16 He said to him again a second time, "Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me?" He said to Him, "Yes, Lord; You know that I love You." He said to him, "Tend My sheep." 17 He said to him the third time, "Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me?" Peter was grieved because He said to him the third time, "Do you love Me?" And he said to Him, "Lord, You know all things; You know that I love You." Jesus said to him, "Feed My sheep. 18 Most assuredly, I say to you, when you were younger, you girded yourself and walked where you wished; but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will gird you and carry you where you do not wish." 19 This He spoke, signifying by what death he would glorify God. And when He had spoken this, He said to him, "Follow Me." 20 Then Peter, turning around, saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following, who also had leaned on His breast at the supper, and said, "Lord, who is the one who betrays You?" 21 Peter, seeing him, said to Jesus, "But Lord, what about this man?" 22 Jesus said to him, "If I will that he remain till I come, what is that to you? You follow Me." 23 Then this saying went out among the brethren that this disciple would not die. Yet Jesus did not say to him that he would not die, but, "If I will that he remain till I come, what is that to you?" 24 This is the disciple who testifies of these things, and wrote these things; and we know that his testimony is true. 25 And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which if they were written one by one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. Amen.

Ephesians 5:9-19 (

9 (for the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness, righteousness, and truth), 10finding out what is acceptable to the Lord. 11 And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather expose them. 12 For it is shameful even to speak of those things which are done by them in secret. 13 But all things that are exposed are made manifest by the light, for whatever makes manifest is light. 14 Therefore He says: "Awake, you who sleep, Arise from the dead, And Christ will give you light." 15 See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, 16 redeeming the time, because the days are evil. 17 Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is. 18 And do not be drunk with wine, in which is dissipation; but be filled with the Spirit, 19 speaking to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord,

[the-courage-to-heal]

Why does the narcissist conjure up another Self? Why not simply transform his True Self into a False one?

We often marvel at the discrepancy between the private and public lives of our idols: celebrities, statesmen, stars, writers, and other accomplished figures. It is as though they have two personalities, two selves: the "true" one which they reserve for their nearest and dearest and the "fake" or "false" or "concocted" one which they flaunt in public.

In contrast, the narcissist has no private life, no true self, no domain reserved exclusively for his nearest and dearest. His life is a spectacle, with free access to all, constantly on display, garnering narcissistic supply from his audience. In the theatre that is the narcissist's life, the actor is irrelevant. Only the show goes on. The False Self is everything the narcissist would like to be but, alas, cannot: omnipotent, omniscient, invulnerable, impregnable, brilliant, perfect, in short: godlike. Its most important role is to elicit narcissistic supply from others: admiration, adulation, awe, obedience, and, in general: unceasing attention. In Freud’s tripartite model, the False Self supplants the Ego and conforms to the narcissist’s unattainable, grandiose, and fantastic Ego Ideal.

The narcissist constructs a narrative of his life that is partly confabulated and whose purpose is to buttress, demonstrate, and prove the veracity of the fantastically grandiose and often impossible claims made by the False Self. This narrative allocates roles to significant others in the narcissist’s personal history. Inevitably, such a narrative is hard to credibly sustain for long: reality intrudes and a yawning abyss opens between the narcissist’s self-imputed divinity and his drab, pedestrian existence and attributes. I call it the Grandiosity Gap. Additionally, meaningful figures around the narcissist often refuse to play the parts allotted to them, rebel, and abandon the narcissist.

The narcissist copes with this painful and ineluctable realization of the divorce between his self-perception and this less than stellar state of affairs by first denying reality, delusionally ignoring and filtering out all inconvenient truths. Then, if this coping strategy fails, the narcissist invents a new narrative, which accommodates and incorporates the very intrusive data that served to undermine the previous, now discarded narrative. He even goes to the extent of denying that he ever had another narrative, except the current, modified one.

The narcissist’s (and the codependent’s) introjects and inner voices (assimilated representations of parents, role models, and significant peers) are mostly negative and sadistic. Rather than provide succour, motivation, and direction, they enhance his underlying ego-dystony (discontent with who he is) and the lability of his sense of self-worth. They induce in the child shame, blame, pain, guilt, rage, and a panoply of other negative emotions.

As Lidija Rangelovska notes, the paradox is that the child’s ego-dystonic shame and guilt emanate from the very primitive defenses that later comprise and underlie his False Self. Having been told repeatedly how “bad”, “worthless”, “disappointing”, and injurious he is, the child comes to believe in his self-imputed delusional ability to hurt and damage family members, for instance.

Such imaginary capacity is the logical extension of both the child’s grandiosity (omnipotence, “I have the power to hurt mommy”) and his magical thinking (“I think, I wish, I hate, I rage and, thereby, with the unlimited power of my mind, I cause real calamities out there, in the real world”). So, it is the child’s natural primary narcissistic defenses that enable him to feel so miserable! These defenses allow him to construct a narrative which corresponds to and justifies the judgemental, hateful appraisals and taunts of his abusers. In his young mind, he accepts that he is bad because he is all-powerful and magical and because he leverages his godlike attributes to act with malice or, at the very least, to bring misfortune on significant others.

To skirt this inner overwhelming negativity, the child “appropriates” precisely these defenses and bundles them into a protective shield, thus sequestering his vulnerable, fragile self. Occupied by the ongoing project of his budding pathological narcissism, the child’s defenses are no longer available to construct and buttress the narratives offered by the abusive voices of his tormentors. Moreover, by owning his fantastic grandiosity and harnessing it, the child feels as empowered as his abusers and no longer a victim.

Gradually, the disharmony between one’s perception of the universe and of oneself and reality becomes unbearable and engenders, maladaptive, and dysfunctional attempts to either deny the hurtful discrepancy away (delusions and fantasies); grandiosely compensate for it by eliciting positive external voices to counter the negative, inner ones (narcissism via the False Self and its narcissistic supply); attack it (antisocial/psychopathy); withdraw from the world altogether (schizoid solution); or disappear by merging and fusing with another person (codependence.)

Once formed and functioning, the False Self stifles the growth of the True Self and paralyses it. Henceforth, the ossified True Self is virtually non-existent and plays no role (active or passive) in the conscious life of the narcissist. It is difficult to "resuscitate" it, even with psychotherapy. The False Self sometimes parades the child-like, vulnerable, needy, and innocent True Self in order to capture, manipulate, and attract empathic sources of narcissistic supply. When supply is low, the False Self is emaciated and dilapidated. It is unable to contain and repress the True Self which then emerges as a petulant, self-destructive, spoiled, and codependent entity. But the True Self’s moments in the sun are very brief and, usually, inconsequential.

This substitution is not only a question of despair and alienation, as Kirkegaard and Horney observed, respectively. Following on the footsteps of the Danish proto-existentialist philosopher, Horney said that because the Idealised (=False) Self sets impossible goals to the narcissist, the results are frustration and self hate which grow with every setback or failure. But the constant sadistic judgement, the self-berating, the suicidal ideation emanate from the narcissist's idealised, sadistic, Superego regardless of the existence or functioning of a False Self.

The False Self is a kind of positive projection: the narcissist’s attributes to it all the positive and desired aspects of himself, thereby endowing it with a quasi-separate existence. The False Self fulfils the role of a divinity in the narcissist’s obsessive-compulsive private religion: the narcissist worships it and adheres to ceremonies and rituals via which he interacts with it. The True Self, on the other hand, is ignored at best and usually denigrated. This process is akin to projective splitting: when parents project onto the golden child positive traits and talents even as they attribute to the scapegoat child negative, undesirable qualities. In this sense, the narcissist a parent with two offspring: his two selves.

There is no conflict between the True Self and the False Self. First, the True Self is much too weak to do battle with the overbearing False. Second, the False Self is adaptive (though maladaptive). It helps the True Self to cope with the world. Without the False Self, the True Self would be subjected to so much hurt that it will disintegrate. This happens to narcissists who go through a life crisis: their False Ego becomes dysfunctional and they experience a harrowing feeling of annulment.

The False Self has many functions. The two most important are:

1.    It serves as a decoy, it "attracts the fire". It is a proxy for the True Self. It is tough as nails and can absorb any amount of pain, hurt and negative emotions. By inventing it, the child develops immunity to the indifference, manipulation, sadism, smothering, or exploitation – in short: to the abuse – inflicted on him by his parents (or by other Primary Objects in his life). It is a cloak, protecting him, rendering him invisible and omnipotent at the same time.

2.    The False Self is misrepresented by the narcissist as his True Self. The narcissist is saying, in effect: "I am not who you think I am. I am someone else. I am this (False) Self. Therefore, I deserve a better, painless, more considerate treatment." The False Self, thus, is a contraption intended to alter other people's behaviour and attitude towards the narcissist.

These roles are crucial to survival and to the proper psychological functioning of the narcissist. The False Self is by far more important to the narcissist than his dilapidated, dysfunctional, True Self. The two Selves are not part of a continuum, as the neo-Freudians postulated. Healthy people do not have a False Self which differs from its pathological equivalent in that it is more realistic and closer to the True Self.

It is true that even healthy people have a mask [Guffman], or a persona [Jung] which they consciously present to the world. But these are a far cry from the False Self, which is mostly subconscious, depends on outside feedback, and is compulsive. The False Self is an adaptive reaction to pathological circumstances. But its dynamics make it predominate, devour the psyche and prey upon the True Self. Thus, it prevents the efficient, flexible functioning of the personality as a whole.

source

[auspicious-lilana]

Ultimate Spiderman (Peter Parker x Stark! OC x Sam alexander x Danny Rand)

Summary:When people hear 'Maya Stark' everyone would think about the perfect, smart. good looking, rich, student body president of Midtown High.Nobody but her childhood friend Peter Parker AKA Spider-Man and her new team of heroes. Ava, Sam, Danny, and Luke AKA  white tiger, Nova, Iron fist, and Power Man knows about her secret of being Queen's very own Mistress, soon to be ULTIMATE Mistress

Part 1  Part 2

This is it, the test to see if I can make it into the superhero big leagues.

“This exercise will gauge your efficiency against superior numbers. Disable all attackers. You have 60 seconds. FYI, Captain America did it in 10.”  I stood in a battle stance ready for whatever Fury would throw at me.

“Easy-peasy.”  One of the large robots that surrounded me started to attack as I dodged it and quickly shot a web to its head but another robot came and threw me on the ground as they all fell on top of me. “Uh! Uh!” I groaned as I squeezed myself out of the pile of robots. “This is more humiliating than Parker family game night.” I quickly got up and punched all the robots while webbing a few. After I threw another one of them grabbed me and held me up as I struggled to get out from its grip. How weak is this? I'm going to land on the superhero wall of shame for dying ten minutes after joining S.H.I.E.L.D. It started to shock me to which I yelled in pain before I grabbed four arms of it and quickly snapped it back to it making it let me go. The second I got down I ran as I dodged four drone-bots before I got ahold of one of them to see they were bombs that exploded making me hit back on the wall covered in slime as I slowly slid down. I got up quickly as I saw more big bots coming at me, so I tried to work the web shooter.

“Where did S. H. I. E. L. D. tech put the web control? Nope. Nuh-uh. Score.”  I threw a web at two drones and crashed it with two of the big ones. “Yeah!” One of the drone heads fell on me making me groan.

***

While Spider-Man was taking the test. Fury laughed a bit at the sight.

“I finished this thing under 20” iron fist said.

“I finished mines under 18” Luke chimed in.

“There's no discipline to his fighting technique, he's thrashing around hitting things. But Fury says he's good for the team.” White Tiger said as she watched Spider-Man get thrown around.

“His training may be off but he has more experience than the rest of you and his heart is in the right place” I imputed, defending my partner. “I’m just glad he agreed to do it”

“Why is Fury testing another new candidate? I didn't approve of this.” Nova said running up to us.

“So you didn’t approve of me?” I raised an eyebrow and fixed a glare at Nova who’s eyes widened.

“N-no! Your fighting was good, just not his!” I rolled my eyes.

“Look who thinks he's still in charge. That's so cute.” White tiger said to which I nodded my head in agreement.

“If Fury thinks I'm going to lead that lame-o in battle…”

“In your dreams, you're the team leader,”  Luke said placing a hand on Nova’s shoulder as Iron fist joined in.

“He is rough around the edges, but not without potential.”

“Yeah, but he named himself Spider-Man. How sad is that?” White Tiger said as I rolled my eyes. 

“Well, unlike you guys he had gotten his powers under pressure, and the fact he had nobody but me to tell his secret to”

“What was he supposed to call himself?” Iron fist said backing me up.

“Something cool that didn't scream, "Hi, I have low self-esteem and identify with bugs."

“You know what they say about a book and its cover, dude.”

“Dude, I'll clean this Helicarrier for a month if he makes it.”

“Toilets, too?”

“Toilets, too”

“Your on”

“I’m in” Luke chirped in taking Iron fist’s side.

“Me, too,” Nova said also high giving White Tiger. I sighed as I took White Tigers side knowing Spider-Man won’t pass without the right training and I don’t like being in the highest possible losers team and if Spidey does pass, I can just cast a few cleaning spells to help White Tiger out.

“I’m in as well I guess,” I said high fiving the boys, earning a smile from White Tiger. I checked the time and excused myself. “I gotta go. Work to be done, people to visit, someone to tease” the rest said their goodbyes as I walked off and teleported myself to a place near the hospital before I took off my mask making my cloak disappear showing I was wearing blue shorts and a white shoulderless blouse with my black hair down. I jogged from the alley to the hospital a few buildings away before stopping in front of the counter.

”How may I help-”

” I need to see Harry Osborn” I demanded out of breath.  The lady nodded and looked at the computer.

”Room 230 on floor 3” I thanked her before running up the stairs too impatient to wait on the elevator. when I peeked in the room I heard Peter.

“Hey, hero. I brought you something from school.”

“Cheerleaders?” Harry guessed making me chuckle.

“Homework” at the moment I came in.

“Hey Harry”

“I guess Maya’s close to an cheerleader” I rolled my eyes.

______________________________________________________________________________

Harry really stepped up yesterday when the Frightful Four attacked our school. Unfortunately, all that heroism won him overnight stay in the hospital.

Yikes. Wish I was there to help out

Me too,Maya, Me too

______________________________________________________________________________

“Peter has your best interests at heart, son. He's a true friend” Mr.Osborn said placing his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

______________________________________________________________________________

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a dad like that?

______________________________________________________________________________

“How about a ride to school, Peter? Maya?”  

“You don't have to hold a gun to my head, sir.”

“How about you, Maya?”  I shook my head.

“Sorry, my Dad’s coming to get me” like magic my phone rang showing my dad. “Matter of fact this is him now, bye Harry, Peter. See you at school tomorrow” I left the room answering the call.“Hey dad!”

“Hey, sweetpea. How was the S.H.I.E.L.D test?” 

 “I think I aced it. Tell you more in the car ride home I see you”

“Okay,”  I ended the call and got into the car.

 “So? Details?”

“So I finished the test under 14 seconds”

“That’s my girl”“And I met my future team”

“Did you guys show your identities?”

“No.not yet but I know they know Peter’s identity”

“You’ll learn their identity-“

“Oh I already did”

“You did?”

“Yeah, Fury enrolled them to Midtown high so I may or may not have looked through their files”

“I bet other dads don’t have a daughter like you to have bragging rights with” Dad mumbled.

______________________________________________________________________________

Meet my dad, Tony Stark aka Iron man. Since he has Stark Interpers I barely get to see him everyday but he tries his best to get some quality time together and he makes sure we eat breakfast together so we can catch up on what happened to us yesterday since he’s busy at night. Plus I get to hang out with the avengers daily so I call them uncles/aunts.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Dad!”

“It isn't my fault my daughter is beautiful, genius AND a future avenger! I got the full package!”  I sighed as I smiled and hugged dad. No matter how many times he would brag, I know he means well and loves me just as much as I do.

“I love you dad”

“I love you two my favorite daughter”

“I’m your only daughter”

“...don’t ruin the mood” I laughed as I snuggled close as we got home.

“We’re here,” Happy said from the driver’s seat. I nodded and thanked him as I got out with my school bag on my shoulder.

“I’m gonna go and do my homework real quick and check in with the vice student body president cause I’m sure Peter forgot to do it for me” Dad kissed my cheek before ruffling my hair.

“I’ll be in the lab if you need me. Capsicle  wants to see you in an hour for your training”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said as I kissed his cheek and went up to my room.

“How did I get lucky with her?...” I smiled as I heard my dad before I went into my room.

***

“Smile, Spider-Man,”  MJ said to peter flashing a camera at him making him lose his balance and fall as he started rambling nervously.

“Oh! Whoa, I'm not... How did…”

“Wow, nervous much? I'm practicing what I'll say when I finally meet Spider-Man maybe even Mistress. Here”  MJ handed him a paper he read. ‘Spider-Man and Mistress: I will tell your side of the story. Call me. Mary Jane Watson’

“You really believe those two hang out here in Midtown?”

“ They’ve been seen on campus often enough.they could be anybody. A student, a teacher, or…” Stan walked by pushing a cart full of mobs and such before turning to them.

“Thwip Thwip” And he left.

“Ok, well maybe not anybody,”

______________________________________________________________________________

I know how much it means for MJ to get that reporter job with the Bugle and I'd love to help her out. I'm afraid I'd blow it once I started talking to her. I mean, MJ knows me so well.Maya would help her much better seeing how she takes Drama and can act it out but I don’t think she’ll want to take that risk either....

______________________________________________________________________________

“Even if Spider-Man and Mistress are a student, They’re going to keep it on the down-low. There's no way They'd let anyone know who they really are”

“Maybe, but I'm not giving up. Also, Have you seen Maya?”

“No, not since yesterday. Maybe she’s in the council room?”

“Most likely, seeing how she wasn’t able to check in yesterday” Peter’s eyes widened. ‘I completely forgot about checking in for her! Maya must be extremely busy now! All cause of me’ Peter gloomed at the thought before smiling again.

“I’ll go check on her since we are walking home together”

“Make sure to get her something to eat on your way there, she hasn’t touched her lunch at all”

“Okay, bye” MJ left as Peter went off to get Maya so they can leave for S.H.I.E.L.D as promised.

***

“Sir, ma'am. Yo, what's up?”  Spider-Man said to every passing agent we saw making me sigh. I wasn’t going to come here with him but after he kept telling me I can get back to the paperwork later and I had to take a ‘break’ I eventually came around.

”Spidey, what are you doing?” I asked unamused.

“I'm just trying to blend in now that I'm an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“An agent? You're barely a newbie.” Fury pitches in making me smirk at the look of Spidey’s face as Fury scanned his eyes at an entrance.

“ID confirmed. S.H.I.E.L.D. Director, Nick Fury.”

The doors slid open revealing a testing room for gadgets I’m guessing as we went in.

“Get in here and don't touch anything.”

“Cool!” Spidey exclaimed looking around as I stood there watching him. “Awesome!” I looked over to see him looking at a guy flying with web wings before looking over to a guy climbing a wall with spider legs/claws. “Eh. It’s been done”   Spidey and I walked over to Fury who stood by a doctor

“Yo, Doc. Meet the new kid. Spider-Man, our resident tech genius. Dr. Curt Connors. And I know you’ve already met Mistress or Maya.” 

“Yes, we did, didn’t we?”  I nodded as I smiled. Spidey decided to make himself known and stuck out his hand.

“Always glad to meet a fellow genius” When Doc didn’t shake his head and Spidey saw Doc didn’t have a hand. “Awkward” Doc pulled up his sleeve and shook Spidey’s hand with both of his hands.

“A pleasure. I followed both yours and Mistress’s career closely, very impressive.”

______________________________________________________________________________

I like this guy

Of course you would Peter, of course you would.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Even before Director Fury approached you about joining us, I had my R&D team develop an array of Spider-Man and Mistress inspired weaponry.”  Spidey looked around confused.

“Then where’s-”

“It’s in another room. We like to have separate weaponry rooms for you two since we had a lot and Mistress had already seen hers, yesterday”  I nodded as Spidey nodded his making an ‘Oh’ face.

“What if we said no?”

“Not an option”  Fury replied sternly.

“Huh, that's funny, you're using our web-shooter out of camo mode.” Doc pointed out as he took Spidey’s wrist and placed it into camo mode.

“Oh, yeah. I had it in camo mode. But then I couldn't find it.” Doc and Fury just stared at Spidey unamused as I resisted the urge to facepalm.  “Joke. Don't you people ever smile” I’d be surprised if they ever did.

“Over here is something we think you'll find particularly interesting,”  Doc said as he leads Spidey to something covered.

“I reserve the right to be awestruck.” Before Spidey could touch it he was quickly hit with a metal whip. “Ow,” he groaned out as I cringed. Ouch.

“Hold it. Director Fury, I've never questioned your choices when it came to the others.” Coulson said.

“Others?” Spidey questioned. I was about to reply before I remembered, he doesn’t know about the others yet.

“But in this case, we're dealing with a complete wildcard. Daily Bugle Communications calls Spider-Man a threat to public safety.” Coulson continued.

“But I’m so cuddly,” Spidey said rubbing his head with his arms intertwined making me giggle a bit as his silliness.

“Spider-Man's my responsibility, Coulson. That's what he's here for. To learn responsibility.” Fury sternly replied.

“We’ll see” Coulson left just like that as Spidey quickly uncovered the thing and looked at it unimpressed.

“We call it the Spider-Cycle,” Doc said as Spidey looked back at him.

“Uh, yeah. Useless”

“Excuse me?” Doc said taken back.

“I mean it's cool and all, but why do I need a motorcycle? I can get anywhere by thwip-thwip.” Spidey said illustrating what he meant by ‘thwip-thwip’  

“ I calculate you can make it from 80th to 34th street in 3. 7 minutes while using up what I'm guessing is fairly expensive webbing and at maximum muscle stress.“

“Uh maybe” Spidey rubbed his muscle to stubborn to admit Doc was right to which I rolled my eyes at. Unlike him, I levitate my way so I have no need to waste strength nor use any expensive webbing.  

“The Spider-Cycle can make it minute-and-a-half. If you're not scared thwip-less to climb on” Fury added on knowing full well out competitive and ‘prideful’ Spidey is. It seemed to work cause Spidey glared at him.

“One side” and he climbed on….wait…...he never took driving lessons ...or have a permit…..this won’t end well…this is soo gonna get recorded. I placed my hand behind my back and muttered  a summoning chant spell and summoned my phone from my backpack back at my room (Yes we stopped by my room on our way here to drop off our stuff) “and the starter is…” Spidey touched somewhere starting the Spider-Cycle up and running as Spidey yelled and I laughed a bit as I placed a spell to make my phone follow his Spider-Cycle, recording.

“You should go and follow him” I nodded at Fury’s suggestion as I stifle my laughter as I levitated my way to catch up to him.

“Brakes, THE BRAKES!” I saw Spidey yell as agents quickly dodged him nearly. I flew a bit faster in an attempt to catch up to see him blast a hole. “NOT BRAKE!”

“Aaah! Not a problem. I'll just pop another parachute and” Spidey tried to do it to see he ran out of the web. “Okay, now I'm scared thwip-less Aaah!”  I stopped at the hole fully knowing I wouldn’t fly down so I cast a teleportation spell and got to a rooftop to see Spidey riding on the side of a building as I watched in amusement before he ended up in the streets screaming, that's when I got up and flew above him.

“ Kid, what's wrong with you? You act like you've never driven before.” Fury said as I giggled.

“That’s because he never did!” I yelled.

“I don’t even have my learner’s permit!”

“You what?”

“It’s new york! Who needs a car?!” Spidey said as he jumped over a school bus as I flew above. “OH COME ON” Spidey yelled as he went through a sign reading ‘road closed’ I sighed knowing I can’t keep this up, guess fun’s over. I picked up Spidey as I saw Luke pick up the bus the Spider-Cycle would’ve hit and White Tiger quickly hopped on the Cycle stopping it as Nova helped me carry Spidey. “Let me go, Buckethead!”

“Calm down preschool, we’ll take it from here.”  We let go of Spidey as I stood next to Nova as White tiger hopped off the cycle with Iron fist’s leg on the wheel and Luke next to him.

“We-” I coughed as Spidey rolled his eyes. “Okay I appreciate a hand now and then, but I really didn't need to be saved by-who're you guys?”

“Iron Fist, Nameste. Iron Fist. Kung fu master with a fist of well...iron.”

“White Tiger. Acrobatic ninja with steel claws and cat powers. And the big guy there is Lu-”

“Power-Man. If he calls himself Spider-Man then I'm calling myself Power Man. It's cool and doesn't scream ‘I have low self-esteem.’ Super strength and bulletproof skin.”

“Okay, Power-Man” White Tiger said rolling her eyes.

“And I already met Captain Buckethead over there,” Spidey pointed at Nova.

“Names Nova, creep”

“Nova creep, catchy”

“Nova, the human rocket.”

“Okay. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get this bike back to HQ. You see, I'm with S. H. I. E. L. D.”  Spidey bloated in smug, little did he know hehe.

“Small world,” Power-Man said with a smirk as Nova gave Spidey a smug grin.

***

“No, no, no, no, no. I never signed on to be part of a team.”   Spidey complained as the rest of the team and I stood behind Coulson who was trying to reason with Spidey.

“It’s not a team, its a program. If you just let me explain” Coulson said.

“No! Nix! Nein! Nyet! Na-uh! No way! Never!” Spidey stormed off in anger.

“We won the bet!” White tiger and I high fived. “No toilets for the Tiger and Sorceress, Whoo!” I smiled before I looked back at where Spidey left.

______________________________________________________________________________

He’ll come around. I know he well. Stubborn  is one thing he is really good at but I know he’ll realize being in a team instead of a Duo will help a lot learning about responsibility and make us stronger heros too

______________________________________________________________________________

I sensed danger somewhere as my eyes widened and gasped as  White Tiger must've noticed since she placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You good Mistress?”

“Danger.”

“What?”

“I sense danger somewhere.” White Tiger turned to the team who are now alert.

“You heard her, there is danger somewhere, let’s head out ASAP” I nodded as we all got out to see Thundra throw a large metal cap at Spidey as Power-Man quickly took action and kicked it away as White Tiger pounced on top of Spidey.

“What are you guys doing here? I had them on the run. “

“Except for the part you didn’t” White Tiger countered as she brought out her claws and cut off the anti-gravity pad that was on Spidey’s chest as soon Spidey fell on his butt while White Tiger landed safely. Klaw sent a sound wave a the two as Spidey dodged it and Tiger fell back. I quickly took action and sent a blast of fire at Klaw sending him flying back in pain.

***

“Okay, Nick. I'll join your junior "Glee" club. But I still operate Duo as Spider-Man and Mistress, It's our version of ‘Me Time’”

“Done” they shook hands before the web shooter shot a parachute falling on them.

“Awkward."

*** [Peter’s POV] ***

Finally, both school and Spidey lives are back to normal. I opened my locker and sighed happily as I smiled. Maya should be here any minute now since she probably finished all that council work she had to do and have that meeting with the new principal I heard about.

“Oh, Puny Parker. Locker knocker time” I sighed remembering my normal life...has Flash in it. Before Flash could push me in Someone pulled me away making Flash fall in my locker and lock himself in. “Ow” I looked up to see my   ‘savior’

“Wait, do I know you?” I saw three other kids behind the guy looking oddly familiar. “Any of you?”

“Say hello to your new classmates,” Said the blonde guy, “Danny Rand” now known as Danny.

“ Luke Cage,” Said the guy who ‘saved’ me.

“Sam Alexander,” said the Latino guy.

“Ava Ayala, think about it” That’s when a light bulb went off my head as I realized, these were my new team.

“Huh?” was all that came out, I was speechless, AND right where I thought everything would be back to normal!

“Oh, some idiot gave Fury the bright idea we needed ‘me time’ away from S. H. I. E. L. D,” Sam said hinting at Me sarcastically.

“ FYI, don't sweat the secret ID. Code of silence man”  Somehow Maya came in just in time.

“Hey Peter, seems you already met the new students huh?”

“Maya! Please tell me this is some sort of mistake!” I plead. Being the head president of the school, basically, like a vice-principal, she had to have control on who enrolls, right?

“I’m sorry Peter but my job is to welcome students not the opposite and besides I placed myself the job of giving them a tour here”

“Why do you have to be their tourist?”

“Cause one, I’m the head president of the school, and the second is Fury wants me to so they can grow accustomed here plus ‘get to know each other as civilians’” Sam smirked as he came closer.

“Well, how lucky we are to get such a cutie to tour us” Maya smirked as she cocked her hip.

“I don’t think you should be flirting with your teammate,” She said mockingly.

“Teammate?” Maya’s smirk widened as the rest’s eyes widened.

“Funny how you didn’t recognize me as I quick as Peter”

“W-Well it's just that you where a large cloak with a black mask so we couldn’t see you properly aside from half your face and your hands s-so-” Maya laughed a bit.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m cool with it besides the whole point of the mask and cloak was for nobody to get a slight hint about my identity.”

“Hey, this is great. Really, really great. I just got to go talk to a guy.” I said before running off to the principal's office leaving Maya with them.

“ I need an immediate transfer”

“Denied, Mr. Parker”

“But why?” The principal turned around and I saw...Coulson?!

“Because Fury wants you where he can keep his eye on you.”

“Coulson?!”

“Acting principal Coulson, Thwip-Thwip,” He said with a mocking grin. I went out gripping on my hair in frustration.

“ I said it before, I'll say it again. N-o. No, no, no-no, no, no.”  I said walking by my locker.

“Hello? Can somebody let me out? Please. Anyone?” I backed up and looked at my locker with a smirk.

“Okay, maybe yes”

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2010s: 75 - 71

75. Valentina Monetta - “Crisalide (Vola)” San Marino 2013

The middle chapter of one of Eurovision’s most epic saga’s. God, I may be an insane book nerd for looking for ~THE BEST STORY~ every year, but Valentina had one forreal and it was legit a great one. While the first chapter established Valentina as a universally beloved backstage darling, and the third rewarded her previous struggles with a spot in the finale, it’s the second that I hold dear the most: It put Valentina on the mark as an artist who mattered. Like a butterfly emerging from chrysalis, if you will? 🦋

Needless to say, it comes down to Valentina’s song, which is again, one of the better Siegel compositions: “Crisalide” has all I need in my Eurovision anthems: emotional imput, a great beat (made to resemble an irl heartbeat), a eurofriendly message about spreading wings and flying away, topped off with a KILLER KEY CHANGE. Like, this moment:

is one of spine-shivers. What a great entry. My 2013 self was DEVASTATED when she NQd, but my 2019 self is thrilled Valentina got to return and write history as Stan Marino’s first qualifier.  🦋 ALL HAIL THE LEGEND THAT IS VALENTINA MONETTA! 🦋 VOLA! INSIEME A MEEEEEEEEE 🦋

And that concludes San Marino! It’s pretty weird that I’m usually into “STANNING SHIT FOR THE SHITTINESS” movement, because San Marino is a country formed AROUND being deliberately bad. However, intentional humour is very often less funny than unintentional humour and because of this I find it very hard to get into the San Marinese shitfests. They’re capable of greatness though, and hopefully can capitalize on Serhat’s qualification to serve us some delicious campness in the future. 

________________________________________________________________

74. Greta Salóme - “Hear them calling” Iceland 2016

ANOTHER gut-twisting NQ. 😭 To be fair, I can sort of understand why Greta 2.0 flopped? The act is very similar to Sergey’s, but not as eye-catching, and the lighting is a bit too dark, making it dificult to connect with her.

However, having said that... what a STUPID reason to NQ one of the best songs in 2016 o__O. “Hear them calling” is a great song: It has a truly haunting atmosphere, a visually stunning act and infectuous melody. The only wish I have is that Greta had stuck to the Icelandic version though because that one is even more epic. 

Another thing I really like about “Hear them calling” is, well, Greta herself. I think she’s one of the most talented Eurovision songwriters, consistently churning out magical music, but at the same time is held back as a performer by her stagefright. Seeing her overcome it and ~blossom~ into a murder of crows the confident woman she deserves to be makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. BRING HER BACK (as a songwriter lol).

And with Greta’s elimination, HATARI are now the sole Icelandic rep standing. Love has won!

________________________________________________________________

73. Miki - “La venda” Spain 2019

LMFAO it truly was a crazy ride with Miki. When “La Venda” was first selected, it was a massive burst of uncoordinated positive energy, in desperate need of taming. A revamp polished off all the raw edges, pre-packaging it for greatness. “So it happens” BorisBubbles thought, taking an indifferent sip of cold coffee from a bone china mug. “Spain are going to break their flop streak :slurp:” 

Silly me, I had completely forgotten that, oh hello, this is fucking SPAIN and Spain doesn’t *do* competent whoops. Thank fuck they went all out with “La venda’s” staging because the results were fucking GLORIOUS. From the giant manikin rocking the dollhouse

over the go-pro,

to the technicolour explosions,

"La venda” sent a pyroclastic flow of party energy all over Europe, covering our faces with celebratory soot when we didn’t expect it. This... was fucking AWESOME though, because the eruption of Mount-St.-Nuñez was one of unbridled fun, but it also overloaded the maximum capacity of ownage energy, which short-circuited the jurors.😭 May next year’s jurors grow themselves a stronger tolerance for kickassness.😭 Nevertheless, Miki and his friends capped this decent Grand Final off in great style, turning what was a fun competent reggaeton into an EXPERIENCE. 

That leaves RUTH as highest ranked Spanish entry:

“SOY YO? SOY YO??” -“RUTH!” -“AAAAAAA!!!!!”

________________________________________________________________

72.  András Kállay-Saunders - “Running” Hungary 2014

SHE CALLS PHARRELL, SHE CALLS PHARRELL, BUT NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE.

I will just plunge into this write-up in medias res because “Running” is one of those songs that feels like the “perfect” Eurovision entry on many levels. It’s a great example of a dark, contemporary hit single that would hit the charts on its own. 

It also tackles the issue of child abuse with grace and elegance, addressing the topic head-on, but NEVER trivializing it. This PSA is supported by András who makes for a very convincing narrator and a sublime dance act portrayed where the pain and terror is portrayed with harrowing accuracy.

Which brings me to why I’m booting it now, and not like, in the top 20. “Running” suffers from the fact that it is *too effective*. I think that, on an academic level, "Running” is probably one of the ten best entries in this decade. On a practical level however, “Running” is still an entry that gut-punches me into contemplative silence, but... it’s also very serious, distubring and saddening at the same time. It does not have the same level of replayability or likability that the upper tier Eurovision entries do. Ergo, I have to boot it now. bye. 

________________________________________________________________

71.  Sofia Nizharadze - “Shine” Georgia 2010

“Shine” was one of my intensely random faves back in 2010, so there is a lot of nostalgia resonating in dragging it this high. With that caveat out of the way though, I will say the deal is very similar to that of “Running”. Like, “Running”, “Shine” feels like a ‘perfect’ entry on an academic level. Like “Running”, it is kind of lacking on a connection level despite getting everything right. However, unlike “Running” it has a lot of heart seeping through the performance. Yes, Sopho is a notorious “slrrer vf wrds” 😍 which is just the endearment I needed.

You see, “Shine” may be a generic love ballad, pleasant and little else, but I actually think the act is the real showstopper. I could watch Sopho getting flung around for hours and never get bored. LK THE TDS GNA TRN YO ANOW

NNNNNNNNN BT ITS CLLLLLLD. 

YR LL N YR WN BT YR NVR UH-LNNNNNNNNNNNN!!

SHYNNN SHYNNN LK D STRZ N D SKYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

100% deserving of being the best scoring Georgian act in Eurovision!!! But not this ranking because “Midnight Gold” is not of this fucking planet. Congratulations Nikangel Kocharov!!

[skinny-boy-endeavours]

Warning: this message might shock most people, although I assume only people with an interest in these issues are likely to read it till the end, and if you are an ex-anorexic or bulimic, or a person scanning the web in search for potential culprits against your good sense, this is perhaps not going to please you. All the same, I will write it.

Since I have been living with eating disorders, more than a decade, and very nearly two decades have elapsed, and since I have joined Tumblr in a hope of finding some comfort and expressing myself at times like “these”, not even one decade has elapsed. I am a boy, I am twenty-eight, I have suffered from eating disorders for as long as I can remember, at about when switching from childhood to adolescence. I have taken a lot upon myself, and am still taking quite a lot, either out of habit or by sheer automatic resignation. I have finished my studies, I have my university diploma, I have remained at the same workplace for several years and I am both reliable and disciplined. But in the last ten years, I have been hospitalized a dozen of times, most of which upon my own free decision, and always seemed to recover a little more each time from I knew not what exactly, but that made me heartsick to the extent of driving myself to suicide on several occasions (at least 5, almost successful, by severe poisoning). I did not heed, at first, that my parents and their controlling temperament and conduct towards me might have the invisible cause behind all my self-destructive behaviours. I still find it hard to evaluate to what extent their pressurizing and eternally unsatisfied influence has driven me to hate myself only, to bear all the pain and to live only a small percentage of what is normally called “life” only to justify my existence and temper their grave looks upon my miserable person. The first thing to be said is that anorexia, bulimia, eating disorders in general and all feverous afflictions, when befalling a young person, girl or boy, is never a “fancy”, nor an invention of problems that were nonexistent beforehand, but a real discomfort, if not a living pain that is being converted into self-destruction, for want of a proper way out to an every-moment-guilt of being alive, under the control pf one’s parents, for they are authorities that are not to be gotten rid of as long as the child is a “minor” or is under their tutelage. Even when this comes to pass, the sentiment of the child who has lived under such a control for years, legally speaking, may and sometimes will inevitably reproduce his unhealthy patterns, either by the constant skin-deep memory of his former captivity of lack of freedom, which, after all, and I understand it now, is the sole and only motive for eating disorders in an adolescent and for an entire-life-wrecking nervous indisposition. I have noticed that at a healthy distance from my parents, I thrive rather well, although I still am fragile, and that when I am intensely with them for at least three or four days, this fragility is increased twice, thrice or more, proportionally to the albeit small time I have passed in the fateful company of my parents, who, despite what might be concluded from the above-written, are loving and caring, and wish nothing but my wellbeing. How then is it possible to feel, to declare oneself oppressed and pressed if one’s parents do not beat or ill treat one ? This is the whole issue: the pain inflicted by controlling parents is infinitely more subtle than any amount of “Physical” beating or mistreatment. All the more, that it is involuntary, and the parents do not realize the pain they are inflicting, and their ignorance of their very own misbehaviour is greater as they don,t understand that their love for their children is being counterproductive and is actually undermining their child’s development into healthy adults, and most of the time, driving them to self-destructive behaviours. This is no victim-playing, one has better things to do than looking, and even finding, guilt where it dos not have an actual existence. But in this lies the problem of nervous disorders into young people and their subsequent mark left upon the young people who have become adults and have to live with their self-destructive envies or direct behaviours, probably until they die, having half-lived only, become the ghost of their either living or dead parents has taken much of their energy and has achieved its final task: make oneself self-hating although alive and “functional” in society. I know why initially, eating disorder suffering patients were rightfully and tactfully removed from their families, from the sickening environment almost entirely manifested by the parent(s) or care-giver, of whoever while wishing the best for one’s child, drives her or him to seek freedom from the yoke through means by which they can escape, both physically and emotionally, and breathe, and while in the presence of the yoke-masters, feel themselves free, at least temporarily, by taking control over the only things they have any over: in this case, food intake, calorie outtake, etc. Drug problems, self-harm, and the like, are all ways of coping with a pressure than has become internalized and persists even when the subject is withdrawn from his familial environment for one’s best recovery or when one is definitely away from it. So tis is what I feel today, and what I come to realize. Of course, I am aware that this may be my case only, and that for all sorts of people, all sorts of circumstances are accountable for all sorts of joys and pains, and consequent self-building or self-destructive behaviours; that all cases of nervous indispositions are not imputable to the familial environment or the parental controlling facies, yet, this is my case and for my wellbeing, I must try to formulate it in a rational manner both for myself and for those whom it might be of use to to read these sentences and find that, as invisible as it is, the cause of their nervous disorders (I must insist, also, that a nervous disorder is not a mere nervosity or stress felt from time to time, but a fundamental indisposition of the whole nervous system, that affect the entire life and both physical and mental health of an individual, and it often drives one from depression to anxiety and back again, until one either is taken into a hospital for rest, or commits suicide although the material conditions in which he lives are what most of our “gentle-natured philanthropists would consider to be far above 2/3 of the world’s average material conditions). The whole point of this is not to throw guilt everlastingly upon one’s parents for all that happens, far from it. But if one is of a fragile nervous disposition and his parental environment does not help this disposition otherwise than retrogressively, as in my case of a till-here lasting eating disorder and as I imagine, of several if not most other people, girls or boys, with eating disorders, then severance from those austere parents is perhaps the first and most important step to be taken, either by the patient’s initiative or by his therapist. It may not be advisable in all cases, as the patient’s have different personalities and have received the more or less bad influence from their own different environments, but I am quite certain that in many instances of anorexia or bulimia or other EDs, this severance is salutary, and may, at the patient’s will, be prolonged as indefinitely as needed, for the invisible controlling influence can follow the patient, as I have already said, like a ghost, it matters not if the parents are still “physically” alive or not, or have been “objectively” demanding/austere/controlling/oppressing. The goal of this is not to spend one’s life in accusation of one’s parents, nor to remain mournful of one’s past, but once this step made, this important step, for the patient to be able to distinguish the part of himself that WANTS to suffer, to destroy himself and punish himself (eating disorders are self-harming coping methods, again, that can become internalized and last within the individual even years after the last definite severance from the individual’s unheeding parental environment/influence. I have repeatedly insisted upon this point, because once understood, as an underlying rule to unlock a difficult calculus of mathematics or physics, it will become not only easier, but truly feasible for the patient, whether he his 12 or 30, to know herself or himself and, as I had started to disert upon a little earlier, to know that his unhappiness is rooted in a self-hated that is rooted in a distorted perception of one’s worth and value as a human, as she or he perceives herself of himself as the direct product of his parents and must be perfect in every way and every instance, until it becomes untenable and metamorphoses itself into an altogether endeavour for irreproachability and self-control, which in its turn becomes what we call an “eating” disorder”. This is no freudian explanation of the mother or father sense within the child who either wants to kill the latter in order to freely fuck the former or simply hates them and eventually, himself, and strive never to resemble either of them by saying yes when they say no and reversely. This only means that the motive for an eating disorder is, in many cases, whether felt immediately and clearly or not, or only later, and to various degrees, a consequence of one’s unhealthy parental behaviour. I have written all this because it has become clear over time, gradually, and not all at once nor in a very definite and clear perception, for it is likely to change over time, as I live on, but these two tendencies, I have observed to remain constant and increasingly self-evident over time, regardless of individual circumstances: that is, 1) that my self-observation has always led me to understand that my self-destructive tendency varies along with my frequentation and near-sensing of my parents, who renew my self-hate, diminish or augment it proportionally, 2) that as long as eating disorders have been observed, whether they had already received a name of some sort or this generally nowadays accepted name, the tendency of the observer was that either the mother or the father had a devastating influence upon their child, an influence which, albeit invisible or at least very subtile, is very real and real enough to drive the child to self-destruction although their material condition is either normal or above the average. They are unhappy and feel oppressed enough to starve themselves, or to purge themselves, or have suicidal thoughts and or behaviours. Even in ancient cases, such as the all-too-famous on of Santa Caterina da Siena, the anorexic behaviour was associated if not entirely attributable to the mother’s controlling influence. In some other cases, modern or ancient, it may be the father’s controlling influence, which, of course, might not be physically agressive, but, upon a subtler plane, emotionally, intellectually, agressive, often when he has achieved some degree of intellectual authority and tries to impress it upon his child’s senses that she or he is to be at least equally rigorous, important or what not, which the child would have fain achieved even, and better so, without this moral pressure upon her or his nerves. Now, there are things upon which one cannot go back, but it is important, at least for me at this moment, to identify this cause, and to work from the knowledge of that efficient cause of the nervous/eating disorder to move forward, and have a decent life, because one cannot have it unless one makes this turn upon oneself and sees that what impedes one is the parental ghost, and I mean this without any psychoanalytical sentiment, for I do not see it as intervening in the eating disorder instance. This is equally true in the case of the freudian explanation of anorexia, that the mother being the material feeder of the child, the child stops eating when his mother’s will she or he fells antagonistic to its own. This is good for allegorical mythology, but not for practical problems that demand a practical solution: in this instance, what has to be understood, and what indeed HAS a relationship with either of the patient’s parents or with both, is that across time and space, this relationship is the root of the problem, which itself is not a one-sided guilt, it would be too easy, but rather a bad or shock meeting of genetic nervous indisposition on one side and of an austere or controlling parental influence on the other. Eating disorders become the only way out imaginable for this situation that involves no culprit but that involves as surely as possible at least one victim: the child who seeks freedom from a legal bondage, and tries to grow and to develop herself or himself under this constant nervous strain. The formerly eating-disordered children who, like myself, have gone into the adult age still carrying their self-destructive patterns and have tried to be a good citizen while waking with the envy of suicide in the morning and going to bed in tears, sleeping by the grace of strong drugs and working like a normal person by who knows whose grace, must, I declare it bluntly, turnabout and sweet is the cause of their lasting pain and poor mental health, which, in this instance, affects the whole physical organism equally, and can damage it permanently (the nervous indisposition has already a disabling effect upon the entire being, both during the adolescent growth wherein the individual is normally meant to build himself, and after the end of hormonal growth when one is an adult; the added problem of an eating disorder, superposed upon this already fragile nervous system, may be very destructive physically, and even more so as time rolls on, but also on the mind and the emotional faculties, which become prematurely tired and strained, especially when entertained over years, and eventually decades). I therefore conclude my long word, and also congratulate my reader upon his patience, by saying that an eating disorder is controlling parental influence + genetic nervous disposition and that the recovery can neither be forced upon the patient as an evidence nor even occur in the mind of the patient while her or his father or mother has not been identified as the cause of her or his emotional imbalance, and subsequently and consequently, been put aside from one’s life and definitely either discarded or healthily dealt with (by regulating, if not abolishing, the rapports one has with one’s parents or with the one in question that has an unhealthy bearing upon the child’s nerves). Now, this is only my opinion, and I perhaps imagine everything and I am not sick after all and all this is but a bad dream... But, on the other hand, I know not why, I feel that most eating disordered people, young or less young, will relate with the few statements I have abode made, and find that they describe their own cases quite accurately, because what I have singled out as the one invariable ou almost invariable tendency across time and space, in the case of EDS, is the parental influence, and it is a tendency because it cannot, totally at least, be dissociated from the very problem of EDs, and I am quite sure that those who have read this hitherto shall feel that they are not alone, and that behind their apparent madness, and underneath their emotional pain, there is something quite similar across the cases, and that something subtle lies at the foundation of it, something that has its constancy across the circumstances, and that determines the appearance of the coping method known under the name of eating disorders.

Saturday the 18th of May, 2019

[thelonguepuree]

Concrete analysis means then: the relation to society as a whole. For only when this relation is established does the consciousness of their existence that men have at any given time emerge in all its essential characteristics. It appears, on the one hand, as something which is subjectively justified in the social and historical situation, as something which can and should be understood, i.e. as ‘right’. At the same time, objectively, it by-passes the essence of the evolution of society and fails to pinpoint it and express it adequately. That is to say, objectively, it appears as a ‘false consciousness’. On the other hand, we may see the same consciousness as something which fails subjectively to reach its self-appointed goals, while furthering and realising the objective aims of society of which it is ignorant and which it did not choose. This twofold dialectical determination of ‘false consciousness’ constitutes an analysis far removed from the naive description of what men in fact thought, felt and wanted at any moment in history and from any given point in the class structure. I do not wish to deny the great importance of this, but it remains after all merely the material of genuine historical analysis. The relation with concrete totality and the dialectical determinants arising from it transcend pure description and yield the category of objective possibility. By relating consciousness to the whole of society it becomes possible to infer the thoughts and feelings which men would have in a particular situation if they were able to assess both it and the interests arising from it in their impact on immediate action and on the whole structure of society. That is to say, it would be possible to infer the thoughts and feelings appropriate to their objective situation. The number of such situations is not unlimited in any society. However much detailed researches are able to refine social typologies there will always be a number of clearly distinguished basic types whose characteristics are determined by the types of position available in the process of production. Now class consciousness consists in fact of the appropriate and rational reactions ‘imputed’ [zugerechnet] to a particular typical position in the process of production. This consciousness is, therefore, neither the sum nor the average of what is thought or felt by the single individuals who make up the class. And yet the historically significant actions of the class as a whole are determined in the last resort by this consciousness and not by the thought of the individual – and these actions can be understood only by reference to this consciousness.

Georg Lukács, History and Class Consciousness (trans. R. Livingstone)

[nowfight]

After the Storm Chapter 16: Cosmic Love

Natalie took a sip of her coffee long after it had grown cold. The dark storm clouds continued to roil in the sky overhead and rain poured down upon the town, an unusual amount for that time of year, but not unheard of. The water pattered down through the canopies of the old oaks in her backyard, and puddles formed between their roots, while squirrels and birds took up roost among the branches for shelter.

Natalie watched from the steps of the patio deck, the overhanging roof protecting her from the rain, as she sipped her coffee. She was lost in a daze and her eyes were unfocused. The emotional turmoil she felt had exhausted her mentally and physically, absently, she had hoped the coffee would bring her back to reality so she could help those that needed it.

Jekyll had appeared a bit smaller before her and crawled onto the patio deck to lay behind her and offer her support and warmth. He had no words to give her. He was not an emotional creature and only understood that she was sad and he needed to protect her in such a state.

It was cold outside, even more so with the rain, and her breath fogged up before her after each sip. She could imagine the coffee was still hot that way and that her toes weren't freezing.

For once, she wished her house was empty, so that she could mourn at her own pace. But there were others who were upset and she needed to do her best to offer as much support as she could.

"Natalie?"

Green eyes stared ahead sightlessly but she responded after a moment's pause, "Yeah?"

"Do you mind if Felix and I stay here for a few days?" Laila asked from the sliding glass door. She was dressed in a purple top that hung off one shoulder, a black sports bra, and black leggings. It looked as if she had just been getting ready for her morning run when Michael had called her.

"Stay as long as you need," she said with forced cheerfulness after clearing her throat.

"Thanks," Laila mumbled and stood in the door for a few minutes, unsure of how to help, as she was never good in such situations. Some ideas had formed in her mind but she held off on voicing them as it seemed Natalie was mourning herself and she did not want to bother her. She stepped back into the house and shut the sliding glass door with a sigh. Felix had fallen silent in the living room and Michael had taken to standing at the kitchen sink, staring out through the window, while he bit the nail of a thumb in thought.

She had gotten to know Pax very well over the years, as he and Felix were partners in crime, but she had always dealt with death a little differently. Sure, she was sad, but she was also able to still function through her sadness. It was then that she decided to step up and help the household back to its feet. Natalie couldn't always be the one supporting everyone and lifting them up, she was only one person, so with that in mind she cracked her knuckles with a sigh.

First thing first, she decided with a raised brow as she eyed the trail of dirty footprints leading upstairs, the house was a mess and needed a good cleaning. Secondly, they needed some good comfort food for later in the day when they had calmed themselves enough to feel hungry. And thirdly, Gabriel needed to be informed as he was far more kindly and caring than Laila and could offer more emotional support than she could.

Lucifer stood in the bathroom and ran a hand through his hair while he examined his human face in the mirror. It had taken him a bit of effort but he had managed to change his form. After so long in his natural state, it was hard to pull the face back on, but he didn't want to cause Natalie anymore stress. He looked like his usual twenty-five your old self that he had taken to appearing as for Natalie's sake. It was close enough to his usual chosen age range, so he didn't mind the shift.

He braced his hands on the bathroom counter top and stared down into the sink, frustrated beyond belief for his own stupidity. He had flipped out over an existential crises, of all things, and lost a life because of it. Had he waited for Raphael to provide further impute, collect more information, and gone in with a full team Pax would still be alive.

But he had wanted to blow off steam and prove he was a bad ass and could stop the thing on his own. He snorted in disgust as he prodded the healing puncture wound on his shoulder where a branch had split flesh during his fall into the pit. It was still bleeding a bit but the skin was beginning to mend.

With a snap of his fingers, his was wearing sweatpants again, and he pulled a tank top on after as he remembered Natalie's decree that he not walk through the house shirtless. She had let him slide a few times but now was not an opportune moment, he thought.

When he came down stairs, he found Laila with a mop in hand, cleaning up the mess he had left with his trek through the house. She glanced up as he descended the steps and offered a quick wave before she returned to her task.

"Where's Nat?" he asked. He could see Gabriel cooking in the kitchen but made no comment on it as he glanced about the rest of the room.

"On the patio," Laila answered with a sigh and thumbed over towards the sliding glass door.

Lucifer grunted and was stepping out onto the patio moments later, sliding the door shut behind him, and skirted around Jekyll's tail to find Natalie staring out into the rainy backyard. He rubbed the back of his head, unsure of how to handle the situation because he felt like she was a balloon ready to pop, before he decided to sit down on the top step next to her.

Without so much as a word she reached over for his hand and curled her fingers through his, never once taking her eyes from the trees, and gave a tight lipped smile.

Lucifer watched her for a moment, wide eyed, and surprised that she was so ready and willing to accept him still when he had run off on her. He dropped his gaze to their hands before his ears drooped and he turned to look out at the backyard as well. "I'm sorry," he mumbled a few moments later and tightened his own grip on her hand.

Natalie lowered her eyes to the grass just before them and whispered, "Don't do that to me again."

Lucifer nodded once, jaw tight against emotions, and wished he had a cigarette.

"I'm serious, Lucifer, I can't do this alone," she added with a shaky voice and wiped at her eyes. "You said no more apocalypses, no more running off into dangerous situations . . ."

"I know, kid, I'm sorry," he muttered and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He didn't bother trying to excuse his actions, because she was right, he had been wrong to run off and go head first into a fight just to prove his worth to no one but himself.

Neither one of them had the strength to argue in that moment, they were both physically and emotionally exhausted, but Natalie continued with a shuddering sigh, "You don't understand, Lucifer." She grasped his hand tightly as she felt her chest tighten and panic slither to life in her limbs. She was afraid to tell him, afraid that he would run away again, and that she would be left to sort things out on her own. She bit her lip and squeezed his hand as hard as she could as fear turned her blood cold.

"It's alright, Nat, I'm not going anywh-."

"I'm pregnant."

Natalie hunched forward as Lucifer stared with wide eyes, looking as if he had seen a ghost, before he jumped to his feet and jerked back as if he had been stung. The wooden railing cracked as his back smacked into it and he lifted his hands to his head.

Silence fell between them and the only sound to be heard was the rain and thunder as it intensified. Sheets of water fell over the backyard as wind whipped it about and sent it cascading through the leaves of the trees.

Lucifer's eyes did not move from Natalie's back as his fingers grasped at his head, overwhelmed, and he stumbled back up onto the deck with a grunt. Jekyll lifted his head to watch his master curiously as he shuffled back into one of the wicker chairs and knocked it over, startling himself with a curse. He chose to brace himself against the railing of the deck and stare down at the gravel, drowning in rain water, below the patio with wide and unseeing eyes.

"Umm," he tried to force himself to speak, but nothing came, and he chuckled nervously. Disbelief was the only emotion he felt in that moment. If not disbelief than mania, because becoming a father had never even crossed his mind in the thousands of years he had lived, and he was the Devil. He rocked back on one foot, needing to work out the energy rising within him somehow, and ran a hand through his hair.

Natalie's heart broke for the second time that day and she struggled to breathe against the pain. She needed him so desperately in that moment, because something was stealing the souls of children, while she herself was pregnant. She was terrified and stressed beyond all possible limits. But he looked as if he was going to run and it tore her to pieces.

"Fuck. Natalie, I-," he cut himself off and stood straight, rocking on the balls of his feet, and covered his face with his hands.

"It's alright," she murmured. "I just thought you should know. I'd understand if you wanted to-."

"Shut up," he cut her off with a raised hand, the other still covering his face, "Just shut up. Stop letting your brain run haywire."

She lowered her eyes to her feet, hands shaking in her lap, and struggled against further tears.

"I don't care if I am a father," he finally forced out between grit teeth and a tight jaw, "I don't care about having responsibilities or any of that bullshit." He finally pulled his hands away and dropped to his knees before her as she turned in her spot to look at him, "But Natalie, you have to understand, that I-," he struggled to continue and grabbed her by the shoulders imploringly, "Natalie, I am the Devil. I am Satan. You do realize that any child of mine is considered . . ."

She nodded with a watery smile, struggling to piece her heart back together, and wiped at her eyes. "But the apocalypse already happened, so I figured, what the hey?" she mumbled through her tears and lifted her hands in a shrug.

Lucifer stared at her searchingly, eyes jumping from the other, with drooped ears and scrunched brows. His grip on her shoulders tightened momentarily.

"Natalie, I . . ." He what? He didn't even know. His chest was tight and his heart ached for all that had happened and now a bomb had been dropped and he couldn't decide if it was good or bad. "I don't deserve you," he finally forced out, "You beautiful, beautiful thing." He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear with shaking hands.

Natalie dropped her gaze to her hand, resting upon one of his knees, as sadness washed through her again.

"Hey," he called quietly and grinned nervously as her eyes lifted to his again, "It'll be okay. We'll figure everything out."

"What do you want to do?" she asked in a whisper.

Inside the house, Laila continued to clean while Gabriel clattered about in the kitchen. Michael was shouting something as the sound of the front door opening filtered through the glass of the sliding door, Max's voice greeted Michael's, followed by Chelle's. It seemed Laila was taking control of that mornings events and bringing everyone together to discuss how to proceed and, hopefully, bring a little cheer back into their hearts.

Lucifer bit his lip, drawing blood with a canine, and stared into her eyes. He was searching deeper than he had since before his fall, pulling up the deepest strands of thought, in order to answer her as truthfully as he could. Her voice rang through, as he recalled not but a week ago, when she had asked him how he wanted to handle a situation. "I . . . we . . .," he scowled in frustration as he struggled to answer but her patience never wavered. "Fuck it," he finally spat out with his signature sardonic grin, "Let's prove them wrong."

The smile that claimed Natalie's face was well worth it, he decided later, because she had lit up that whole backyard as the rain slowed to a stop.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13040441/1/After-the-Storm

[betsonbetty-blog]

Now What? Pt. 7

Hey I'm back. Let me start off with I am so sorry it has taken me so long to upload this chapter. I have been in the middle of a bunch of exams as well as double shifting at my job. I would have posted it sooner, however, I absolutely hated what I had written. I literally threw everything away multiple times. Only one of those old drafts is still on my computer. Also, reviews make me really happy and motivated to write so if you could do that it would be awesome! Anyways, hope you enjoy!

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Part 7

"You will not believe what some of these college students in at that university do!" Alya recounted her experience during her study abroad semester. "They have this weird ritual when they get their class ring. So, the ring is a big deal over there. Once they receive it they drop it in a pitcher of beer and then chug as fast as they can. So many people throw up. It was insane." Adrien and Nino came back in with all the stuff Nino needed, calling the attention of the three girls sitting down.

"Alright, that should be it. I should have it ready in an hour, but remember it still has to sit for 24hrs." Nino began setting up first grabbing what looked like a jar filled with cinnamon sticks.

Marinette worried over Adrien. Their friends didn't want to say what had happened to Gabriel, but they assured him he is well. Chloe stood up after glancing at her phone. "I need to head out. I promised Madeline to help her finish fixing up the nursery today. Sasha is almost here, and we want to be ready," Chloe glowed as she spoke. Alya's hand went over her heart with a soft face. "I will be back tomorrow morning. Adieu," Chloe blew a kiss at the group and walked out.

Alya stood up shortly after, "I need to go too. I have deadlines to meet. Thankfully, Nora was free to watch the boys. This school break couldn't've come at a worse timing. I will see you later. Alya hugged Marinette, "Au revoir."

"This is going to smell really strong. You might want to go to a different room. Can I open the windows?" Nino looked up from what seemed a cauldron.

"Yeah, whatever you need. I guess we'll be around if you need anything let Amanda know," Marinette grabbed Adrien's hand and walked outside their office.

Once out of earshot of Amanda, Marinette turned to Adrien smiling "how about we explore more of the house?" The hallway filled with Adrien's laughter from looking at his bug bouncing from excitement. Nodding he began to follow her. The hallway led to the living room with a grand piano off to the side. "This is amazing!" Marinette quickly went to touch the quilted couches.

Adrien's eyes didn't leave the piano as he felt himself gravitate towards it. Immediately he went to the left corner and there it was. E.A. in elegant font. He felt his mouth dry and throat tightened as his eyes began to sting. He felt Marinette's arms slip around him. Adrien took a deep breath and cleared his throat, "E.A. Emilie Agreste. The piano belonged to my mother. I hadn't seen this piano since my mother's disappearance. Father had it in her study. A study he kept under lock and key. I never thought I would see it ever again." There was fondness in his voice as he spoke, "Have I ever mentioned the reason I love the piano?" Marinette shook her head as a nostalgic smile formed on Adrien. "My mother used to play the piano with me every day. She taught me piano. I would always change the melody," tears began streaming down his face unable to contain themselves anymore. "Honestly, if it wasn't for my father I would still enjoy the piano tenfold," Adrien grabbed the notes on the piano, "Fur Elise. I wonder why this still here after so many years."

"Daddy are you going to play right now?!" Emma's voice rang through the room from where they had just come from. "Daddy why are you crying?" Emma looked up at Adrien with wide blue eyes and smiled, "I know, I'll sit next to you and play just like you used to with mamie. That always makes you happy when you're sad," Emma caught him by surprise. Marinette couldn't help to smile as she saw the warmness in his eyes. Adrien nodded and removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. Emma lit up and sat on the bench as Adrien sat to her right. The notes were familiar. His chest filled with a warm sensation. Lucky for Adrien had been practicing this song for a while now. Emma began playing the simpler notes on her end, however, she changed some of the notes. This caught Adrien of guard and caused a knot to re-form in his throat. Marinette leaned on the piano as she stared at the love of her life with their future daughter. The sight of them would have stopped her fourteen-year-old heart, but as an eighteen-year-old she simply felt love. Love towards the boy she fell for twice and love for her daughter.

The song ended as Louis walked in holding a device, "mommy I want to play with you." Marinette smiled as the boy walked over. However, internally she couldn't stop her mind racing. She didn't know how to play the piano. The kids were going to find that they weren't their parents. Well they were, but not at the moment. What was she going to do? Her eyes flickered at Adrien for a second, but it wasn't enough for him to notice. Emma had his full undivided attention. Louis handed her the device in his hands while he beamed as he looked up at her. She felt herself relax. Video games, of course. "Oh, can we connect it to the big tv this time?" She could practically see stars in his eyes, his father's eyes, with his hands clenched in front of him.

"Of course, minou," Adrien's heart fluttered as she spoke. This was his future. Louis ran to the tv at the other side of the room.

A brunette woman entered the room, "Mr. and Mrs. Agreste, I have finished packing lunch for later. Mrs. Amanda informed me you have plans with the children later. I will be back around 5 o'clock to watch over the kids tonight."

Adrien ransacked his brain for her name. "Thank you, Camille," Marinette smiled sweetly at her. Adrien was glad one of them had remembered her name. The woman nodded and left. "Alright, think you can teach me how to play again," Marinette sat next to their son and ruffled his hair reminding her of Chat Noir's hair.

Louis lit up, "silly mommy, you always forget," he excitedly began explaining to Marinette. The game was a simple platformer and the duo began to play together.

*************************

It was a beautiful sunny day out. Adrien was finishing up strapping in Louis on the booster seat as Marinette was putting the picnic basket in the back of the car. Marinette had made sure to pack extra cookies and Adrien asked her to pack camembert. They had decided on having Marinette drive since she had a lot more experience. Gabriel had only recently and reluctantly allowed Adrien to learn to drive. They set the GPS to the park Nino had recommended before he left. A man in a suit knocked on the window and Marinette lowered the window, "Marinette Adrien, Claude and Faye are ready to go. Are you positive you don't wish Eric to drive?"

Marinette smiled lightly laughing, "Alexander I am positive." Alexander fidgeted slightly clearly uncomfortable. Safety was his number one priority. Every time Adrien or Marinette chose to drive themselves it made him uneasy. However, he knew they were more than capable of staying safe. All members of security knew their secret, but never spoke of it to them. Marinette and Adrien weren't the sneakiest of people. Sometimes it caused all of them to laugh when they would see them 'sneaking out' or the ridiculous excuses they give. One thing they were good at, nevertheless, was hiding how they become superheroes. Being the best bosses they have ever had and at this point practically family, they always worried about them. "Relax Alexander," Marinette petted his arm.

Alexander sighed in defeat and smiled, "very well. Enjoy your afternoon." Alexander walked back into the house closing the doors behind him.

The afternoon past by in a blur. Claude and Faye stayed near by enough to notice them, but not enough to eavesdrop. Adrien and Marinette spent the time talking and laughing as the twins played. Plagg and Tikki imputing every once in while from the picnic basket. They remembered all the signs that they were Ladybug and Chat Noir. "Every day it was Ladybug this Ladybug that. It got even worse when he realized he had fallen for your civilian self. 'Plagg what do I do? I am in love with two different girls. Am I a horrible person? I don't deserve either'," Plagg teased his holder. "So many times after your fight against Dark Owl I wanted to say something, but couldn't because of the damn spell," Plagg grumbled and grabbed another piece of cheese. At some point, Marinette lightly punched Adrien in the arm for all the times he made her worry as Chat. The drive back was a quiet peaceful one. The twins had fallen asleep in the back. Adrien looked at them and smiled. Two wonderful kids and one on the way, he took Marinette's hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. She smiled as she turned slightly pink.

When they arrived at the house one of the maids, Liliane, was already waiting for them. Quickly she rushed to assist with unloading the car. Marinette handed the keys to Eric. Without waking the twins up, Adrien and Marinette managed to carry them inside and put them in bed for a little longer. Adrien walked downstairs to let Alexander know Eric would be driving Marinette and him to dinner. He was so excited he almost didn't notice Camille, "oh perfect. Camille, would you mind waking the twins up in twenty minutes? They fell asleep in the car after the park. I want them to be able to sleep at night."

"No problem, Mr. Agreste," Camille continued walking.

Amanda had told Marinette she picked up her dress from the dry cleaners for tonight and was hanging in the closet. She walked in the shower and began singing. Hearing Marinette singing made Adrien feel like the luckiest man alive. As soon as she was done she got out to allow Adrien to shower. Adrien was finishing up laying out his outfit, a blue suit with black tie, when she walked out. It hadn't occurred to either one of them that Marinette would have only a towel on. The moment they realized it, both turned completely red. "Sorry," Adrien looked away while he put his hand on his neck. Marinette quickly scampered into the closet. Adrien swallowed hard. A cold shower that's what I need. A very cold shower. He stripped and went in. As he began to shower he noticed the products. Strawberry scented shampoo. He smiled. He was helplessly in love with a girl who made him fall twice.

Marinette was still blushing when she saw the dress. It was a dusty pink cocktail dress with an empire waistline and strap halter neckline. She quickly started on working on her hair and makeup. The dress was thankfully easy to zip up. Adrien knocked letting her know he would be downstairs waiting on her. She found gorgeous gold heels and clutch and was ready to go. Adrien was in the middle of a conversation with Eric when he saw her walking down the stairs. Absolutely sublime. "You never fail to look amazed at her. I hope one day to find someone to look at the way you look at her," Eric's voice brought him back to earth. They told the twins goodnight and headed off. For the rest of the night Adrien couldn't keep his eyes off her.

Adrien kissed Marinette for the millionth time that night. Adrien straighten up as Marinette removed her makeup and a wide grin appeared on his face, "hey, what do you think on going out for a run?" Marinette nodded smiling and rushed to finish up. Once done they held hands with their kwamis floating above them. They nodded at each other, "Plagg" "Tikki" "transforme moi!"

They didn't have to say where to go they already knew. The Eiffel Tower was lit as always. Once they reached the top they sat in their usual spot. "So, new Ladybug outfit. I like it. The black really makes the red pop."

Ladybug tapped his bell. "Ever the charmer, chaton," Ladybug laid her head on her husband's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her and they stared off into the night in the city of lights.

[ariderofcomets]

Descrying love.

PART II-

The incestous relationship between Cersei and Jaime Lannister has, in my eyes, always been problematic. Setting aside the fact that it involves incest (honestly, some could argue that's reason enough), there are so many other reasons why it could never work out between them, and the progression of the story is leading us to just that. 

First, a note on Cersei Lannister. 

I had begun to dislike Cersei from the very start of the series, but my feelings were fixated after I read A feast for crows. It didn't, of course, marr my enjoyment of her POV chapters. To me, reading some parts of her story involved equal portions of amusement and disbelief. Her internal monologue, laced with malice for almost everyone she encountered, was at times, cringeworthy. Sometimes, I had to pause, put my book aside, and dwell on just how far she went with her delusions and what that meant for her.  

Some might say that her paranoia was justified. Isn't she facing imminent death at the hands of a 'valonqar'? Doesn't she have proof to support the fact that the Tyrells were, in fact, the perpetrators in her son's death? Yes, I will not be the one to deny that. Cersei Lannister is not the first person to do everything in her literal power to thwart a fate that has been prophesized to be unfortunate, to lash out blindly with a club as if to deter her destiny. But it has caused harm to so many innocent people, and that has never bothered her, not in the least. In her fits of rage, she is sometimes callously cruel, even to those she loves (and that list is shorter than her temper). 

By Dance with Dragons, of course, I had begun to pity her, because yes, no matter how horrible a person she was, she deserved none of what the insurgent, radically insane Faith Militant doled out for her (the same Faith Militant, which, in a move that she believed was a stroke of genius, she allowed to be freed from their restrictions), but I am afraid that was all the empathy that I could muster. 

To Cersei, the only person worth protecting in Westeros is herself, and her children. She wants them to bend to her will, because only she knows what's right for them. She may have been trying to protect Tommen, with his best interests at heart, but unarguably, the two do not have the best mother-child relationship. As a matter of fact, Cersei did not have that with any of her children. In Joffrey, she encouraged the streak of blatant brutality, in fact even stating that her son's willfulness was his best quality as it would keep him out of trouble in the treacherous mire that King's Landing was. I have no doubt that she was trying to be a good mother, but I also suspect she was anything but that in Tommen's eyes. 

In her defense, one can also add that she believed that she was shielding her children from the worst effects of the waves of war that crashed around them. In some instances, however, it seemed to me that she was using the protection of her children as an excuse to assuage, or even absolve herself of blame in the face of the hair raising atrocities that she subjected some of her people to (Blue bard and Falyse). Here is what she thinks after she torments the Blue Bard into admitting to a lie that would aid in framing Margaery-

Getting the truth was wearisome work, and she dreaded what must follow. I must be strong. What I must do for Tommen and the realm. It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead. 

In this statement, Cersei imputes all that she does to Tommen and the realm, and then, in the very same stream of thought, goes on to dwell over Maggy the Frog and her own motives for wanting Margaery dead. So while Cersei may tell herself all she wants that all of her actions benefit her children alone, they are, in the end, rooted in her own desire to put the stopper on the prophecy that predicts her ousting from power and death. 

Cersei is also a woman who believes that everyone takes her opinions with a pinch of salt because of her gender. Her entire life, she has seen firsthand the yawning black chasm of differentiation that exists between women and men in Westeros. Her father had always sought to sell her like a commodity to men she never wished to marry, even as her twin was allowed to tread the path to glory. This is, of course, the very picture of injustice, one that exists in the entirety of Westeros. All of our fortuitous female characters, from Sansa to Arya to Brienne to Asha have been subjected to this form of discrimination.

But how did Cersei choose to react to this inequity? By believing that she had been cursed by being born into the wrong gender, that women were weak and vapid and soft and could only wield power with the 'charms of their sex' and what was 'between their legs'. She eyes most women with distaste and contempt and distances herself from every frail thing that she has associated with femininity and looks to find 'masculine traits' within her, traits which will help her manage the realm as efficiently as her father. Womanly emotions are viewed as nugatory by her, and even when she is queen, she does not do much to alleviate the condition of women in Westeros, botherations not very different from her own. Instead of shunning the flawed paradigm of women that so many men in Westeros hold, she believes it, and begrudges her fate for having been born a woman.

Okay, so Cersei Lannister may not be my absolute favorite character, but seeing as how everything in her life is in a jumbled disarray, and how she is treading the fine line between suspicion and full blown paranoia, she deserves to be freed from any other exigency that weighs her down, including destructive or toxic relationships in her life, which is what her brother needs too, maybe more than her. Where best to start but with each other?

When one person truly loves another person, they will go out of their way to ensure that they do all they can to ease any suffering the other person may be enduring, even if they have to put aside their own sorrows for the moment or if not that, at least listen to the other person and then relay their own difficulties. Even listening to someone talk about their worries can go a long way in making them feel better. 

Now, when Jaime came back from Riverrun, miamed both physically and mentally, he practically rushed to Cersei, and didn't even wait for her to consent before proceeding to make love to her. He knew that Cersei had lost a son. Albeit a monstrous one, she was still his sister, and he should have been more understanding of the circumstances.

And Cersei? She was repulsed by his stump. Instead of bolstering his already frangible self esteem, she went on to reveal her own intentions and plans to him, hoping to rope him in, all for her own benefit, even going so far as to asking him to quit the Kingsguard (an institution she had once asked him to join for her own purposes). And when he refused? 

Was it your hand they hacked off in Harrenhal, or your manhood? 

You great golden fool. He's lied to you a thousand times, and so have I. 

Oh, an angry cripple. How terrifying. A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have been the heir he wanted, but I lacked a cock. 

It is clear from their interaction that Cersei was thinking only of herself and of the problems that she would soon encounter, not sparing much thought for her brother's conflict and pain. 

While I do not doubt that Cersei and Jaime loved each other as they grew up together in Casterly Rock, I do know that this love must have begun purely as the love that brothers and sisters share, and in their case, a deeper bond of twinhood. This was warped by their thoughtless experimentations later, and as the years advanced and they continued to attach a sexual relationship to it, they twisted the sinuous connection even further. 

I do not think they were ever in love. Cersei Lannister surely wasn't. Even as a little girl, she had dreamed of marrying Rhaegar, dreamed of soaring into the gaping skies with him upon the scaly back of a majestic dragon. Her love for her brother, which had begun as platonic, was only sexual for sating her own needs. For lack of a better analogy, his role in her life could be likened to a bloodrider. 

I name you ko, and ask your oath, that you should live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm. 

-An oath asked of a bloodrider

They were the khal's brothers, his shadows, his fiercest friends. "Blood of my blood," Drogo called them, and so it was; they shared a single life.

In my opinion, this is pretty much how Cersei views Jaime. A man who is hers, to protect her, live and die for her and vanquish her enemies. She loved him, and he pleasured her, but she was never in love with him. She believed that he was, wholeheartedly, and that she deserved to use that to her advantage, which was what she did most of their life (Prominent instances that stand out to me- Persuading him to join the Kingsguard and asking him to miam or kill Arya on sight if he found her in Darry). When he began to demonstrate his heedlessness to her wishes, she began to regard him differently- He had changed, and he was a thorn in her side. He was supposed to assist her in whatever she did, and if he couldn't do that, she had to send him away. 

As for Jaime, he had painted an entirely inaccurate picture of the relationship in his mind. In his ideally rose tinted imaginings, he was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maiden. He believed he loved her for her uproarious flames, but he never gazed deep enough to see the crucible of untamed wildfire. She believed she loved him for his undying fierceness, but never quite took the time to see the contrariant idealism and carefully buried trauma shoved away inside. Neither of them knew or understood the other entirely, they 'loved' each other because they had projected the image of who they believed each other to be on to themselves. The curtains were flung from their eyes in the gales of the personal tribulations that they had to face (particularly for Jaime, who was forced to re-evaluate his whole life). 

After discovering that his sister hadn't been as loyal to him as he had to her, and encountering aspects of her that he didn't knew existed, he thinks-

I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze. 

And here is an excerpt from his conversation with Daven which highlights his disillusionment-

"How is Cersei? As beautiful as ever?"

"Radiant." Fickle. "Golden." False as a fool's gold. 

He also dreamed of finding her in bed with Moon Boy and in the very same dream, proceeded to smash her teeth in, which is a very violent form of expression of the dismay in his sub-conscious mind. 

But the one scene that sums his disenchantment up the best is when he throws this letter by Cersei into the fire-

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once."

When Cersei sends this letter to Jaime, her need is truly dire. Her sending such a letter and Jaime's reaction upon receiving it both reflect exactly what their relationship has come to. 

While Cersei knows that Jaime could not possibly be of any aid to her without his sword hand, she wants him by her side, because isn't that how it has always been? He was meant to protect her. They were meant to die together. He had to come. 

And Jaime? He chose not to go. 

He chooses not to go when the woman he is supposedly in love with needs him the most. 

She has never come to me, he thought, She has always waited, letting me come to her. She gives, but I must ask. 

Could it be attributed to his rage at being betrayed? Possibly. But how long can rage last in the face of truly eternal love, and particularly a loved one in mortal peril? Jaime chose to ignore Cersei's request because he no longer wanted to give up everything for a woman who was, in all probability, only going to require him for that purpose. He was not about to put everything on the line for a woman whose shrouded true face had slowly begun to come into the light. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, entrusted with an important task, and he meant to see it through. He didn't leave, even though he knew it could mean a terrible punishment for Cersei, or even death. 

Jaime had started to discover other priorities in his life, and Cersei had begun to see him for just who he was. Both of them had. How can two completely different people with a set of conflicting beliefs, who don't see eye to eye, and who dream of things that the other could never possibly comprehend, ever summon true love within themselves for each other? Can a woman who has viewed love as a sweet poison ever look beyond to realise what the liberation and wonderment of love truly entails? Love isn't poison. The absence of love is. Can a man who has distorted sibling love and attached a component of lust to it ever see how truly falling in love with someone is like?

I sure hope they can (though in Cersei's case, sadly, it is unlikely) and I also understand that it is implausible so long as they continue to view each other as lovers. 

Theirs isn't a tragic love story. It isn't a love story at all. 

And beautiful, wonderful, Brienne of Tarth deserves her own love story, and I really hope that she finds it with the man she has begun to love. 

Note-Excerpts from the books in italics.

[srbachchan]

DAY 3611

Jalsa, Mumbai                   Feb 11,  2018                 Sun 11:43 PM

Birthday Ef - Reshmi Philips       Monday, Feb 12, 2018  .. greetings for the birthday of our dear Ef Reshmi .. love from us all here ..

.... and Rahul Sen was on the 10th .. belated greetings .. and love

The non knowledge of computer mechanics, is a failure that I have to admit .. I am so bad at this it is most frustrating .. I should learn .. I should join an institute .. I must takes lessons .. I must learn classical music too .. I must learn a musical instrument preferably the piano .. I must then also learn Marathi, French, Russian, German and Italian with a sprinkling of Spanish thrown in ..

That would be an accomplishment that would make me most excited .. BUT .. when and how .. time and will to be provoked and disciplined so that all of this can be accomplished .. and along with this an admittance to a Cinema School, would be most effective for me .. it would teach me the basics of cinema and direction and acting and its execution .. BUT .. how and when and where .. ?

Frustration ..

Errr .. sorry .. I would also want to improve my Hindi .. for I believe it is atrocious and so lacking in many parts ..

That then is the terminal tension and anxiousness on my part ..

But beyond those is a life that waits with equal anxiousness for the sun to down its shutters and the lamps to be lit, the shankh to be heard, the temple bells to ring in .. and after the world seemingly becomes silent, my desire to connect with those that give me so much love is brought into execution ..

.. the walk out of the door to the gate of Jalsa, previously named Mansa, is filled with expectation and a shared apprehension .. what will the wishers say today .. will they accept me .. do they have reservations too .. do my work efforts destroy their love for me or what ..?

But as soon as the gates open that roar of the wishers confirms many things .. 

.. this is the love that permeates all hate, lives and breathes giving of belief and love .. there is no implication no imputations of hidden meanings .. it is clear, unselfconscious, without any thoughts held back .. young old mothers children from all walks .. all converge here in happy confluence .. defeating suspecting myopic thinkers .. they being overpowered by sheer volume of presence and sound ..

.. and there are the concerned warnings too ..

Love love and love .. on the streets just love .. banners of affection and care .. does one ever need any other .. no and none .. !!

A general meeting by the evening within the walls of our home turns the withins with some lightness .. hope and will .. they come often to the home .. they speak and we listen .. they consult and we execute .. they are people that care .. they are frank honest and brutally in the face .. sooth sayings are what everyone begins to read when they do read this .. but that is not what is being mentioned here .. a general meet with yourself provides similar .. that is the most effective penance for the being .. penance, because without it , truth would face a demolition .. an insult .. a bring down .. that should never happen .. a different perspective must always be given respect .. its faith be not compromised .. drawn conclusions without a constructed edifice, is an edifice of mistrust and sceptical misgivings .. and when that reaches a conclusion of any definiteness, it is time to bring that structure down and move away from the dust of its destruction .. just a handy handkerchief that immediately covers the face and eyes, is a temporary gift of immediate use .. it cannot remain or provide protection limitlessly .. move away from the filth, move away from the handkerchief .. move away forever .. and the ominous odour shall remain contained, distant and unobtrusive ..

That be the greatest teaching of existence .. at times one needs to exercise it .. vulnerability and its implications of insecurity go together in the minds of them that built that illegal structure .. in time it would have had to crumble .. why wait for that moment .. dissect the analysis, dismember it to its openness, mark the valuable options and make decisive opinion .. nothing in the universal network of space and discovery would ever have the strength to make one succumb to such ..

Is my belief today .. it may never have been such .. but it is now .. and it is a shame it came so late .. but is also a blessing .. for the delay has given time for it to penetrate the system and teach or understand reaction and consent ..

You cannot be lead on a path deep into the forest, with intent to bring educative sentiment to the fauna and flora .. it is exciting yes .. but the intent betrays when it is learnt that flora and fauna be damned, it was really a trip of misconception .. and no path ever lead to its final conclusion .. 

That is the time of awakening .. shut eyes are over ..

It is a sad chapter when this discovery occurs .. it is a chapter that shall close its doors ever .. there shall be those minor holes in the walls of protection to peep through, to gesticulate wrong interpretation, misguided thinking .. but NO !

That seal of protection that has been penetrated, has entertained foreign implants .. a conclusive jump may give height or distance within the dug space .. but the space of limit is not the pit of life .. I must have liberty of my own distance and height .. as must every other .. if the metres do not match, that is never a problem .. but when the range and effort to derive those limits is concealed and never shown face, it is imperative that the prescribed parameter, be left to its boundaries of limit .. confined within its own barriers, built with an understanding that shall never seek to sneak out to Buddha like adventure to find the self .. 

IT WOULD BE A SADNESS .. for some an achievement .. blessed are they .. for their belief .. blessed are others to explore the limits of theirs .. it may require greater effort, but at least it shall ever be without a blemished mind ..

Repair .. ??

A repair is that extra piece of patch that blocks the punctured tyre .. fills the destroyed hole, and allows once again for the air in the tyre to be filled for it to be ridden again .. to function .. to present normality ..

But something in that making shall ever be a made-up patch .. a patch that shall never ride smooth ..  it be an interrupted conversation .. conversation alright, but interrupted by foreign elements that destroy the feel of the curved softness of the wheel one rides .. a conversation that shall ever ride the thoughts of earlier misconceptions .. that be not truth .. that be not uninhibited clarity and the purity of association .. that would ever be false, distorted and mangled .. 

A mangled body is a sight one wishes never to encounter ..  

Good night

Amitabh Bachchan

[statticscribbles]

Devil’s Playground

Summary: Bucky Barnes/Reader, Song Fic Devil's Playground by the Rigs

You’re strapped down to some bed, you can feel the restraints, soft leather and fluff on the inside, you wiggle your wrist. No clanking sounds means no metal. You hear a beeping sound and reason you are in some sort of hospital.

“I know you’re awake. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk but I need to make sure you don’t have a concussion so open your eyes.” You open your eyes automatically and wince at the flashlight blinding you.

“Alright you don’t seem to have a concussion, care to tell me what you were doing sneaking into an old hospital?” The man’s fingers trace your jaw you can feel warmth from where his fingers touch

“Needed supplies, saw hospital, retrieved supplies.” You lie, you can tell whoever this is they don’t know your protocol.

“Okay, why did you need supplies?”

“I was at 55% operating capacity.” The man nods at you and gently removes the restraints. You watch the way the metal arm he has shimmers, you reach forward and he’s not quick enough to move it away. Your fingers close over the wrist and you pull it towards you.

“Warm.” You hum and he nods trying to pull it back out of your grip.

“Alright, well I can help you hide, if you tell me who you’re hiding from, because chances are if they gave you those bruises I don’t like them much.” You nod and stutter for a moment.

“Hiding from my handler. Are you my new handler?” You know this man, you’re not sure how but you know him. 

“No I’m not, but I’m going to take you to a friends house, we’ll see how everything goes then.”

“Will I receive a handler there?” You know he’s lying, you swear you can hear someone’s voice saying this asset will be your handler.

“Maybe, now, let’s get going, anything you need?” You stand up quickly and scan the shelves grabbing bandage rolls and bandaids, as well as some disinfectant. You shove these in your bag which you picked up.

He brings you back to a small house, it’s clearly not where he’s used to going home to but you reason it’s not surprising that he wants to bring you to a safe house, somewhere that no one would suspect you to be, not that anyone would suspect you missing.

“Who are you?” He asks as the door closes, as you tense preparing to defend yourself.

“A failed mission, I don’t know if I’m close enough to be called a friend.” The man smiles and laughs a bit. He looks over at you and you realize he is crying. You both hold onto each other as you cry for someone you don’t know anymore. You go to bed in a tangle of limbs and sadness. He makes coffee in the morning and you don’t talk about the self-inflicted claw marks on your arms.

“James.” His voice is rough and you know he was screaming all night. You were too. He pulls you into a hug, holding you far too long to be a stranger, you know he remembers who you are, you wish you did, you can remember pieces but not all, not enough.

“Well this is an interesting reunion, care to explain?” Sam cuts in grinning a little

“She’s another winter soldier. That I told you about.”

“You told them about me? What did you say?”

“Only the good stuff.” He laughs at you. You wrinkle your nose.

“The asset has nothing good about it.”

“Just earlier you were referring to yourself like you were a person. And now suddenly you’re not. What gives?”

“The asset is required to deviate to the highest ranking officials preferences. Samuel Wilson was previously the highest ranking, but the original winter soldier is highest in command. He is automatically given preference and his previous preference was for me to refer to myself as it, or the asset for my own safety.”

“Safety, what do you think we’ll do to you?”

“Alphabetized or by personal preference?”

“Personal preference?”

“The falcon was observed dropping victims from large heights and catching them before impact to gain information. Hawkeye was observed shooting arrows into non lethal areas and twisting them to gain information. The black widow was observed using electrical impulses to gain information. The Captain-“

“Stop.” Sam frowns at her. You stare at the soldier, he makes no movement to deny you to stop talking.

“The captain has insufficient data, so imputing my personal experience he will use his hands..”

“Hush. That’s enough Y/N.” You fall silent immediately, looking to the soldier again. He gestures to the chair. You step forward towards him and he grins a little.

“Bucky?” Your voice cracks over his name but you can see the way his shoulder twitches; he just wants to pull you into a hug.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

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