#the entire religious experience that is 'ill follow you into the dark'

[saryasy]

I decided to give Aziraphale's heavenly playlist a listen

[kiasnocturnality]

✧･ﾟLUCIEN BLACK

SPECIES: human (?) | necromancer

SEX: male

HAIR COLOUR: black

EYE COLOUR: green

HEIGHT: 5’10

MBTI: ENTP

BIRTHDAY: 18th January | 42-years-old 

ABOUT: Lucien has very dark brown, fluffy hair that he dyes black and light green eyes. He’s very pale and likes to dress in slacks and button downs, frequently with Dr Martens shoes. He likes to dress these suits up with sleeve garters, chest harnesses, silver rings, necklaces and simple earrings. In his lab, he will also be wearing black surgical masks and gloves. One of his necklaces include a vial of his s/o’s blood or a lock of their hair (should they allow either) on a silvrum chain. He has tattoos of bones on his left hand that fade mid-way up his forearm. 

Lucien grew up with a very weak immune system and so spent much of his time ill which is what inspired him to turn to the field of science for his career. He was never a religious man as he felt God was cruelly punishing him for reasons unknown by making him so sickly. His work was put on pause in his early adulthood when he grew gravely ill for a long period of time but he was supported by charity from the Church of Dawn. Lucien met Aphaeleon and was very appreciative of his continued support, even though he had been very outspoken on his atheism. Lucien ended up joining the church even though he did not partake in the belief, he simply liked the sense of community. However, he came to see that Aphaeleon truly was a heavenly being and he couldn’t help but approach the matter scientifically: angels could not grow sick, neither could they age and die and Lucien began to wonder how he could attain this for himself. 

He grew closer to Aphaeleon in friendship for the purpose of sneaking samples from him to later experiment on. All along his research had hit dead ends and perhaps it was because the answers did not lay in this realm? Perhaps they were to be found in heaven instead? 

During his research, Lucien grew gravely ill again and, in a moment of desperation, he administered the unfinished experiment to himself and it was a success! However all things require balance and the success of the experiment came with some unforeseen side effects… in order to maintain his immortal life, Lucien’s body must now be fed life and he must now feast upon the living to stay alive or else he will become frail and begin to die. 

However, furthering his own body was not enough for the ambitious scientist. He began to explore the science that lay beyond the ‘miracles’ of heaven/purgatory/hell and, as he used heavenly matter to give himself immortality, he used hellish matter to raise creatures from the dead, becoming a necromancer. Still, it wasn’t enough and he now yearned to create life from inanimate matter. Stealing a feather from Aphaeleon’s wings, he used it to write consciousness into creation and invented the doll, a sentient being made of carven body parts. 

As a lover, Lucien is either entirely uninterested in romantic/sexual relations or he is entirely obsessed with a partner, pursuing them like the end result of one of his experiments. He can be a little overbearing and he’s quite the stalker in terms of checking up on his s/o, following them if they say someone has been bothering them, showing up to their place unannounced and letting himself in to make sure his partner is alright. He is very defensive and possessive of his s/o but will tone himself down if his partner communicates that this behaviour makes them uncomfortable – he will just expect you to tell him what’s going on in your life instead just so he can make sure that you’re ok and put his mind at ease. He can be very busy but he’s more than happy to have you in the lab if you’re ok with being there and once he’s burnt through a burst of long, hard work, he wants nothing more than to spend quality time with his partner. 

STRENGTHS: 

immortality: as a result of self-experimentation with heavenly matter, Lucien cannot age or die of natural causes

immunity: as a result of self-experimentation with heavenly matter, Lucien is immune to sickness

superhuman durability: while being nowhere near an angel’s durability, Lucien has also inherited a certain level of superhuman durability, making it much more difficult to injure him than an average human

necromancy: as a result of studying hellish miracles*, Lucien is able to raise the dead and have them obey him with loyalty that they do not possess the will to break

WEAKNESSES:

hunger: the price to pay for his immortality and immunity, Lucien must consume the flesh and blood of living humans in order to sustain himself. Without it, he will grow weak, frail, ill and will die. 

AESTHETICS: 

[goodfully]

okay ive never used tumblr before so i dont really know how posts are typically formatted, however, i do just want to use this mainly to word vomit so! jumbled messy thoughts on brothers karamazov, books five and six:

ive only read up until here so far, but im pretty sure that this is my favorite part of the entire book. the contrast is so insane, i adore dostoevsky. book five was so dense with heavy cynicism and doubt and followed book six being so reassuring and calm. part of me wishes that i was able to read both parts immediately after the other hahaha i also think that anyone that wants to read the brothers karamazov but does not want to read the brick of a book it is, they should read books five and six! just the chapters focused on ivans and zosimas perspective of faith, i mean.

i think that the idea that “the world is so evil, there is no way a benevolent god could have created it” is probably one of the main reasons ive been so unwilling to believe that there is a god, and its one of the main things that ivan was explaining to alyosha in book five. its so hard to accept that any amount of suffering is going to be worth whatever this all is. and yet… my goodness. humanity needs god? whether it is god that created humankind or humankind inventing god out of necessity… and just like ivan, i think ive always believed that believing in god would heal me somehow, that ill finally understand how to be alive as a human being when i do... the need to know what it was all for!

also the sticky little leaves part that ivan said!!! “i want to live, and i do live, even if it be against logic, tho i do not believe in the order of things, still the sticky little leaves that come out in the spring are dear to me, the blue sky is dear to me, whom one loves sometimes, would you believe it, without even knowing why” real real real. and ahh, alyosha responded something like how you can only understand lifes meaning after you love life (before logic)… which makes sense but yk, i always thought it was the opposite, that i had to understand lifes meaning in order to love life and be happy, but it was a very hopeless and sad conclusion. so this made me feel better honestly.

agh… and the whole “grand inquisitor” poem was so dark and insane, it tore me to shreds. i actually dont know what to say, except maybe now i understand why its the most famous chapter in the book.

i adore ivan and i adore alyosha and i adore their relationship. the way they speak to each other with love and respect for the other, even tho they believe in totally opposite things. im not sure about alyosha bc ivan was doing most of the talking, but my impression is that they were searching for answers from the other, they really do love each other. “tho im terribly fond of one russian boy named alyosha” sobs. “i thought, brother, that when i left here id have you, at least, in all the world” cries. “so alyosha, if indeed i hold out for the sticky little leaves, i shall love them only remembering you. its enough for me that you are here somewhere, and i shall not stop wanting to live. is that enough for you? if you wish, you can take it as a declaration of love” weeps.

okay about the zosima chapters… the thing is that even tho i have a lot of thoughts and feelings regarding faith, i am not a religious person, so i do wonder how someone who is christian would feel reading this book. for me tho… reading these chapters somehow made me feel the closest to having faith in anything ever hahaha… i dont think i care more about “gods truth” or anything, but just… i think ive been isolating myself way too much and thinking that everything must be done and figure out how to experience the fullness of life by me alone. and then zosima hits me with a “everywhere now the human mind has begun laughably not to understand that a mans true security lies not in his own solitary effort, but in the general wholeness of humanity.” and i believe that, i do! esp with how much individualism and capitalism stinks up this place. but i forget when it comes to myself i think…

i think my favorite sections from the zosima chapters are the ones about praying, loving, and judging others. uhm i dont pray, altho i think its mainly due to the fact that i do not know how to pray, and its not like zosima explains what praying is like exactly… but his words make me think that its just a very personal thing..? ahh anyway, the lines about love love love. “love man also in his sin, for this likeness of gods love is the height of love on earth” and “if you love each thing, you will perceive the mystery of god in things. once you have perceived it, you will begin tirelessly to perceive more and more of it every day. and you will come at last to love the whole world with an entire, universal love”… lives in my mind constantly now, its crazy its crazy i dont understand why his words mean so much to me. dostoevsky gets me, he really does.

ofc theres so many good lines from zosima, and this one probably isnt that great of a line compared to the many others, but to me at least, i started crying here hahaha it was pretty much at the very end of book six: “but woe to those who have destroyed themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! i think there can be no one unhappier than they. we are told that it is a sin to pray to god for them, and outwardly the church rejects them, as it were, but in the secret of my soul i think that one may pray for them as well. christ will not be angered by love. within myself, all my life, i have prayed for them, i confess it to you, fathers and teachers, and still pray every day.” ahh!!! im not even religious, and tbh ive not felt much when someone tells me they have prayed for me, but… maybe its bc i hate how mentally ill i am and hate how much i self sabotage and destroy myself, but some fictional monastery elder saying that he prays for and loves someone like me??? i cried real tears.

im probably being very dramatic, but after reading the zosima chapters esp towards the end of book six, i felt… so much love? i felt so loved. and yet also somehow guilt for not loving the world enough and not believing in mankind enough. i have to accept the world and of humanity and of myself, and i must love, oh how i must always love! zosimas such unconditional and undifferentiated love is so important to me, i dont know what to do… i think that reading this book has done more for me (regarding faith in the world and everything) than anything else has hahaha. it feels so silly bc im not even halfway done with the book yet and i already feel that this is the most important book ive ever read. its also funny bc you read the little paragraph on the back of the book and the first sentence describing the book is that this is a murder mystery (the actual murder hasnt even happened yet!) hahaha i love this book truly truly.

[hats-off-to-hermes]

Hi again, this is the angel anon, thanks for the help, ill be sure to check those resources out. To answer your question, I'm honestly just curious; I'm learning more about omnism, and am curious about angel work and other religious/spiritual practices i could incorporate in my life, besides Helpol.

(Angel anon again, forgot to add this in the ask) also, I thought angels were specifically something Christian, and I dont really vibe well with Christianity, so I've been a little hesitant with regards to angel work

Hello o/

Great to hear from you again!

Curiosity is a really good thing to have and spiritual and religious belief is a big thing to explore. You may find it difficult to pinpoint much for a while, especially if you consider yourself a sceptic.

Angel work isn't limited to Christianity. Many people have their opinions about that religion such as those who reject it entirely due to its origins and history. Though some are less extreme and just don't choose to follow that belief. Although there is nothing wrong about doing angel work as a Christian as well if someone wants to.

You will find that some people will say that you can't work with angels unless you also acknowledge the Christian god or worship him. I don't think this should limit you and there are a few more theories to explore.

Some people believe in the Source, or All, or Divine. This is kind of like the universe but known as all consciousness. Those who believe in the Source believe that all things come from there and will eventually end their cycles of life there once we learn all we need to through reincarnation and being the spirit guides of others (some people believe spirit guides to be angels too! Whether they themselves are, or the named angels can be part of our spirit teams). The source isn't like Christian god as it is both good and bad, the light and dark. You can't have one without the other. You may believe in karma and so that may be where source's wrath comes from but maybe you don't believe in karma at all. Up to you and your exploration.

Now going back to the Source. Instead of believing angels are servants to the Christian god, you can believe that angels are messenger beings of the Source. Instead of carrying out "god's will" in a Christian lens, they are assisting our souls that are on a lower vibration to spiritually, mentally, physically and emotionally heal and develop so that we may experience life to the highest good (this can relate to the life cycle thing noted earlier). They do this because they either (this is another branch you can explore. This is not an exhaustive list)

1. Are created from the source consciousness for this purpose

2. Have already been humans and all other life before arriving at angelhood. And so it is only natural they help in the cycle

The first theory can help you align with the named angels more such as the archangels. You can work with them as the holy guides that were created by the universe and will always stick around and have their domains

The second helps if you want to work more with spirit guides and angels in that sense.

Or you can do both and mix these beliefs to form what you believe based on the things you read about and your experience from here.

In the end, there is kinda a spectrum between religious and spiritual. You can be religious and follow the angels based on their creator god. Or you can be spiritual and work towards spiritually healing yourself with the angels made from the Source. Or you can be somewhere along that line.

And....there are also depictions of angels in other beliefs too like Hermes and Iris being angelos, or Hekate being the mother of angels. Another thing to look into maybe!

Anyway, sorry for the tangent but I hope this helps you with exploring your options and clearing things up. Let me know if you have anything else you wanna talk about! <3

[thedannyphantomcookbook]

The Phantom Origins

Okay, so I know probably a bunch of people have already done this, but I wanted to rewrite Danny Phantom, from just before he got his powers to maybe when he tells his parents.

 I’m tired of waiting for a reboot that may never come, so here is what I picture the reboot would look like. 

I’ve always thought it would be darker and more horrific, that the ghosts he fights are more monstrous and demonic.

 That there would be a little bit more of a medical concern for Danny’s humanity being affected by his ghost half. Is he becoming more ghost like? Is he gradually getting sicker and sicker, and his ghost DNA ravages through his body like cancer? 

Would Vlad be not only a sexist, creepy, abusive old man, but contains a thirst for deception and power that he poses a real, apocalyptic threat on Earth and the ghost zone?

Are ghosts actually the spirits of the dead? Or are they a different breed of human that lives in a completely separate dimension, that’s is layered and hidden within ours?

What about Danny’s mental health. He has to keep this big secret from his parents because he absolutely FEARS what would happen if they found it to the point he’s scared they wouldn’t believe he was their son and try to kill him as a result, or keep him hostage in the basement, slowly torturing him and dissecting him until he’s dead? What would the world think of him? A prophet? A demon? Would they accuse his parents for experimenting on their own children? He would have so much fear and anxiety that he’d have to be on edge all the time, falling into depression, panic attacks - not to mention the PTSD he’d get from it all while battle nightmarish monsters and the hanging question over his head of what he is now. 

These are just SOME of the questions I’ve had that Butch Hartman will never answer. He set up such a great plot and characters but carried it out pretty poorly over the show (which may or may not be his fault since they wanted to keep it kid friendly.)

I hope to get into the deep and dark and nitty gritty details of Danny Phantom we’ve imagined but never get to see. I wrote the first chapter below, and I plan to write much more. :)

I hope you guys enjoy it!

Follow me over at Ao3 

Summary:

Dr. Madelyn Fenton and her husband, Dr. Jackson Fenton, have just built the world's first portal to the Ghost Zone - an alternate dimension where undead linger for all eternity. The only problem is no one believes in what they are doing. The townspeople call them the Fenton Freaks and the rejection letters from the National Science Foundation are piling up. Not even their own children can tolerate their ghost obsession. Their 14 year old son, Danny, does what he can to separate himself from his parents. Mocked by his peers and judged by his teachers, he keeps his head down and stays out of the spotlight. 

It comes as no surprise to Danny when his parents' machine fails to work on the first test run. Discouraged, they leave empty handed for the weekend to go to the Ghost Hunter's Expo, where they were expected to present their portal during their panel. As soon as his parents leave, Danny invites his friends over to give a tour of yet another one of his parents' failed experiments. When he gets dared to walk inside the machine, he triggers something that turns it back on, and for the first time ever, his parents have an invention that works. But that's the least of the surprises when Danny emerges from the portal himself...

To Whom It May Concern,

To the esteemed members of the National Science Foundation, myself, Dr. Madelyn Fenton, PhD., and my husband, Dr. Jackson Fenton, PhD., write to you today to consider us for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award. Our combined decades worth of research within paranormal scientific research fields have led us to believe that the “ghost” entities that haunt our very Earth, could in fact be the missing link to creating new technology, curing human illnesses, and prolonging human life on Earth.

The term “ghosts” is defined as a religious or spiritual being, or the hypothetical soul of the human body, separated from physical forms, usually that of a person recently deceased. Dr. Jackson Fenton and myself have a different theory about the “ghostly” entities that visit our Earth. We have sufficient evidence to prove that ghosts are in fact not the spirits of the dead, but an entirely new species of the human race. We believe they exist in an alternate dimension - a separate plane of existence that is not unlike ours. Recent developments have also shown the possibility of dimensional travel -  we believe ghosts are able to pass through into our plane of existence for a temporary amount of time. Through our rigorous research, construction, and experimentation, Dr. Jackson Fenton and myself have created what would be a “portal” to this plane of existence, to the “Ghost Zone.” By exploring and studying the ghost zone, we could collect a limitless amount of research and data that could be used to benefit humanity for the rest of our existence.  

We have provided within our application our twenty years of research and development, along with video recordings of our experiments as evidence of our work in progress, as we humbly request your consideration for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant  Award.

Sincerely,

Dr. Madelyn Fenton, PhD. in Quantum Physics and Paranormal Studies

Dr. Jackson Fenton, PhD. in Theoretical Science and Paranormal Studies

From the Grants and Admissions Office of the National Science Foundation

To Dr. Madelyn Fenton and Dr. Jackson Fenton,

Thank you for your interest in applying for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award. The New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award (NESRGA) is an esteemed scholarship opportunity that looks to provide funding for ground-breaking scientific research to scientists working within small and local laboratories. After carefully reviewing your application and research, we have come to the regretful decision to decline your request to receive the NESRGA.

We unfortunately could not approve your request due to the following issues:

Insufficient or lack thereof evidence or proof of scientific research of ghostly entities and/or undiscovered species, the “Ghost Zone” dimension in which these entities exist, or possible travel to said “Ghost Zone.”

Insufficient of lack thereof peer review research and laboratory data.

Paranormal entities and alternative dimensional research is not recognized under the National Science Foundation as factual scientific work.

We are thrilled to hear that you share such enthusiasm, passion, and ambition in the pursuit of scientific exploration, research and development. You are a part of a wonderful community, and through your tireless efforts, you will help bring our Earth into the future.

We welcome you to apply for the NESRGA again next year.

Sincerely,

Barbara Keaton,

Director of Grants and Admissions

National Science Foundation

GHOST HUNTERS EXPO - THIS LABOR DAY WEEKEND

To Drs. Maddie and Jack Fenton,

We are excited to have you return to speak at the Ghost Hunters Expo this coming labor day weekend. We have reviewed your Ghost Zone Theory and we anticipate your presentation of your research.

Please note: due to new regulations we cannot allow the following into the convention center:

Ecto-infused food, inanimate objects, or animal mutations of any kind.

Alarm or defense systems that release a form of knock out gas, ectoplasmic goo, ectoplasmic foam, spoiled meats, or  live rodents. All alarms and defense systems must be turned off while inside the convention center.

Samplings or gifts of homemade cookies or other food, beverages, or gifts to bribe the judges.

Disclosed weapons that are not a part of your presentation and/or not approved by the convention prior (we will have metal detections at all entry points of the convention hall)

Asking for audience volunteers unless approved by us prior your scheduled presentation time.

Ghost claims targeted towards convention guests, judges, or other presenters.

All presentations and inventions must have been tested and approved by a judge prior to your presentation time (i.e. no last minute or surprise inventions).

Fighting or displays of physical aggression.

Destruction of convention hall equipment, the building’s foundation itself, or other presenters equipment and or inventions.

We thank you in advance for your compliance and full understanding of the new regulations.

We look forward to seeing you!

Best,

Trevor Martin

Ghost Hunters Expo Coordinator

“Did you see this?” Jack Fenton asked, waving the notice from the Ghost Hunters Expo. He scoffed. “New regulations...I wonder who were the bimbos that made them enforce these rules.” He crumbled up the notice and threw it carelessly on the floor.

“How’s that portal coming, sweet cheeks?” he asked his wife.

Maddie Fenton was deep within a hexagon shaped chamber carved out of her laboratory converted basement wall. The interior was lined with a colorful array of wires and tiny blinking lights. At the end of the chamber, sheets of metal and hardware fanned in on itself. Maddie was kneeled on the floor, wrestling with a few cords.

“I’m just struggling to connect these last couple of wires,” she answered, pinching the two cords together. With a last bit of strain, the cords connected with a satisfying click.

Wiping the sweat off her brow, she came out of the chamber. “Hopefully that will stabilize the gravitational pull of the Ghost Zone once we get the portal running.” She briefly thought back to a dark memory from their college days when their first Ghost Zone prototype had malfunctioned and the toxins from the Ghost Zone leaked out of the portal, resulting in displacing one of her lab partners for the remainder of their college career.

“We got it this time, baby,” Jack said confidently. “There is no way we could make the same mistake twice.”

Maddie sighed as she walked over to the control panel to record the ecto-readings. “I just wish we knew for certain what had gone wrong that day. All of this guess work is driving me crazy.” She picked up her notebook and briefly reviewed her meticulously hand written notes before adjusting some dials.

“Okay,” she huffed, satisfied. “I think we’re ready for a test run.”

Jack clapped his hands. “Excellent! I’ll go grab the kids!” He ran to the basement steps and shouted, “Jazzy-pants! Danny! Get down here!”

A few minutes later both of their teenage children shuffled down the basement steps.

“Is this gonna take long?” Danny asked, disinterestedly. “Tucker and I were in the middle of planning our next battlefield strategies for Doomed. There’s only a few days left of summer vacation and we still have so much planning to do if we want to beat the other online players and achieve the seven Keys of Destiny.”

“And I was in the middle of an important breakthrough in my self therapeutic psychology research,” their daughter, Jazz promptly stated. In her hands she clutched an open copy anxiety and phobias workbook. “Did you know that high functioning anxiety in adulthood is caused by childhood trauma from never feeling safe in your own home? This would explain so much about me and Danny -” she paused in her speech when she saw the machine her parents were working on.

“Oh, no.” She snapped her book shut and pinched the flesh between her eyes. “ Please do not tell me you called us down here to witness another one of your experiments. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“Oh, Jazz, relax,” Maddie said, waving her off. “Those burn marks from the last ectoplasmic gun experiment healed eventually. And look!” She walked over to a closet in the back of the room and pulled out two polyester jumpsuits. “We made you both your own custom fitted, lab safe, jumpsuits!”

Jack appeared beside Maddie. “And we matched them with ours! Jazzy-pants, yours is teal to match your mother’s. And Danny, yours would have matched mine but the store didn’t have orange.” he held out a plain white jumpsuit with black gloves and boots.

“And I haven’t even shown you two the best parts!” he grabbed the jumpsuits from Maddie and spun them around. Crudely pressed onto the fabric of the jumpsuit was a cutout of Jack Fenton’s smiling face, emblazoned on the chest.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Jack grinned.

Jazz was the first to respond. “Dad there is no way you’re going to get me to wear that,” she said while backing away and shaking her head. “How about Danny and I will just go upstairs and you can call us down after  you’ve tested it? That way we’ll be safe and not have to wear those hideous jumpsuits.”

Danny silently agreed with her while struggling to conceal his own disgust at the suits. It was one thing to be forced to wear a jumpsuit like his parents but it was an entirely different level of lame to have to wear his father’s face across his chest. What if his parents insisted he wore it all the time, like they did? Involuntary images of him becoming the laughing stock at his new high school was surfacing in his mind, more than he already was for being the son of the city’s eccentric ghost hunting husband and wife team. He was already struggling to stay above the pathetic nerd social ring in his class. They’d have to create an entirely new category of nerd just for him if he wore that suit. The thought of it made him want to crawl away in a hole and be left there to die.

“Mom, Dad, I have to agree with Jazz,” Danny said. “The suits are kinda...lame.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Maddie dismissed. “These jumpsuits are the latest fashion that every ghost hunter wants.”

“And when we reveal these babies with my face on them, everyone will be scrambling for one. We’ll be rich!” Jack stated proudly.

Jazz snorted. “Um, I somehow doubt that. Look, we’ll just go back upstairs and you two can let us know when it’s safe, okay?” She looped a hand around Danny’s arm and started pulling him away.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jack clamped a hand on both of them  and spun them back around. “You two are being given the chance to witness scientific history! And we are not going to let you pass up on this.” He tossed the jumpsuits to Jazz and Danny. They unwillingly caught them.

Jazz glowered at Danny. “If you take any photos and post them on the internet, I will kill you.”

Danny held out his suit reproachfully. His dad’s smiling face seemed to be laughing at him, like all of the students as Casper High will be if they ever found out about this.

“Don’t worry about it.”

A few minutes later, Jazz and Danny stood alongside their parents in their matching jumpsuits. Jazz stood with her arms crossed, silently fuming, her foot tapping impatiently. At her mother’s insistence, Jazz was forced to tuck in her long, red hair and wear the hair sealing head cover and thick, dark eye protection goggles that came with it. At equal height, Jazz and Maddie were identical in their suits.

At least Danny couldn’t match his dad. Jack’s suit was bright orange and about twenty sizes larger than Danny’s, due to his father’s obsession with Maddie’s homemade fudge and cookie inventions. Danny’s own white suit was slightly too large for him, and hung in odd places due to his skinny frame. He didn’t have to wear a hood and goggles like his sister either - another thankful shortage from the ghost hunter’s clothing warehouse. He picked at his dad’s pressed on face design on his chest as he waited for his parents to get the machine ready for its test run. His dad had tried ironing it on, but had done it poorly, so that with a bit of a tug, it was already beginning to peel off.

Jack and Maddie Fenton ran back and forth across the lab, double checking last minute calculations. Machines whirred and beeped around them, the hum of electricity warm in the stagnant air.

Danny had a good idea of how this was going to go. If this would be like any of their past experiments, it would fail miserably. The experiment would go haywire, probably spout ectoplasmic goo everywhere or accidentally giving ecto energy to the nearest food item. One year, their parents had tried making the Christmas Turkey in their newly invented Ultra-fast Instant Pot and instead infused it with demonic ghostly energy and reanimated it. Danny remembered hiding underneath the kitchen table as Jazz had to beat it back with a pastry roller, screaming for their parents.

The ghost zone portal was their most ambitious project yet. For most of Danny’s life, they had dinner table discussions, weighing mathematical equations and scientific chemical balances in hopes of being able to one day engineer the world’s first ghost zone portal. He was fairly surprised when he found out at the beginning of the summer that they were finally constructing it, and even more so when they claimed last night it was completed. They had been rushing to get it done in time to present it at the Ghost Hunters Expo this weekend.

He glanced at the table beside him looking at the pile of papers his dad had haphazardly stacked among the beakers and ghost weapons. Sitting on top of the stack was the rejection letter from the National Science Foundation.

“It means that they don’t think what they’re doing is science,” Jazz had interpreted for Danny after reading it when their parents’ back was turned. “And who could blame them? There is zero evidence supporting the existence of ghosts. It’s just superstition.”

That’s all it was. Superstition. And  yet, his parents had at some point in their youth latched on to the idea that ghosts were more than a myth, and even though they’ve never actually seen one in person themselves, they were determined to prove ghosts were real. What amazed Danny the most is the amount of people who also believed in the same theory. In the years past when his parents had dragged him and Jazz to the Ghost Hunter’s Expo, the crowds always seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Scientists, hunters, enthusiasts, and even ghost cosplayers gathered under the same roof for a full weekend, exchanging theories, stories and footage of what they thought were ghosts. The most ridiculous rumor he had heard at the last ghost hunter’s convention was one of a young, blue haired female musician, who became an overnight sensation after one performance at a local carnival. She had also disappeared quite suddenly after the performance, which raised a lot of speculation. Ghost hunters claimed her unusually pale skin and hypnotic vocals were a part of her ghostly powers. Jazz had stated that it was simply because she was a successful female in the patriarchy they had to deem her as a ghost to explain it.

Danny didn’t want to say anything else after that.

“Jack,” Maddie called from across the room, typing away at a computer. “Did you remember to pour in the ecto-purifier?”

“On it, baby!” Jack cried while fumbling with a control panel. Danny watched as grabbed a can of diet cola, which sat next to the similar sized gray cylinder labeled “EP.”

“Uh, Dad?” Danny called. “I don’t think that’s the ecto-purifier.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked. He turned to look at the object in his hand and barked out a chuckle.

“Thanks, son! That was a close one.” He placed the can of diet cola down and picked up the correct cylinder. “Who knows what would have happened if we purified the toxic ghost energies with diet cola. Could you imagine?” He poured the bright green liquid into the appropriate chamber.

In the corner of his eye, Danny saw Jazz shake her head. “Idiot,” she whispered.

Jazz believed she was the only mature Fenton in the family. At some point during her high school career, she had decided it was up to her to convince her parents that ghosts were not real, and to force them to change their careers to something more normal or socially acceptable. She had tried to get them interested in just about any other scientific field she could think of, such as deep sea diving to discover creatures living on the ocean floor, to NASA’s space engineering program. When those didn’t work, she tried to build a case proving the psychological damage they were causing to her’s and Danny’s upbringing. Over the summer, when she wasn’t preparing herself for the SATs she’d have to take later that school year, she poured over every psychological book she could get her hands on from the library. No matter how many times she argued about the permanent damage her parents were inflicting on their amygdala by creating an unsafe environment for her and Danny to grow up in, their parents would say it’s all worth it for the sake of scientific advancement.

Danny tried desperately to stay out of their fights. Most days, he was too focused on trying to survive a day without being called “that ghost geek” by his peers, no matter how many times he told his classmates he didn’t believe in his parents’ work. Maybe it was because of his small, bony limbs that made it so easy for his classmates to mock him. Or the fact that his only two friends in the entire world were also considered a variety of nerd within the social climate. His best friend Tucker was a little too obsessed with the latest technology and his other friend, Samanatha - Sam for short - was the only school’s goth girl, who filled her entire personality and outlook with dark and depressing outfits and literature. In a weird way, it did make sense that the girl who loved to read about the dead, and the boy who loved technology, would want to be friends with the kid whose parents called themselves ghost scientists. Still, they were his best friends and he wouldn’t trade them for anyone else.

He had been telling them about the portal his parents were building all summer. Just like he was, his friends were also doubtful it would work. They deliberated about what the inventions would actually do. Tucker still brought up the time Danny’s parents were testing out an anti-ghost gravity spray, to temporarily make a ghost lose their flight ability. The morning they were testing it out, Danny had woken up in a hovering bed. It had shocked him so much, he fell off his bed and face-planted onto his bedroom floor, breaking his nose. At some point, Tucker and Sam started placing bets about the outcome.

“Maybe the portal will just blast a hole through the wall and you’ll send up in the Amity Park Sewer System,” Sam guessed last night after he told them his parents were getting ready for their first test.

“Bet you five bucks that Danny will lose all of his hair this time,” Tucker had joked.

He absentmindedly ran a hand through his exposed hair and briefly wished he had a head cover and goggles like Jazz. He couldn’t help but notice there was something different about his parents this time. They didn’t have the same, bubbly and excited energy they usually had when showing off a new invention. They seemed more focused this time. Even his dad’s goofy banter towards Maddie had taken a back seat as his dad frowned over the controls. It was weird to see his dad actually concentrating. Maybe it was the hundredth rejection letter they received from the National Science Foundation, or the pressure to present this weekend at the Expo, but it seemed like they were seriously trying to make this thing work. They did not want to fail.

“Okay everyone!” Maddie ran over and started waving her hands. “Backs up against the wall.”

Jazz sighed and turned to walk over to stand behind the boxed in yellow line, the “safe” spot in the lab. Danny thought  a metal containment center with a viewing screen would have kept them safer, but supposedly his parents didn’t have time to build one. Danny followed his mother and sister.

“Almost…” Jack muttered at the controls, typing away. Suddenly there was a loud click that echoed off the basement walls. Machines roared to life and lights winked on. Inside the portal, the metal fans began to spin.

“YES!” Jack punched the air, triumphant.

“Jack!” Maddie called to her husband, gesturing towards the safe zone. He jogged over and squeezed himself in between his two kids.

“This is it!” he shouted over the noise, which was gradually becoming deafening.

All around the room, machines and computers turned on. Attached beakers and graduated cylinders filled up with green, bubbling liquid. A wall lined with dialers bounced up and down. Puffs of smoke expelled out of exhaust pipes. The portal itself began to crackle with electricity, its interior fans spinning faster and faster until it started emitting a bright green glow. The pressure in the room changed, popping Danny’s ears. He felt the tips of his hair begin to rise with the electric waves.

The whirring of the fans inside the machine began to ring out a high pitch squeal as the machine glowed brighter, and brighter, blinding Danny’s naked eyes. He squinted and held out a hand over his eyes, peeking through his fingers. The air around them grew warm and staticky. His father clamped a hand tightly on Danny’s shoulder, as if to hold him back from running away.

It was working. Danny couldn’t believe it. Not once in all of their years of inventing ghost machines and hunting equipment, they may have actually been able to build something that worked like they wanted it to.

What would this mean? That ghosts actually existed? That his parents were not the crackpot fools the town took them for? And if they did exist, there was the one question that no one has been able to answer.

Were ghosts dangerous?

He looked up at Jazz. Her expression was unreadable through the head covering. He looked at his parents, wild and furious excitement in their eyes.

Then, when it seemed like Danny’s ears couldn’t take much more of the screeching noise, a BOOM exploded from the portal. Light poured out of the machine and flooded the room. Danny yelped and turned away. Jack stepped in front of his family and hid them with his massive torso from the explosion. Then, very suddenly, the room went dark. Every light and machine that had been just buzzing with life, died. Danny’s hearing rang in the abrupt silence.

“What the heck?” Jack was the first to say something.

“I got a flashlight, hang on,” Maddie said next. Danny heard her fumbling around her utility belt and a small light winked on. She shined it around the room. Curls of smoke rose up from the machines. The glow from the ecto-purifier had also faded.

“I don’t understand,” Maddie said, dumbfounded as she gazed around the room. “This should have worked.”

“We checked every calculation,” Jack said, equally mystified.

“And tested every single machine.” She threw up her hands. “I even made sure the damn computers turned on!”

“Well, obviously, this wasn’t going to work,” Jazz suddenly said, her anger returning. “You guys were trying to open a portal to nothing . Because ghosts don’t EXIST.”

She ripped off the hood and goggles. “I’m going back upstairs to change and burn this stupid jumpsuit, and work on processing this trauma that you have inflicted on us, yet again.” Without waiting for her parents to respond, she stomped back upstairs, her footsteps echoing off the silent basement walls

Jack shook his head. “What is her deal?”

“Oh, never mind her, Jack,” Maddie said. “We need to figure out what went wrong. We only have a day until the expo and we promised to present this.”

Danny’s parents turned their back on him and began working to restore the power, jumping right into a deep discussion. Danny took the moment to quietly slip away back upstairs.

The second he was back into his room, he let out a long exhale. Suddenly remembering he was wearing the jumpsuit, he hastily ripped it off and then threw it in the trash bin in the corner of his room.

He flopped back onto his bed, and lay in the stillness of his room for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. He stared up at the plastic, glow in the dark stars and planets stuck on his ceiling.

He couldn’t believe there was a moment back there where he thought the machine was working.

He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if ghosts were real. There were no real scientific facts about them. All those convention attendees at the ghost hunters expo all had different theories about what ghosts are - the religiously damned, aliens, spirits with unfinished business, souls that died before their time, another species - no one could settle on a single argument.

But if they did exist, what would happen then? Would they swarm the Earth, like cicadas after their years long sleep? Would they haunt each and every home and building in towns and cities, and try to claim it as their own? Would the world be plunged into a ghost apocalypse, where every human had to fight for their own human survival and soul? Were ghosts malicious or peaceful?

His parents might be arrested for creating the portal in the first place, if it did turn out bad. Or the government might force them to work alongside them to rid the Earth of the ghost population. What would happen to him and Jazz? Would they be put into juvie, just for being the kids of the Fenton Freaks? Would they be put into foster care, once the government decided Jack and Maddie were unfit parents for him and Jazz?

What if the human population adopted a sick fascination of ghosts? Businesses would try to profit off the ghosts by selling fake anti-ghost protection devices or offer tours inside “haunted” houses. There might even be a community in which some would fall in love or even want to become a ghost themselves.

The world would become absolute chaos.

Danny shuddered at the thought. He didn’t understand what his parents saw in trying to prove their existence. What good would proving the undead existed bring to the world?

His anxious, spiraling thoughts were interrupted when his computer dinged. Danny got up and sat down at his desk. He wiggled his mouse to wake up his computer. Tucker had sent him a message.

Still have all of your hair?

Danny chuckled and wrote back.

Yep. Nothing happened though. But the power in the basement blew.

Damn ,  was Tucker’s response. And I had just invested in a 25 pack of markers to color your head in Lancer’s class when you fall asleep.

Danny laughed out loud. I can only imagine all the pensises you’d draw.

I had planned no less than 50. Two for each color.

Well I hope you kept your receipt cause I still have a full head of hair. Unlike you. Danny made a jab at Tucker’s own buzzed haircut. He had tried growing out dreads for the school year, but his mother forced him to shave it off after he got caught staying up on the computer way too late one night. She paid the barber to give him a military buzz cut.

Shut up, dude, Tucker typed back. While you were away not getting your hair fried off your scalp, I was devising up a new battle plan to defeat Chaos.

Danny smiled. Oh yeah? Lay it on me.

[lokismusings]

Russell T Davies on straight actors and gay characters.

I decided to put this here because I post a lot of Hilson stuff. As an actor, this article hit a nerve. However, as a defender of free speech, Davies is allowed to have his opinion without me thinking of him as insensitive. Just like I am allowed to have my own opinion and argument, and ask questions without being labeled “homophobic, intolerant” etc. (that would just make me laugh because have you SEEN my blog? Anyway, I’ve seen a few other websites covering this article. I am also very skeptical of everything I read, including the sources, and I try not to blindly believe everything. That being said, I felt like posting this to get other opinions and ask honest question to help my understanding. If this has already been covered on Tumblr, please feel free to send me the conversations! Some background on me: I graduated with a BA in Theatre and have worked both on and off the stage since I was twelve years old. I have directed plays and an audio play. Given my experience and dedication to my craft, I think my opinion is worth something.

Also, for the sake of this argument, I am leaving trans-actors out because that’s a whole different post. Here is the article:

https://news.sky.com/story/russell-t-davies-straight-actors-should-not-play-gay-characters-12185652

Okay, so first things first, let’s talk about this: “Speaking to the Radio Times, Davies compared a straight actor playing a gay character to black face.” Something that irks me is when one person tries to speak for a whole community and doesn’t reference people from said community who might disagree: whether it’s the LGBTQ+ community, a religious community, medical community, etc. The list goes on. Here, Davies is speaking on behalf of, or speaking for, both the LGBTQ+ community and the black community, is he not? I am genuinely asking because I would like to be more educated on this kind of speech. 

Then Davies says, "I'm not being woke about this... but I feel strongly that if I cast someone in a story, I am casting them to act as a lover, or an enemy, or someone on drugs or a criminal or a saint... they are NOT there to 'act gay' because 'acting gay' is a bunch of codes for a performance.” Does that not discredit his whole statement? If any actor does a caricature version of anything and doesn’t take it seriously or really works to get into the role and the mindset of a character, they’re not a good actor. At least, they’re not an actor that I’d want to hire. Second, by the logic that a straight person shouldn’t play a gay character, should someone without a criminal record not be able to play a criminal character? Before you go off and say “it’s about identity and sexuality, and playing a criminal is about the choice to break the law” or other arguments, I hear you. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the experience. How can an actor who has never committed a crime play a criminal character authentically? They do their research: reading, interviewing, etc. I’m not saying that an actor with a few minor marks on his record shouldn’t be considered for the same role. I’m saying that in an audition setting, if both of these actors were auditing for the role and the non-criminal-record actor just happened to do a better job and fit what the director and/or writer wanted, is that a mark against the criminal-record-actor? Maybe personally because we don’t know what the director is thinking. But chances are, it’s not a mark against the other actor. The other one just happened to have a better audition. Or, a major factor when considering casting, said actor was easy to work with--I’ve seen a lot of talented actors lose a lot of roles because of their inability to take criticism or notes. 

Plus, the whole “Breaking Bad” series?? I highly doubt the main actors were meth-making drug-lords. Or, a better example, “The Wire?” In that show, we see the constant battle and deals between drug-lords and cops. 

Another point I’d like to make:  “...is a bunch of codes for a performance.” That’s exactly right. The audience doesn’t want to know an actor is “performing.” We know that going in, with what is called “suspension of disbelief.” We know the whole show is a performance, but we also expect the actors to be truthful (unless it’s a comedy/farce, but again, that’s a different argument). 

Was it bad that, before 2020, some main characters in TV shows were portrayed as straight but the writers ended up “queer-baiting?” I am referring, of course, to House, M.D. (If you follow this blog, you’ll understand.) But I am also referring to the BBC Sherlock Holmes series. Yes, both pairs of characters (House and Wilson; Holmes and Watson) are assumed to be straight. However, some episodes allude that there could also be something more there. Even the actors have said in various interviews that they aren’t sure if it’s a true romance that the characters are afraid to face, or just a strong bond between best friends that blurs the line between platonic and romantic. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the picture. Therefore, should these characters have only been played by straight actors who are questioning their sexuality or feelings for a best friend? Would it have been disrespectful to gay people if these characters ended up becoming romantically involved? (If we ask the Hilson and Johnlock community, I’m guessing that’s a resounding “NO WAY! IT WOULD BE A DREAM COME TRUE!” xD <3) 

“It's about authenticity, the taste of 2020.” *Cinema Sins sigh*

"You wouldn't cast someone able-bodied and put them in a wheelchair...” Again I say, directors and casting directors need to ALWAYS search for someone who is in a wheelchair, or deaf, or HOH, etc. before looking for an able-bodied actor to play a character with that disability (I’m iffy on the whole term “disability because of its negative connotations, but I’m using that word in order to keep this post as long as possible). But I give you the example of Rainman with Dustin Hoffman. Or A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe. Or the play and movie Proof, where the father had a mental illness?  Anthony Hopkins was diagnosed late in life with Asperger’s Syndrome, but the father in Proof was written to allude more to schizophrenia. And yet, Anthony Hopkins did a tremendous job in that role. Or Even Forrest Gump with Tom Hanks. Many people today love Tom Hanks and laud him as a “woke” celebrity. But if he were to portray the role of Forrest Gump today, how many people would try to “cancel” him or at least have very strong words for the director not casting an actor with autism, due to the character’s autistic tendencies? A whole lot of people on the internet and Twitter, I’ll bet. As someone who struggles with anxiety and panic disorder, would I be upset if someone without that mental illness got cast in a role of a character struggling with that? Sure I would. But if they did an authentic job and approached the role respectfully, it would be hard to stay irritated. Besides, there are always more roles created practically everyday. 

To continue on with Davies’ quote: “...you wouldn't black someone up.” Yikes. I’m sure he didn’t mean this in a cast-off kind of way, but that’s how it comes across. I can see now why he said he wasn’t “being woke about this,” because a more “woke” way of putting that would be...what, exactly? “You wouldn’t cast a non-black person in a black role.” That sounds better and less harsh. Or even “a white person in a minority role.” Which should be common sense, and I agree with both statements. 

And then “Authenticity is leading us to joyous places." Oh! Look at that! There’s that word that I’ve been using and emphasizing throughout this whole post! Authenticity is one major brick in the foundation of good, credible acting. 

“High-profile examples of straight performers playing LGBTQ+ characters include Rami Malek's Oscar-winning portrayal of Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody, and Taron Egerton's Golden Globe-winning turn as Sir Elton John in Rocketman.”

I haven’t seen Rocketman, but I saw Bohemian Rhapsody and it was great! Why am I high-lighting this movie? Because it’s the perfect example of a straight actor playing a gay character and playing it authentically, while also looking a lot like the real person they’re portraying. If a look-a-like had been cast who also happened to be gay, but couldn’t act to save their life or couldn’t bring as much as Rami brought to the role, wouldn’t that kind of put a damper on the film? And yet, Rami Maleck both looked the part and brought an authenticity to the role that many Queen fans loved and appreciated. Even the remaining Queen band members said that he did an incredible job and Freddy would be proud. I wonder if Freddy would care that Rami wasn’t gay? I doubt it, but no one can know for certain. 

Then there’s the whole term “gay face.” I personally don’t think this is the right term to use because it could possibly diminish the whole meaning and importance of “black face.” Even if Corden appeared to be mocking gay people (I never watched The Prom so I have no idea what his performance was like), calling it “gay face” takes away from and inadvertently belittles the whole dark history of “black face.” Black face’s whole history comes out of an even darker history of racist times filled with hatred and ignorance. I’m not saying that gay people haven’t had their own experiences with hate and intolerance, but isn’t kind of “un-woke” and “insensitive” to compare the hundreds of years of blatant, public racism against an entire race of people to the intolerance of homosexuals? (Again, I’m asking this genuinely because I want to learn and get other people’s opinions. I’m not trying to speak for any community, and I recognize that my personal opinion on this matter is just that: my opinion. And I could be better informed.)

Along the lines of the above paragraph, is it wrong to say or think that casting a non-minority actor in a minority role is a lot different from casting a straight actor in a gay role? Sexuality comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors; that is to say, every race has people with different sexualities. But I think it would be pretty cringe if a Caucasian actress was cast in a role meant for an Asian or African-American woman. 

Director Joe Mantello told Sky News the casting was not intentional, but rather a "very fortunate series of events".

He continued: "That being said, I think having an out gay cast really did inform the work and it took on a particular kind of tone because of that, which is not to say that's the only way to approach this material. But for this particular group, it did something that I think is very, very special. There's a chemistry that they have."

And this man summed up my entire argument! He also put into simpler terms what I have been trying to express about the beauty of theatre: there will always be special casts, especially when there’s a great chemistry from a shared experience. A "very fortunate series of events,” indeed. “The casting was not intentional...” leads me to believe that the director didn’t set out to have an all out-gay-cast, but rather, each actor brought great performances to their auditions and were considered by the director to be perfect for the roles. These actors also just happened to be gay.

If you’re still here after all of that, let me take a moment to sincerely thank you for reading the whole thing! I know it’s a lot, but I’m very passionate about acting and giving each and every actor a fair chance. Let me know what you think, and please be respectful!

[clownd-aa]

tw: mentions of religion and death

Okay, so I think a lot of us can agree that the duality in the series is pretty great!  We have an entire cast of multi-faceted and complex characters.  We see one side, think we understand them, and then suddenly we’re shown a different side of them that also exists.  It makes us think.

The same holds true for Gogol, and honestly the entire Decay of Angels (i mostly speak of the main trio we were first introduced to, though!).  But Gogol’s character is just a paradox on one hand, and appears to tell us the answers on the other.  But a lot of the characters are also inspired by their respective authors and their work.  Which means, I think by reading their work -- or at least, certain ones -- we can begin to understand better the aspects of their characters and why it is the way they think or do the things they do and say the things they say!  Essentially: Why did Asagiri make them like this.

It’s especially interesting to take note and try to understand why and how Fyodor and Nikolai are connected, as well!  There’s a lot to discuss so i’m just going to try and break it down the best I can without rambling too much.

When we first see Nikolai in his debut, he’s already this high-energy very ‘fun’ type of character.  I mean, he’s a clown, so it would be weird if he wasn’t.  He claims to enjoy killing people, and also talks about his desire for freedom and his love for birds in some very strange analogy that just makes his character a bit deeper.  Likening his own mind to that of a prison.  And then on the other hand, we’re shown that he feels guilt and remorse like any other person would and does have a capacity for empathy, and that his “monster” façade is merely that: a façade. 

Empathy is merely a restriction in his eyes, and to beable to walk through life without restrictions (much like how the birds defy gravity) is the ultimate freedom. 

He claims he’s sane.  Is he? I think so.  A person who is, by definition, considered “insane” normally doesn’t understand right from wrong or real from fake.  Nikolai, however, has shown that he is very self aware.  

But I think there’s something else going on. And this is where the real Nikolai Gogol comes in.  I did some digging on the life and death of the author, and really, he was a tragedy and it helps me to understand his character better. 

In BSD Nikolai, we already see a reflection of the real life satirist from the get-go.  His brutal methods of murder and torture, are in reference and inspired by elements in the real life Nikolai Gogol’s work that were both realistic and grotesque.  

But there’s more.  Looking into his death, this is where BSD Nikolai’s mentality and belief of being trapped in his own mind comes into play.  At least, this is what i’ve come up with and have perceived his character.  So in no way am I trying to push this on anyone, but I do heavily headcanon what i’m talking about in my own portrayal. 

you can read the information here, for anyone interested.  I’m only going to touch base on some of the stuff mentioned.

Nikolai and Fyodor’s canon relationship in the manga is also important to take note, and I firmly believe there is some influence from the rl Gogol and a priest he had the misfortune to contact during a dark time in his life after someone close to him (a woman) had died.

The priest in question was a Russian Orthodox priest, and turned out to be a sadist who filled Gogol with a pathological fear of damnation and convinced him to burn most of his unpublished work (convincing him his work to be the Devil’s work).

Fyodor, being portrayed with heavy religious themes (going so far as to believe himself a God with his god complex) makes me think of the Russian Orthodox priest in the rl Gogol’s life before his death (which the priest was also responsible for.  We can compare that to Fyodor ‘manipulating’ Gogol to die for the sake of the DoA’s plan to frame the Detective Agency)

Going back to whether BSD Gogol is sane or not, and my reasoning -- once again -- for why he is, is simply: A combination of religious trauma and mental illness are at work for him believing he’s trapped and his mind is a prison he must escape.  And seeing as it’s implied that he is close to Fyodor (he refers to him as his ‘intimate friend’), i’m sure Fyodor has had a lot of influence over Gogol despite Gogol being one of the few who seem to follow Fyodor willingly and not under the guise of heavy manipulation and brainwashing; like that with Ivan and Hawthorne.

That is, until, Nikolai reappears after his “death”.  He tells Sigma to kill Fyodor means to break free from the “brainwashing” that are emotions.  And I believe here we are also seeing BSD Gogol experience a sort of break in reality as he realizes he’s been manipulated by his friend.  And to break that manipulation and that trauma, he must kill the one responsible for it.

There’s also a very good meta written about Fyodor and Nikolai and how they’re two halves of a character called Kirillov in the rl Doestevsky’s novel “Demons”, and honestly! It’s one of my favorites as their relationship also seems to be built on one of understanding; as we see Nikolai mention that Fyodor is his one and only friend and the only one who truly understands him. A reflection of the rl Gogol’s lonely and messy personal life.  I’ll leave that here.

This also touches base on Gogol’s idea of free will 

[autumnblogs]

Aside Glance: The Palpable Absence of the Dubiously Canonical

So you might have noticed throughout my writings that I have at the same time avoided directly talking about any of the expanded universe material while also occasionally alluding to it just enough to make it noticeable. At least, probably.

So to nobody’s surprise, let me say;

I don’t like the Homestuck Epilogues.

Before I dig into why, I wanna dig out what I think I actually do like about the Homestuck Epilogues. CW: for mentions of suicide, sexual violence, fascism, genocide, etc. Spoiler Warning for the Homestuck Epilogues, although if you haven’t read them by now, good; don’t. Keep reading for my thoughts on the Epilogues.

I do like that the Homestuck Epilogues say quite loudly and clearly that Fascism Is Terrible, and that Neo-Liberals are often Discount Fascists at best in terms of the material effects they have on the world that we have to share with them. They can often end up being interchangeable, and events can cause someone with a temperament predisposed toward Neo-liberalism down the path of bloody reactionary sentiment the way it did with Jane.

Homestuck has always been a pretty soundly anti-authoritarian work, and pretty aggressively contemporary work, so it makes sense that Homestuck^2 would reflect an internet culture rabidly obsessing about the politics of the Trump-Era United States, cast its villains as parallels to the Trump Administration, the grody religious movements it catered to, and the hyper-rich dingalings who benefited from it.

I do like that the Homestuck Epilogues develop the theme of criticizing the author and continues to call attention to its narrators, this time by explicitly casting them as villainous, and morally ambiguous/incomprehensible respectively. A central idea in Homestuck is the relationship between Author, Audience, and Characters, and the blending of the lines between them.

I like that it calls attention not just to the idea that a story’s narrator is an agent themselves, but also to the reality that the narrator may not have the best interests of either their readers, or their characters in mind. I like that the authorial powers of these characters are represented as overtly dangerous and evil when they are addressed at all.

I also like that the Homestuck Epilogues are rather brutally honest about the fact that sometimes, the people that you grew up with - your close friends - grow apart from you, and turn into kind of bad people. I’ve watched that happen in real time, and have had to stop hanging out with people because they just kind of... turned evil. That’s something that needs to be discussed more in fiction, and more honestly than the usual way. When the most visible example of like, someone you knew and loved turning into a bad person is like, Anakin Skywalker, maybe the world needs more stories about that.

So good, that’s what we’ve got for things I think were good to say. Well done.

What don’t I like about the Homestuck Epilogues?

In a word, I think, they are cruel. Relentlessly cruel. Even actively malicious.

Homestuck has, of course, always been rather mean-spirited and adversarial, pretty much since page one. And really, so has Andrew’s writing in general, since the days when he ran the site Team Special Olympics. His humor walks a fine line between and outrageous and genuinely offensive, as he dares you to say, “That’s fucked up!” so he can respond “it was just a joke, where’s your sense of humor?”

But the Epilogues transcend the usual sardonic envelope-pushing we can usually count on Andrew for, and instead opt to sink their teeth into the readers in an assault on the senses, and on the sensibilities. Reading the Epilogues is a brutal experience to endure emotionally, and in a lot of places, morally offensive.

And they are this way practically from the first page; our very first impression of the Homestuck Epilogues is a content warning that presents itself in such a way as to be almost unmistakably parodic. The stylization as an AO3 work, particularly in the context of Homestuck, where these sorts of overzealous content warning pages are associated with preachy jerks like Kankri, it comes across as a direct challenge to the viewer, and by a challenge, I really mean an attack. It is a mean-spirited joke at the expense of people who have a desire to curate their media experience - and then the authors have the gall to say that the one of the goals of the Epilogues is to challenge people to curate their media more.

Every time a character could conceivably make a bad decision, or become a more ill-conceived version of themselves, they somehow manage it, which becomes all the more unbearable because of the identification of character and audience that has been the case throughout all of Homestuck. If Homestuck introduces us to this entire cast and says, this is you, the Epilogues seem to follow up with and there is nothing good about you. Jade Harley somehow transforms into a grotesque caricature of a trans-woman, a girl who is sexually incontinent and predatory in a way that is directly tied to her having a dog penis - a state of being which the text variously slut-shames her for in Meat, or alternatively uses to blame her for ruining Dave and Karkat’s relationship in Candy.

John Egbert is severely depressed and dysfunctional, and this leads him either to go off and kill Lord English to chase the thrill of adventure and his own sense of purpose (in direct opposition to the all-but-explicitly-stated takeaway from Homestuck which Dave gives us, that the better option is to just leave the story alone altogether - explicitly the worst decision he could make according to the rules of Homestuck) or descend into decades of nihilistic solipsism while the world disintegrates around him.

Dirk’s worst natures take over him and transform him into a person who can only conceivably be satisfied either by becoming an arch-villain, or by murdering himself.

The Epilogues are aggressively cruel to Jake English, choosing to double down on the lack of emotional resolution he suffered from at the end of Homestuck, and squarely placing the blame for his own misery on his own shoulders, in a way which is pretty hard to read around, which is part and parcel of the general malice which Homestuck has historically treated mentally ill characters with. Nearly all the kids in Homestuck have suffered incomprehensible levels of mental and physical abuse, and the text expects them to simply overcome it sheerly by force of will. Sure, Jake is miserable but it’s his own fault, the text seems to say; if he’d just get his act together, like Dave, maybe he could get on with his life without being mind-broken by Dirk, or raped and whipped by Jane.

This isn’t even to delve into the flagship reveal of Homestuck 2, that Rose and Jade in the Candy Timeline have not only had a daughter of their own (without telling Kanaya), but that furthermore they have replicated their own trauma in her. Rose and Jade’s daughter has grown up completely emotionally alone, in the care of her Moms’ archenemy.

The point in all of this is not that the Epilogues have made everyone behave out of character or anything like that - I think it’s clear after a re-read especially that all of this is a conceivable direction that these characters could have taken. Rather, the Epilogues reliably choose to believe the worst of the characters of Homestuck in terms of their writing decisions. Everyone always makes the worst decision that they could make, or at the very least, nearly the worst. And because of the identification of reader and character, we can’t help but take away from that a sense that this is what the authors think of us as well.

And in case it wasn’t stated explicitly enough, a running theme throughout the Epilogues is that all this conflict and badness taking place is, to some extent or another, because we the audience are looking at it. As Andrew stated in relation to the Epilogues, there’s a kind of Happily Ever After possibility bubble around the characters that intrinsically collapses into conflict the moment we observe the events again - in other words, by participating in a story, we the audience members are somehow complicit in the characters’ suffering. Yet not all stories must be driven by conflict - and who triumphs and who fails in that conflict says a lot about what a story has to say about real life.

The Epilogues engage in a kind of voyeuristic cruelty, a kind of pessimism and cynicism, a kind of relentless ugliness that I have seldom seen, and to what end? The whole thing seems to me an attack on the audience.

Aside from general, abstracted claims toward authorial intent (which I think is there), I also want to say that, I can’t emotionally engage with the Epilogues, for a personal reason; as somebody who has struggled with almost daily suicidal ideation for most of my adult life, the way that the Epilogues deal with that subject goes from troubling to malicious and hostile in its treatment of Dirk’s suicide.

And staying personal, while I haven’t had to deal with some of the other sensitive topics that the Epilogues handle recklessly, handle them recklessly they do - Jake is serially raped by Jane, and in a way that he serves as a vehicle to move the plot forward, rather than with any kind of compassion for Jake’s condition. The possibility that Tavros Crocker might be being molested by Gamzee is brought up flippantly in one scene and played off as a joke.

The Homestuck Epilogues play at maturity through handling dark themes and sensitive topics, and reveal a profound immaturity in their authors because of the ways in which they are cruelly, insensitively handled over and over again.

I guess I’ll close with the least egregious thing. The Homestuck Epilogues just aren’t funny. Even at its bleakest, Homestuck has always been funny. In their relentless pursuit of cruelty, and the shared misery of their audience and characters, the Homestuck Epilogues forgo even this most basic element of Homestuck, which Andrew has always described as being basically a comedy.

Anyway; I will not be doing a thorough analysis of the Epilogues. I hate them too much and they suck.

[vajranam]

Tilopa Life Early Childhood

the most revered of all the Tibetan Masters, was born to an affluent family in east Bengal in India. He was a Bengali poet, a saint and a Yogi and lived in the tenth century. Some scholars believe that he was born to a Brahmin family, while the others are of the opinion that he was born to one of the royal families of Bengal. Brahmins are the highest order conferred on an individual under the Indian caste system. Tilopa is said to have been born in the highest caste of that time. However, there is also a difference of opinion regarding the place of Tilopa’s birth. It is speculated that he was either born in Chativavo, now Chittagong, or in Jagora. Both places are now located in Bengal. Tilopa’s uncommon identity was recognised much before his birth. Tilopa stayed unborn for thirteen months in his mother’s womb. After thirteen months in the womb, Tilopa was born on the second day of the twelfth month of the lunar calendar, at dawn. The year when Tilopa was born was the year of the Rat, of the earth element. There is a popular custom followed in the Indian tradition, particularly among the Brahmins at the time of birth of a baby. The family invites experts on palmistry, astrology and numerology to foretell the future and fortune of the new born. The experts are often joined by wise men, who, based on their experience and spiritual knowledge express the potential and abilities of the child. This is also a way to identify the potential threats and hurdles in the life of the child and eliminate them by conducting religious ceremonies and making offerings as directed by the priest. Thus, as he hailed from a highly respected Brahmin family, the same custom was followed at the birth of Tilopa. But, the story that followed is very interesting. When the first palmist was invited to the household, it was in a flicker of moment that he exclaimed, “The child is blessed with extraordinary capabilities that are not within my expertise to explain. He has divine characteristics that no human can ever conceive in words. As a humble palmist, I request you not to put me through the task of reading the child’s future.” Thus, begging pardon, the palmist rushed out of the house in haste. This reaction of the palmist left Tilopa’s parents confused and confounded. However, his parents did not stop there. They called for a second palmist. This person saw Tilopa and immediately reacted in the exact same way as the first palmist had. He, too, begged for pardon and left the house in a hurry. Thus followed many wise men and fortune-tellers, but none could explain the magnificent characteristics of Tilopa to his parents. Despite all the cloaked reactions by the palmists and the wise men, Tilopa’s parents successfully surmised that their child was blessed by Gods and was gifted with extraordinary capabilities and an appealing personality. They believed that it was only right for them to bring up their son with great Early Years and Childhood 3 care under vigilant guardianship. So, Tilopa’s childhood was always flooded with love, care and affection by his parents. Besides such display of affection, Tilopa’s parents watched over him attentively. He was not permitted to mix or play with other children of his age. Thus, for a long time, his mother and his sister were his only playmates. Soon, Tilopa grew up to be a young boy. It was time for him to attend school to practise Dharma. While his parents were trying to protect him, a strange incident happened that changed how Tilopa’s parents behaved towards him. One bright afternoon, Tilopa was sitting in the garden of his house, playing with his toys. Suddenly, his mother saw from the window that a big dark shadow was cast upon him. There stood next to Tilopa an ugly old woman, who was terrifying to look at. Tilopa’s mother shook with trepidation and screamed at the old woman to move away from Tilopa. In truth, the old woman was a mystical being, a Dakini, and had come to guide Tilopa onto the path of Dharma.

Seeing Tilopa’s mother scream out in fury, the old lady said to her, “Your screaming at me is worthless. No matter how hard you try and protect your son, you cannot protect him from the untimate death that is written in his destiny. All your love and care will fail in front of death and your son will be taken away from you.” These words of the old lady shocked Tilopa’s mother. She became desperate to find a solution for this ill fate of her son. So, she prostrated in front of the old lady and begged her to give her a solution that would save Tilopa’s life. The old lady told Tilopa’s mother, “If you wish to protect your son from dying, then send him to school to receive education. He has to cross the boundaries of the house and join the outer world, if he is to live.” Saying this, the old lady vanished. While this incident took place, Tilopa’s father had been out of the house for a few days for his business. When he returned home, his wife narrated the entire incident to him and told him about the prophecy of the old lady. Now, in all Brahmin families, it is a strictly followed tradition that all their children attend school to receive the best of education and learn about the Holy Scriptures. Tilopa was to be put on the same path, and thus, it was required for him to attend school. Thus, considering that Tilopa would in any case attend school, they did not ponder much over the old lady’s prophecy.

Soon, Tilopa was sent to school. He was a diligent and enthusiastic student. Over time, he completed his education and became a master in the practices and cultural traditions of the Brahmins. He was the greatest Brahmin scholar ever to be found

[recallingrealities]

Aligned - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Revelations

Zelda x Reader (slight nsfw)

For Chapter 1, click (here)

As you reached the threshold of the forest's edge, you smile quietly, admiring the Academy as you brush the dirt off the soles of your feet. Replacing your shoes, you make your way back inside. It was upon re-entering its quarters that you remembered your first unholy mass was this witching hour. You had never been to one before, let alone participated in group worship - aside from the ancestors that occasionally surfaced to join you. You felt preceding all that the Goddess had just given you, it felt right to listen in gratitude to an oncoming sermon. What a powerful time to psiphon these overwhelming waves of serenity and gratitude, to return it to the Goddess in worship. It wasn’t yet close to darkness; however the forest had embraced you through late afternoon. You felt it appropriate to retire to your quarters for some much needed  rest before the long night's engagements. You had so much to feel thankful for, and though it didn’t always reside in you quite this way, you were grateful for the safety and honor you felt so powerfully in this moment. Your slumber came easy to you, drifting easily like quiet rippling mist rolling in, or perhaps a chorus of restful waves, retreating to the shore after a spectacular sunset. You had felt like you’d rested for centuries, and awakened with ease and tranquility.

As the moon pulled itself into the sky, you bathed to scarlet candles, adorning yourself with your ash silken robe, readying for the sermon. You left the door open, so the moon’s rays from the bedroom window could reflect its beauty in rippling rays upon the anointed waters. Sipping a warm cup of black coffee felt right after the relaxing rest of the blessed bath. You could feel your senses reattuning with your growing wakefulness, and attention to detail, as you made your face. Massaging soft, scented oils in your moist skin, you felt your senses awaken. Rosemary, notes of pomegranate, and warm citrus dewed your skin with an indulgent radiance.You applied light makeup, and ran a comb through your hair before dressing. The subtle movements you made, entranced your hair to curl in natural drying ringlets. You felt so at ease when your routine was drawn by intuition. It guided you in a way that felt delectable; like running your fingers across a silk ribbon or following a lover down a hall in the dark. The past few days had felt so magical, and you found yourself feeling particularly excited for the night’s worship. Though you didn’t think of yourself as illicitly religious, your dedication to the Goddess could be seen that way. In all reality, it was the deepest friendship you had ever known. Until you began to look at it is a relationship, you realized you hadn’t grown to love an overpowering being of control. Your reality had become humbled and tender at the Goddess you had taken time to understand and listen to. She had always yearned for you to see yourself as she did., with unconditional love.

 After slipping on your dark chamise, and a richly colored saffron tunic, you felt your fingers draw towards a rich Juniper overtunic. It had been one you yourself embroidered with fine golden thread upon the sleeves and collar. Twining ivy, ornate and caring was weaved with intricacy, framing the fabrics edge. You looked at yourself in the reflection of your cup before finishing the last sip. You could hardly recognize yourself, wondering if your closeness of presence to the Goddess today had transformed you. In all reality and in goodness of nature, you had given yourself permission to be you, and that was divinely beautiful - that of quintessence. 

You dawned a matching skirt, of rich wine to that of your undertunic. Your waist fashioned with a simple braided leather. 

Before you made your way to mass, you took a deep calming breath, conscious to surround yourself mentally with a vibrant white light. You felt it radiate from your center, before letting it permeate your every cell, surrounding yourself in a circle of pooling light. The outskirt, you envisioned vibrant violet flames, dissolving any negativity. Anything of ill intent that did not serve you or the highest good. This was one of the first things you had been taught to do, always. Anytime you remembered to do so, you followed this, and considered it not only a cleansing and purification cantrip, but a protective measure. It felt only proper before going to a holy… or unholy place.

As you entered the consecrated church, you found yourself unalone, other warlocks and witches alike making their way towards the building. You had been given directions, though now you realized they were hardly needed, as everyone in the entire coven, or of Magic in Greendale seemed to be traveling here. As you entered the church, you found a seat on the outskirts of the aisle in the front row. You wanted a bit of privacy, as not to draw attention. Also you yearned to be as close as possible as to not miss a word of what was to be spoken this witching hour.

You had managed to completely forget somehow that your High Priestess would be in front of you, leading the sermon. She was at a distance too close for it to be obvious you were entranced, but also close enough to witness her breathing between words. As she made her way to the front of the coven she cleared her throat, silencing the room as her presence always did. There she stood before you, rich copper hair in a few perfect ringlets, her skin like freshly cooled porcelain, or that like the moon herself. She wore one of her classic fashioned dresses, likely from the early 1900’s. The raised fabric extenuating her shoulders would have made your knees weak. You couldn’t lay your finger on what had you come undone in her presence so effortlessly, only that the Goddess had reminded you it was her will, her intention for you to unravel. At that you blushed, transfixed and content watching her blood red lips, forming each word as to address the coven. She mentioned you, and you quickly returned to reality becoming attuned to what she was saying. 

“Lillith has dawned our coven with not only a new statured and powerful witch for our ranks, but also our newest Professoress, Miss Y/N.”

She did not gesture towards you, which you were relieved, not wanting to draw any sort of attention during the hour of your Goddess. There were a few whispers amongst the students, but nothing Zelda looked scolding about. 

“She will have much to teach us in the times to come and I think it would be in your best judgement to listen to her prowess, and see what the Goddess is trying to show you.” 

She pulled her lips tight, as to shoot daggers at Dorcus. snickering amongst her sisters. The girl dropped her smile and straightened obediently.

 “This precisely, leads us to the subject of our sermon. Guidance by the Goddess’ will”. 

At that, the room hushed. With the group having been dedicated to the will of the dark lord for generations, all that was to come out of  Directrix Spellman’s mouth was unheard of. You found your stomach growing hot and curious with anticipation as to what the woman would say. Zelda held a hand to her tightened abdomen, gesturing with the other as she began to speak. 

“As you all know, this coven and generations of Witches have gone by not the will of our own, but the will of our- the Dark Lord” 

She corrected herself, not faltering at the alteration, but reminded of the Hell on Earth arth they had gone through.

 “In mind of the Goddess, we are reminded that her wisdom predates his very presence. For some of what he would’ve considered to be true, also falls into her will. The idea of life and divinity is that guided by the heart - of one’s innermost desires. Something I am sure many of you are familiar.” 

Nicholas Scratch looked at his feet guiltily, trying to hold back a flush as the three sisters giggled, knowing some of his past lustful inquiries.

 “Though desire was a facet aligned with the Dark Lord, something many of you-” 

she seemed to be referencing everyone but you

“Are familiar with. In exchange for power, and ability to act on your every desire, we gave him our will. Whereas the Goddess does not want our will. 

Though I dare not speak for her, I have come to learn she wants not our will for her own, but for us to understand our own will. Truth being a key, a gift to our natural success on the physical plane. To take the time to experience our emotions, our feelings, our darkness, and our loving vulnerabilities. It is the Goddess who wants us to feel and experience, to expose our desires deliberately and separate them from our shame. Our guilt.

In fear, we are spending our energies dwindling on our doubts. How our instincts could be wrong or go wrong - rather than executing our full energy, our complete power to that which we will.

As many of you know from our basic teachings, it is what we are trying to accomplish, and how much we believe in it that is aligned directly with magic, and helps to successfully execute a spell. The power of divine self, however, is a source of power ingrained in every single one of us. It has been with us since the moment we were born. We all have wants and desires do we not?”

Members lulled, but began to nod, it was as if something was clicking in each witch as she continued to speak. 

“Rather than begging the Dark Lord for his mercy and his power - our powers, the Goddess shows us that the power was already within us. We come from a bloodline dating directly back to Lilith herself. The very first witch in existence. Lucifer was a celestial. As unholy and as grandiose his powers were, they were not his own. But of the God he had so been damned by.” 

Zelda could hardly believe these words were even leaving her mouth, though she knew them to be true. She had followed the dark lord with such dedication and veracity - but even she knew there was truth to her words. 

“The Goddess does not physically allow us our powers - the Goddess shows them to us. She reminds us who we are: created in divinity. Given life by the very essence that is her own.

And she reminds us, that when we take out the fear and the doubt and the shame in our thoughts, that have been instilled genetically and societally by both the christian god and our Lucifer alike - when we stop wasting our energy on that uselessness - we become able to concentrate our life force, our magic, in its entirety, to our will.”

After a pause, several members of the unholy congregation stood, an eruption of clapping waved over the group coven many shook and nodded their heads in revelation. Zelda had felt her heart leap in her chest. A response this dedicated had never been expressed so directly in the teachings of the dark lord. This was speaking as it was about, directly to the hearts and the souls of the coven.

“Think about it.” she continued, pausing to place both hands on her podium. “Didn’t the dark Lord prey on your fears? Your biggest insecurities, the guilts that ate you alive? Imagine how much power he took from you. The magic he kept from you all because you indulged in fear and insecurity - that did nothing to serve you. Not once.”

As she continued, you felt as if she was speaking the truths of your heart. The Goddess had willed this. These were revelations you had had from years in private communion with the Goddess. Something when you had spoken about it in religious historical contexts, people looked at you as if you had three heads. Though they were mortals, and some left with a new perspective on life, this woman was speaking to you, sharing the wisdom that made up all you believed to your very core, to your center. You stood with the crowd, clapping silently with a warm smile on your face. She had glanced towards you once during the sermon, and though most would think it was at the intensity of her speech, you knew she became flushed at your visual approval. 

Though you had an undeniable attraction to her before now, in this moment it felt like you could love her. That with each gaining second you experienced her, a fondness grew in your spirit simply from her presence. You never would’ve thought someone could understand as you did. It had been such an isolating factor in your existence for so long. Though, something that made you feel especially tied to the Goddess, it was also isolating. You had stopped searching for confidants or even friends when you realized none of their presences or conversations satisfied you the way your growing understanding of the Goddess did.

As the sermon came to an end, it seemed the Coven was revitalized with new life. A bustling aura blanketing the crowd as they flocked to one another before making their way back towards the Academy. You dared not approach her there, but your eyes caught one another as you exited the building, not willing to speak to anyone but her. Once you made it back towards the school, you took your time down the halls to listen to the echo of personal revelations from both faculty and students alike. You quietly, unnoticed it seems, made your way to the High Priestess’s office. You gave a quiet knock before you heard her voice hum contently 

“Come in”

She had just unbuttoned the top button of her collar, and was leaning against her desk as she fired her cigarette hungrily. She must have thought it would be Sabrina, or perhaps Hilda to encourage her for doing such a lovely job. But upon seeing you, she stiffened - if only just for a moment. She straightened her posture, leaning back on her free hand before greeting you. You had no idea if she was being purposefully seductive, but you definitely blushed at the gesture. She raised an eyebrow to you questioningly.

“Good Evening Directrix”

You tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, leaning back on the door to shut it behind you

“That sermon was…-” 

You found yourself momentarily at a loss for words 

“Exquisite. If i am being quite honest with you” you said vulnerably “I’ve never heard anyone speak of the Goddess in the way I’ve known her before”

Your voice was quiet, almost trembling. She stood, taking a step towards you allowing a smile to surface. 

“I’m glad you deemed it acceptable”

Her words stung teasingly, as if she had not found impeccable pleasure in the earnestness of your compliment 

“I didn’t mean -” 

you began to clarify, before remembering, no shame 

“What I had meant-”

Before you could finish, she was dangerously close to you, lifting your chin with her left index. She exhaled a lungful of smoke, not in your face, but to encircle her form. Your heart was racing again, you now being unable to speak from her gaze 

“And who do you think I learned that from?”

 She questioned boldly, as if to reaffirm you in some way. To restore the vigor in words. 

She quickly turned away before reaching behind her desk to pull up your bag. She slapped a book against the table 

“You left your bag in my office. I wouldn’t be a very skilled Directrix if I didn’t implore the newest endearing member of my coven and academy. I was going to return it to you earlier, after I saw you in the Rotunda-”

she slipped the ornately carved journal back inside your back before handing it towards you 

“but you weren’t in your quarters”

You took a few steps forward, dumbfounded, hardly able to believe you had left something so important with her, let alone for several days. You had been so busy unpacking…

As you moved to take back your satchel and thank her, you suddenly realized how close you were to her. Your thighs were practically touching.

“How did you think I had learned such immaculate discoveries? To all of a sudden become so intimate -  with the Goddess herself? Requiring years of… dedicated council, and meditation I’m sure...”

Her words sent goosebumps across your body 

“Who would be capable of knowing such things, aside from yourself?” 

You realized now her lips were but a mere inch from yours. Her eyes traced you comfortably, as if they had so many times before. It was then, your will splintered. You couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her earnestly. A moan erupted, chorusing from your throats as you quickly wrapped your arms around her neck. She quickly gripped your waist, pulling your thighs together as she returned your kisses with devouring hunger. Her embrace was hard and tender all at once. Feverish, you would’ve sworn every inch of your skin was on fire as she touched you. You could feel her legs pulling you closer as she moved back to sit on top of the desk, pulling you willfully against her. You let out a desperate gasp before crashing into her; wet, needing kisses finding their way to the embrace of her mouth. 

After a few moments of desire, Zelda pulled away to whisper a quiet door locking spell. You took this opportunity to pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes lustful and glazed with admiration for you. 

“I’ve never met anyone like you Zelda Spellman...”

When you pulled back, she took a steady breath, inhaling a drag of her still burning cigarette. Her fingers were only slightly shaking before she extinguished it in the ashtray beside her. 

“And yet the revelations of the coven were words of your mouth and not mine… and you are the one astonished?”

She then turned her full attention on you, giving you a look confounded and unnerving.

After she let that sink in for a moment, she touched your cheek, this time tenderly. She gazed into your eyes before pulling you to kiss her again,

 ‘Blessed be’.

[honeyyvee]

THE WALLS

Rating; Explicit.

Pairing; Yoongi x Reader.

Genre; smut.

Words; 4.2 k

Summary; Tension between you and your hot, next-door neighbor comes to a climax when his antagonizing you is taken too far by bringing pot brownies to your little Church’s Juvenile Choir Valentine’s get-together. 

Content Warnings; innadecuate drug use, explicit sex scenes, degradation, degradation talk, fingering, oral sex, mentions of underage drug use, mentions of religious themes, reference/implied cheating.

Notes; this was inspired by a Chase Atlantic song by the same title... basically pwp with little plot. I may write a sequel to this if people like it uwu enjoyy

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It's a dark kind of feeling that pulls you to him at first. Min Yoongi is just that kind of guy. Black jeans, black leather, pale skin, resting bitch face, and an attitude to go with it. His quiet, brooding nature fools everyone into thinking he's more mysterious than he actually is. But you know the truth, and it's such a much simpler answer. 

The truth is he's a—

"Bitch! Min Yoongi is a little bitch, and I'm going to rip his limbs apart one by one this very instant, just wait," you seethe through your teeth, next to a stunned Park Jimin. There's a weird aftertaste in your mouth, after having had a half piece of one of his horrible brownies. Pot brownies.

You march away from the kitchen counter, ignoring the sweet timbre of Jimin's voice calling your name over the jazz playlist you've specifically curated for the occasion. It's not a long way until you reach the hallway, turning to knock on the first door on the left with contained anger. Oh, Min Yoongi will hear you. The door to the room opens, and you are met with the expanse of his chest.  

"Whatever is wrong with you?" You push into the firm planes of flesh and bone. 

The boy let's himself stumble backwards, into the darkness. 

"You'll have to be specific on that one." Yoongi flashes a set of pearly teeth that gets your blood pumping in your ears. 

"Pot brownies? Really?" you accuse, with a raised eyebrow. 

Yoongi's low chuckle reverberates in your chest. Stirs something dark within. 

In yet another effort to antagonize you, your hot next-door neighbor has spiked the fruit punch and fed pot brownies to the attendees of your little Valentine's Church Choir get-together.

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Your hand shots out in the darkness to grab for his wrist, but finds his warm palm instead. It remains slack in your hold, so you tug at it, bringing the brunette into the light of the hallway. 

"Explain that." You point at the people sprawled on the living room's couches. 

Yoongi lazily scans the area pointed by your finger. A couple of his younger, fellow choir mates are sprawled on the couch and on the floor. Spaced out, engaged in hushed conversation, staring at the ceiling while laughing to themselves on occasion... leaning against whatever surface is able to hold them steady. The board games are scattered through the floor, in the background someone's playing the latest version of Just dance, terribly uncoordinated. 

It's a shit show. And it's your shit show, because the Valentine's get-together was your idea. Jimin offered his house as the place to do it, and you had accepted. Fully knowing it to be the habitat of an entire Min Yoongi. Shame on you. You should’ve known better. Yoongi’s and Jimin’s parents had coincidentally went out of town at the very last minute, to visit an old friend of the family who had fallen ill. An unchaperoned party, with the presence of Min Yoongi, was the setting for disaster.

"Some are minors, Yoongi" you grit through your teeth. "Their parents will come pick them up at eleven o'clock and what will we do then?" The minority of the choir are of age, like yourself, Jimin, Yoongi and a couple others like yourself who are in their early twenties... but most are, 16-ish, 17-ish, minors. When parents come to pick up their children at 11 o'clock sharp, all they’re going to think is that it was you who set the trap for them to fall prey of sin. When in reality, you’re just a victim of the circumstances. Namely, Min Yoongi. 

Yoongi does not respond, but instead stares. His dark, hooded eyes pin you into place. It registers a little too late, that his thumb's caressing the side of your hand. 

"We?" His hold tightens around yours. 

It's a treacherous feeling, the one that brews in your chest as your heart swells and skips a beat at the contact. It reminds you too much of simpler times, when you were both children and weren't at each other's throats. When Yoongi's way of comforting you would be to hold hands, playing with your fingers.  

You know it shouldn't be that way anymore. Because he's not who he used to be since his mother’s passing, and neither are you since he drifted away from you. He's not someone your strict parents would approve of, as he is now. They want you with someone like his step-brother, Jimin. And that’s just what is going on now, you’ve already gone in a date with the sweet blonde boy. Because you know in your heart of hearts that you deserve, and should be with someone like him. Clean, nice and proper. Not the definition of sin that is Min Yoongi. The bad boy cliché. With his inked skin, leather clothes, bad habits, and underground life.

“Stop.” You yank away your hand, as if burning. The most pressing feeling at the front of your mind should be being mad at him, cussing him out for doing something so wrong and so stupid. Handing out pot brownies at a Christian get-together? 

"I didn’t bring those. It wasn’t me.”

As if you would buy that after years of sick little jokes like whoopee cushions, laxants, and spilled wine. Inexplicably however, the flames of ire have dozed off to tiny, crackling embers. There's a dawning haze that's clouding your mind with each passing second, an unsettling numbness of your nerves. Your eyelids feel heavy over your eyes, it’s almost like you’re looking at him through your eyelashes. Your arms cross over your chest in a nonverbal cue of I’m not buying your bullshit, and Yoongi’s eyes follow the movement. His dark gaze boring like he can see through cloth. 

“One of the guys asked me for a number, and I gave it to him.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and soon, you realize, you’re too close to each other for comfort. It’s an invisible force of magnetism that draws and repels you two. “Unbelievable as it may seem to you, it wasn’t me. I simply gave them what they wanted, it’s their decision from there. And I'm the bad guy?" 

“They’re 16 and above. They’re children. They don’t know what they want.” You snort.

“And, do you? Do you know what you want?” Yoongi presses forward. You stumble backwards, until your back hits the wall. “Why are you so insistent in looking for reasons to hate me?”

You draw in a sharp breath. “Because you make it so easy. It’s almost like you want me to hate you.”

“But what do you want?” His boots close the distance between your bodies with soft thumps. Nearly drown out the own drumming of your pulse in your ears. 

“Do you want to hate me? Or…” The air gets heavier by the second, as his body presses against you, you feel the tent of his denim pants poking your lower belly. You feel like drowning. Need some fresh air.

“N-no.” You push him off you. Scattering to the opposite side of the hallway, where the door exposes a sliver of the dark insides of what you assume to be Min Yoongi’s lair. There’s something wrong with your arms and legs. Their movement feels sluggish, as so feels your head. The words slip from your lips before you can stop them.

“I never know what I want when it comes to you.” 

Min Yoongi's dark, slender figure stares at you for far too long, mulling your words over in his head, a little too out of it. “Why not find out yourself then?”

Blood rushes to your head so quick your vision spins. Yoongi’s keeping more distance now, but his presence still looms over you. His delicious scent clings around you. It all feels like an out of body experience, when you open your mouth to retort half-heartedly. 

“Don’t misunderstand, Min Yoongi. I do not want to fuck you.” Your voice wavers, but you hold your stance still. “You must think you are hot shit, walking and talking around like a jackass. That I will fall for your act like so many. Well, you’re not who you’ve convinced yourself, and your new little friends, you are. Gloss.”

This is not about the pot brownies, or the stunned boys and girls on the couch anymore. This is a one on one between your lost friend of infancy and you. In the spur of the moment, your mouth makes the executive decision to bring the big guns before your brain has time to process what you're saying. 

“And I’m tired of this…” you wave your hands at the air. “This half-assed, bad boy, womanizer cliché. You think your mother would want this for you?"

Yoongi's deceased mother. Tragically lost in a fire accident Yoongi still blames himself for to this day. You are an asshole.

"Well, maybe I want it," Yoongi deadpans. "Have you ever thought about that?" No, you think, you couldn't ever possibly have. You don't want to. Yoongi's voice's barely above a whisper, but there's a growl to his words as he spits them spitefully. "Maybe I want you to hate me, and for everyone to stay the fuck away, because I'm a fucking mess." 

You trip over your own words in an attempt to placate him."That's not true! You're so much more than what you think of yourself." Your hand instinctively reaches for him in the dim hallway. Yoongi does not take it, neither do you try to actually grasp him. 

"And how would you know?" Yoongi glowers. "You're not even sure about yourself. Playing the good little girl, who follows the rules, stays on line and never does wrong. Always following someone else's orders, wishes and expectations… tell me ____ when was the last time you did something for yourself? Something selfish?" 

You're stunned into silence. Around you, the air buzzes with ballooning tension. it feels as though if you open your mouth, bat an eye, take a single breath… it will all burst in your face. Yoongi snorts at your lack of response, takes your silence as yielding. 

"Right. Don't lecture me about existential questions like you're so above them." Yoongi scoffs. His chest puffs out ever so slightly as he crosses his arms, his posture straightens, resulting in an enticing show of his towering over you. "I’m an artist. That much I know. And you?” He lazily motions with a hand. “Take out choir and your religious devotion and who are you, besides a prideful, self righteous prude?”

Your cheeks swell with hot embarrassment. There's no preparing for the comeback your brain sputters out as a result of your wounded ego and numbed out senses.

“Whether you are a girl or a boy my tongue will make you cum? Please. Those are the words of an artist?" It's probably not your wittiest response. Not the smartest, really. It presents too many, too graphic, questions. And how come you recall those specific lyrics, from that specific song you've listened him practice that one time? The answer, well...

Yoongi shrugs. A contempt smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I take pride in my craft."

Of foucking course he does.

There's not a single coherent thought in mind. Not a single rational one, when Min Yoongi is standing so close before you, wrapped in that forbidden fruit allure. With his soft black hair, leather jacket, intoxicating smell, and stupid, perfectly pouty lips. If your next actions are reckless in nature, you can blame it on the pull that heightens the dark feelings brewing in your chest. The feelings that have always been there, ready to spill. 

"You're too much bark and no bite," you taunt. Fully conscious of where it'll take you. 

"False," Yoongi mouths. 

"Well, fuck it. I'll be the judge of that." 

It's an all over the place situation, or so it feels like, when you pounce on Min Yoongi and lure him into the darkness beyond the open door of the hallway. It's an entanglement of numb limbs and lips. There's several bites on your side. His lips are small but plush, the delicate shape of his mouth too innocent looking to fulfill the promise of its abilities. The taste of him in your mouth has unleashed a ravenous need never felt before. You break the skin to taste all of him. You want it all, the blood, the sweat and tears. 

His beautiful hands are all over your breasts, under your shirt. Petting, feeling, marking. There are rough and callous edges to his fingers, the sensation of them on your skin and his mouth on your pulse is aphrodisiacal. You're too loose with the sounds that leave your mouth, too responsive. The expanse of Yoongi's hands travel your torso until your blouse is off. Skin on skin contact makes you feel like putty in his hold. 

Some way or the other, both of you fall onto the bed intertwined. It knocks the air out of your lungs, but the weight of him over you feels marvelous. Right between your legs, that's where it feels he has always meant to be. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this." Yoongi confesses between scattered kisses to your clavicle.

"Yeah, you neither," you gasp. The tips of his fingers are teasing the button of your jeans. Your hands, previously intertwined in Yoongi's soft tendrils of hair, reach between your bodies and pop open the button themselves. 

"Let's see if you really are more bite than bark," you pant. 

Your jeans are swept from your legs in a blink, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. The skin of your thighs prickles with goosebumps at the sudden exposure. Yoongi does not say anything in response to your taunt, but conveys a promise in the dark glint of his feline eyes. The weight of the situation is lost on you, in your heightened state of senses. Through the thickness of the lust and fog enveloping your mind, you are vaguely aware that you are high because of the brownies, but so is Yoongi. You're both on even ground. 

Yoongi's fingertips thread lightly over the inner part of your thighs in tentative up and down motions, coaxing your legs to open further for him. It's a natural response of your body, as is the gushing of your pussy, clenching on itself in anticipation.  Your panties are ruined, soaked through. Yoongi's hands reach higher and higher, until they are at the edge of the flimsy piece of clothing. 

Yoongi hums in contemplation. "So wet already." The pad of his thumbs hook in the lacy edges of your panties, your breath catches in your throat. Yoongi chuckles. "I haven't even properly touched you." 

There's a still moment, charged with pent up anticipation, when one of his fingers finally touches you through the soaked cloth. Yoongi's index and middle fingers run over your labia in a teasing dance. The added friction of the wet material is a welcomed sensation. But he stops short of your clit every time. Purposely so. He's teasing.

Your hips squirm in response, looking for that needed friction in that particular spot. There's a whine that must resemble his name, caught between your teeth and tongue. 

"Let me hear you," he rasps. 

You'll be damned if you do. 

Your expression must give your thoughts away because soon enough Yoongi's changing tactics. Your panties are slipped off your legs to your ankles. Yoongi's transparent hands are prying your legs further apart with scary resolve. He dives into your sex with the most breathtaking gaze of lust you've ever seen. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, an imminent threat. 

It's starts with an open-mouthed, hot kiss to your lips that has you clenching the sheets beneath your fingers. Yoongi's tongue alternates from there with sucking and licking your sensitive inner folds and swollen clit with varying degrees of intensity. The building ecstasy of his ministrations, courses through your body, from your core to the tips of your toes. It's impossible to restrain the ragged, audible breaths that leave your mouth at the sinful sweeping of Min Yoongi's tongue. You are so close to throwing pride out of the damned window… 

Through your lust fogged mind though, a little sliver of pride shines through, reminding you what your little 'misstep' is all about. You are not about inflating this asshole's ego. Even if he kind of has sensible reasons to think so highly of himself… (not that you would ever admit to that). So you bite your lip and stifle any and all sounds of pleasure. Even if your eyeballs threaten to roll their way back to your skull as his tongue flattens against your clit. In the dark of your mind you swear you actually see stars.

An involuntary groan crawls through your throat. You can feel Yoongi smirking against your sensitive skin. He seems to notice your holding back. The silent, issued challenge. A light chuckle reverbates in the back of his throat. The puff of cool air that leaves his nose as he halts his ministrations, tickles your sensitive core, sends a shiver through your whole body. His fingertips circle patterns over the most sensitive skin of your inner thighs. 

Yoongi is a man of few words, but it doesn't matter, as everything he wants to communicate in this moment he can do through his expression alone. The slight curve of his lips and glint of amusement in his eyes read, Still not admitting defeat?

Your panting, laboured breaths, and contained expression of pleasure easily give you away. But Min Yoongi is a proud little piece of shit; he demands an explicit, spoken admission of your defeat. He sets his mind to accomplish the goal. His tongue circles, teases your hole, before the hot muscle plunges inside you. You're a goner. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull shut, with an appreciative groan. Yoongi's fingers trace the inside of your labia with feather-like touches that have your thighs clenching around his face. You're dripping onto the bed by now, and Yoongi's face and hands are covered in your juices. You're close, you're so close you could cry. 

Your hands find purchase on soft tendrils of black hair, and tug. Pride be damned, you pull him closer to your aching core, and whine his name. You need him to touch you, to press on the exposed bundle of nerves that ache for the attention of his fingers. He's stopped moving his tongue inside of you, barely touching you... You're very well about to lose your mind with how much you need to get your release.

Yoongi's dark eyes flick up to you, pierce through yours with heavy intention. He raises an eyebrow in silent prompt, you have to say it. You cave in.

"Please Yoongi, please, just—! Fuck me, fuck me with your tongue, fuck!" You buck your hips, thrashing about, on the border of tears. 

He holds your gaze as he fucks you with his tongue. One hand mindlessly petting your swollen labia and clit, the other one holding your bucking hips into place. Your eyes shut closed with the lewd image of Yoongi burning your mind. You feel your orgasm building up by the intermittent convulsions of your inner walls, reaching the point of no return as Yoongi retreats his tongue from your cunt and sits back to watch you writhe at his lack of attention. One hand strokes your inner thigh, as the other mercilessly rubs your clit until you feel like bursting. Your breath gets caught in your throat. 

"Cum" he rasps, breathless himself. 

And you snap. You cum with a cry that could easily be heard down the hallway. You can't care less about it though, as your body convulses and spams with abandon in pure ecstasy. Your eyes close as you ride the high, spasming around Yoongi's hand. It feels like you're falling and falling into an all consuming void. You let yourself melt into the mattress. He's caressing your cunt, gathering your slick in his fingers. Your hole is leaking with juices that run down your ass into the bed.

Yoongi's staring at you with the darkest eyes you've ever seen. His breathing is ragged, as he brings his hand up to examine his work. The collection of your glistening juices drips from his fingers onto your belly, and you wince. The bulge of his erection straining against his jeans catches your attention, your mouth waters, and your thighs clench. You briefly wonder if Yoongi is going to ask for some kind of retribution from you, which honestly speaking, you wouldn’t mind. Even if you are an inexperienced virgin, you convince yourself, you've watched enough porn through your restless nights to have a vague idea of what to do with that. 

Yoongi's attention drifts back to you, as his hooded eyes pierce through yours. He comes closer, hovering over your body; presents his slick-covered fingers before your face. Your cheeks flush red with embarrassment at the lewd evidence of the events transpired between the two of you. 

"Open up."

It’s embarassing how readily you give in to his demand. His voice, breathless but commanding, makes your insides tremble at the sound. You open your mouth, extending your tongue without complaint for him. It feels like an out of body experience. Like someone else has taken control over your body, and you are just a vessel for pleasure.

"Mmn… I love hearing you," Yoongi purrs. His voice sounds far away. "Maybe next time you can stop being such a prideful prude and let me hear more of you." He smirks, and gives you a wet kiss. You groan into it.

"N-next time?" you stutter. "Aren't you getting way ahead of yourself, Min?" There are actually high chances of a next time happening, but he doesn't need to know that. 

Yoongi shrugs, stupid, smartass smirk in place. His hand moves further down, two fingers slipping inside your cunt. They curl inside you, rubbing at just the perfect spot, producing a choked out whine from the back of your throat. Yoongi's slender fingers mercilessly pump in and out of your slick hole, all the way to the knuckle and out to the tips of his fingers. Yoongi's eyes are fixed on you, your eyelids flutter in an effort to keep your eyes open. This is not a loving fuck, this is a stress-relief, frustration-driven, fuck. And you try very hard to keep that thought at the front of your mind when Yoongi's eyes glint at you with the slightest hint of affection. Your pussy is throbbing with sensitivity, yet you feel so close to orgasm it only riles you up and further. You whine and curse, and buck into his sinful hand with abandon. You need his thumb on your clit, his mouth, anything. 

You're about to voice out your desire when the increasingly loud squelching sounds produced by the pumping of Yoongi's fingers catch your attention. They are embarrassingly lewd and loud to say the least. You briefly wonder if they'll be heard across the thin walls, only for a groan to be ripped out of your throat as Yoongi's hand thrusts hard into your hole. 

"Look at you, so dirty and wet for me." Thrust. "Moaning and whining like a whore." Thrust. 

"No one would guess it from that pretty face" Yoongi smirks ", but you're just another good girl who wants to get the good fucked out of her." Thrust.

There's an incoherent retort slipping from your blabbering tongue before Yoongi's hot mouth envelopes your swollen clit, pinching it for what it's worth, and you burst. Your head falls back with a groan, as your eyes screw shut. Your hands find purchase in Yoongi's locks of wavy black hair, your tighs bucking and thrashing into his lapping mouth. He grips your thighs and caresses the sensitive skin in long, patient motions. Yoongi laps your release with lazy, soft kitten licks. It's still too much to handle for your overstimulated, battered cunt. 

"Stop." You tug at his hair with a whine. 

Yoongi chuckles. "Enough?" There's another meaning, a hidden intention, behind the simple question. It extends a much more complicated, compromising offer. Does this stop now, or do you want more of this in the future? 

You turn away from the intensity of his gaze, only to find yourself face to face with a portrait of Jimin's smiling face. It's a picture of him smiling alongside you, to be precise. The portrait you gifted him for his birthday. It dawns on you. This is Jimin's bedroom. As you come down from your high, you find a mix of guilt and thrill brewing in your chest. Is that what Eve felt when tasting the forbidden fruit? You let Yoongi have oral sex with you in Jimin's bedroom. The guy you are seeing. His step-brother. It should feel revolting.

Surprisingly, though... You like it. You are inebriated with the taste of the prohibited, and do not want to let go. You realize it as you stare back into those dark, all-consuming pools. You can't go back. You don't want to go back. 

You like the darkness inside the walls.

[shy-marker-pliers]

Just Catholic School Things (AKA why i became an atheist at age 11)

PSA: everyone’s religious experience is obviously different. i’m just talking abt my experiences here and i’m in no way speaking for everyone who ever went to a catholic school lol.

Ok my parents are catholic and because of that i went to a small catholic school for eight years (preschool-grade 6) and hoo boy it was Something. tw for religion, religious trauma, all that good stuff.

UNIFORMS UGHHHH (the only colors we were allowed to wear were red, white, black, and sometimes you could get away with very dark navy blue)

you could choose from this wide variety of options: long or short sleeved polo shirt (has to be tucked in), black dress pants or dress shorts. sometimes they’d let you wear a sweater or cardigan but only if it was red or black. you could also wear a jumper dress as long as you had black/white tights and dress shoes. also the dress had to be black and red plaid.

we only got to go without uniforms if we were having pajama day which only happened like once a year, twice if we were lucky.

having to wear clothes like that for so long is probably the reason why i live in hoodies and sweatpants now lol

Asking my mom if she would sacrifice me if god told her to and her saying yes (i was in FIRST GRADE)

crying for hours and saying that i’m going to hell because i lied about having seen a movie (second grade)

teachers deadass saying that u only go to heaven if you’re the right religion (catholic) and even then you still had to follow all the rules or else you’d go straight to hell

having to tell a priest my darkest sins (this was not optional, everyone was required to do this twice a year)

people in my class thinking that you couldn’t be friends with someone if they were a different religion than you

having to learn cursive ughhhh (jokes on them tho cause now i can read cursive but refuse to write in it out of pure spite)

not being allowed to sing non-religious songs for our yearly christmas concert

being required to speak in church (readings, lord hear our prayer, gospel, stations of the cross, etc) which was hell for ppl that have a fear of public speaking. 

also along with that we had to sing in the choir and be altar servers (again, this was non-negotiable)

ALSO ALSO whenever there was a funeral at church they would make 3 of the 5th and 6th graders miss recess and lunch and altar serve for it, and since there weren’t a lot of us we all had to do it at least once. i’m talking 10-11 year olds not getting to eat and having to spend an hour and a half plus wearing a whole ass robe in a building with no heating or cooling units full of crying people and a dead body 

the only compensation i ever saw for that was a lollipop btw.

im sure that didnt affect anyone in any way

being super fucking clueless about the world around me until like the middle of 7th grade because, whether intentional or not, i was being sheltered

not knowing gay ppl were a thing until 4th grade and only because i overheard my grandma being homophobic and asked what she was talking about

having shit social skills because my entire school, from preschool to 6th grade consisted of about 80 people, including teachers and i had known the same kids since preschool, so i never had to make new friends.

we also had one teacher for multiple grades (for example, 3rd and 4th grade shared a classroom and teacher, 5th and 6th grade did the same)

going to church every week was literally a part of school. every friday we’d get to class, be there for like 10 minutes to listen to morning announcements, and take a 3 minute walk to church. then we’d spend like an hour and a half there and go back to class

and don’t even get me started on lent, advent, adoration, and benediction.

ok i’m gonna get started anyway

fyi advent is the 22-28 days leading up to xmas. lent is 40 days long, not counting sundays, and lasts from ash wednesday to holy saturday (the day before easter).

so every day during lent and advent we all had to gather in the hall or outside and say a decade of the rosary. for those unfamilliar this means saying one our father, followed by ten hail marys, and one glory be. so that’s like 12 minutes of our time that we could’ve been using to idk learn math. 

and on fridays and mondays we had to do 2 to make up for the weekend so double the time wasted yayyy

we weren’t really allowed freedom of expression either. we were told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it, and that’s it. even in art class.

i understand art teachers having everyone do the same style of project (ie: make a watercolor paining, sculpt something, etc.) but ours legit had us do THE EXACT SAME THING.

like, one time we were doing origami and instead of being like “ok here’s some paper and some designs to choose from go wild kiddos” the teacher was like “make a crane, a star, and an envelope. they all have to be different colors and you can’t use white or black paper. ok go.” 

total bullshit tbh

ill talk more abt her later cuz this is getting long lol

anyways thats my spicy religious trauma 4 u

but jokes on them cause now i’m an nb pan anarcho-communist lmao

[tawakkull]

Spirituality in islam: Nafs (The Soul)

The soul (an-nafs) is a substance that is essentially free of matter but which is in close connection with it in its acts and functions; it is the origin or essence of something or its self. There have been those who have used it in the sense of the spirit or the heart or the body, or in the sense of lusts or the mechanism through which Satan penetrates humans, or even in the sense of reason. In religious terminology, an-nafs, or the soul, is the origin or center of certain states or faculties such as lusts, anger, ill will, grudge, hatred, and irritation, and it is a transformable, reformable, and refinable mechanism connected to human corporeality.

The soul has a constant, experienced connection between the body and the spirit. It is through this connection that humans receive, recognize, and distinguish their outer and inner sense-perceptions and go beyond the corporeal realm into metaphysical worlds. It is again through this connection that any state, experience or gift that occurs in the spirit leaves its imprint upon the body and provokes it to move in a certain direction. Just as every influence on the spirit makes itself felt on the body, so too every state of and effect on the body shows itself on the horizon of the spirit.

For example, thinking of something which is nauseating may produce an urge to vomit. Certain events which touch the spirit and rouse distress may cause physical ailments that we call psychosomatic illnesses. The reaction that the sense of taste shows at the mention of something sweet or sour or bitter is also this same sort of impression. In short, there is a continuous interactive relationship between the spirit and the body. Similarly, evil conceptions and disagreeable manners and actions impress not only the body but also the spirit, while agreeable thoughts and considerations, and the plans and projects that are undertaken to please God Almighty, and the mentioning of the Divine Being by the heart and tongue all produce expansion and exhilaration in the spirit. It frequently occurs that even if we are not aware of it, this state gains some sort of luminosity and surrounds the entire horizon of the spirit by means of the spiritual intellect. It rouses the “secret” and begins to manifest itself in the metaphysical depths of human existence in different modes. Also, whenever the body expresses its submission to the Ultimate Truth through the acts of worship and obedience and lives in accordance with the purpose of its existence, deepening in belief through worship or religious acts and crowning its worship with excellence and awareness of God’s omnipresence, the breezes of great happiness and joy begin to blow in the spirit. Hope and expectation stir up eagerness for God, the Ultimate Truth, and the acts leading to consciousness and awe of God produce feelings of respect, self-possession, and wakefulness in the spirit. As a result, like the seas vaporizing to rise and form the clouds, and the clouds raining on the earth, and rains forming rivers and torrents that flow into the sea, there appear continuous currents between the body and the spirit.

Amidst such mutual influences between the spirit and the body, it is possible for humans either to fall into the lowest of the low as a result of being overcome by their corporeality, or to rise to human perfection and the highest of the high by God’s help and permission, through acting around the orbit of Islamic thought, belief, and awareness. Thus, what we call “spiritual journeying” is one of the significant ways of advancing toward and reaching the Ultimate Truth, and being a perfect human being through this tide.

All these tides, continuous mutual influences and flows, and journeys occur on the steed or ship or spacecraft of the human soul. The compass of this apparently abased vessel is belief, the path or direction it must follow is Islam, and its captain or guide is the Prophet Muhammad, the Master of creation, upon him be peace and blessings, and the dynamics to advance along this path are provided by reflection and remembrance of God. However, there are some apparently harmful characteristics incorporated in the nature of this steed for certain purposes. If the soul has not been purified of these characteristics and refined, it is inevitable that the meanings, conceptions, pieces of information, knowledge of God, and remembrances, and reflections that travel between the spirit and the soul suffer from some turbulence and even serious falls along the way. Such turbulence and falls should not be viewed as occurrences independent of certain other factors that originate in humans themselves. Sometimes sins, heedlessness, and carelessness cause them; sometimes temporary “whirlpools of contraction" or "spasms” interfere with the working of the rudder or the compass; sometimes direction is lost due to certain carnal amusements and relaxations; and sometimes they happen because of our unawareness that certain actions are contrary to the manner of traveling along the way, and our feeling proud of the good deeds done. If travelers view such things as viruses that can cause the demise of the spirit, and remain distant from them, and if they display serious endeavors to be purified of them under the shower of repentance, penitence, and contrition when accidentally exposed to them, then God will replace their evil deeds with virtuous ones(25: 70). That is, He will change their faculties which enable evil deeds into enablers of virtuous deeds.

Despite its satanic characteristics such as haughtiness, arrogance, egotism, jealousy, injustice, and enmity, all of which break the wings of the spirit, the soul has a fundamental potential so important and valuable that it raises it to companionship of the spirit. Provided it grasps that its essential function, as required by its position, is to become a unit of measurement to recognize God—thereby abandoning arrogance and the accompanying self-assertive, self-aggrandizing claims; so long as it turns to God in worship and prayer and seeks refuge in Him from the potential evils in its nature, following the heart and the spirit on the way to reaching God, then the soul can advance to the highest of the high on the way together with its companions, namely the heart and the spirit.

Indeed, the soul is also of great importance for humans to maintain a metaphysical tension. It (the soul) is like a mainspring allowing them to rise from being only potentially human to true humanity. This continuously keeps them busy, without allowing them to have a rest. It ceaselessly sharpens the resolution of people to struggle against its negative characteristics, and causes those who have brains to frequently beat their brains out. When, finally, human nature is matured to the degree intended for its creation, the soul becomes a slave of the king of human existence—the heart—and adopts an attitude that is capable of feeling the need to warn it from time to time, saying, “Do not be proud, O my king! There is God, Who is greater than you!” You can call the soul which has reached this point of maturity after having gone through the filters of purification “the soul refined and grown in purity,” as stated in the following verses: And (by) the human soul and that (All-Knowing, All-Powerful, and All-Wise One) Who has formed it to perfection; and Who has inspired it with the conscience of what is wrong and bad for it, and what is right and good for it. He is indeed prosperous who has grown it in purity(91: 7-9).

Whatever you call it, the purified soul is the double of the spirit, continuously trying to keep away from evil, and always advancing toward good until it finally comes to a point where it abandons its basic mission—that is, being a powerful mechanism with negative aspects for human self- purification and perfection—to the nerves, extreme sensitivity, and other human temperaments. It begins to spend the remaining part of its life in the company and service of the spirit.

We have tried to explain in detail the stages of this journeying of the soul, which the Sufis experience in their spiritual journeying, under the titles of the Carnal, Evil-Commanding Soul, the Self-Condemning or Self-Accusing Soul, the Soul Receiving Inspiration, the Soul at Rest, the Soul Well-Pleased (with God, with however God treats it), the Soul Pleasing (to God), and the Perfected Soul, or the Purified or Innocent Soul. As the soul passes through these stages upward, the veils of darkness that veil human nature are torn apart one after the other. According to the degree of each, the rays of spirituality begin to shine on all sides of a human being, and an initiate or traveler thinks that they are floating in the elevated horizons of the inner, immaterial dimensions of existence.

Each of the stages mentioned above has a gift, pleasure, horizon, manner of expressiveness, and perception particular to itself. Sometimes the guide tells initiates at which stage they are, and sometimes sensitive, self-supervising initiates who are aware of themselves and lend an ear to the voice of their spirits are informed of their stage in a special way.

Even though the soul is mainly characterized by always commanding evil, when it undergoes an effective process of purification and is directed to obedience to its Lord, it can be transformed into a source of bright light, like the full moon receiving light from the sun. If, on the other hand, it is not purified, the fog and smoke of the lusts invade its horizon, and it suffers corruption under the influence of carnal thoughts and considerations, becoming so blind as not to be able to see into the transcendent dimension of existence. Then, the soul cannot continue its companionship with the spirit and becomes a marsh of evil in human nature, in conformity with the aspects of its nature, which is open to evil. Making use of certain weak spots in its owner, the soul attacks him from many fronts, and—may God preserve us—can knock him down with a single blow. The continuous request for forgiveness from God and prayer are important defenses against such attacks; the disciplines which have an important place in the spiritual journeying are a petition presented for Divine protection, and following the way of God’s Messenger, upon him be peace and blessings, strictly offers a reliable refuge. Further, restricting our consumption to absolutely essential human needs, silencing the soul by being content with legitimate pleasures, and incessantly warning the soul against illicit desires and appetites form another way of keeping it under strict control.

* * *

Basically, the soul is one of the faculties with which humans have been equipped. Provided that humans employ these faculties, which have been entrusted to them in their creation, in the direction established by their Creator, they greatly add to their value. For example, the eyes are windows for seeing things within their scope of sight; the ears are receptors and transmitters that receive and conduct sounds and voices at certain wavelengths to the brain; the tongue is an inspector of innumerable tastes, and the translator of thoughts and feelings. If the eyes are used to see things which are religiously permissible to observe, if the ears are kept closed to harmful, evil sounds and voices while transmitting the good ones, and if the tongue stirs up feelings of reflection on and thankfulness to the numberless bounties bestowed by God Almighty, and also acts in conformity with the Divine purpose for its creation as a means of speech—then individually and collectively these organs become wings for human beings to rise to human perfection. But if, on the contrary, the eyes busy themselves with those things that the Religion condemns as harmful or ugly, thus abandoning themselves to contamination; if the ears work like a telephone exchange for vices, receiving and transmitting that which is religiously forbidden; and if the tongue lives in attachment to the tastes it recognizes, in oblivion of its duty of inspection, and speaks without recognizing any criteria—then the wings of the heart are broken, and the spirit becomes as if nitric acid were poured into its eyes.

The soul is no different from the faculties mentioned above with respect to its duties and its fulfilling or not fulfilling them properly. If the soul is purified and preserved against working like a telephone exchange for Satan, then while being, by its primordial nature, a reptile- like creature crawling on the ground, it becomes like a dove flying over our heads, as if it has undergone a mysterious metamorphosis, and it is praised by the words of God Almighty: I swear by the self-accusing soul (75: 2). When it takes two steps further, it is honored with the breezes of appreciation: O, you soul at rest! Return to your Lord, wellpleased (with Him and His treatment of you), and well-pleasing to Him (89: 27-28), and establishes itself comfortably next to the spirit.

Thus, this hard-natured substance, more harmful than snakes and scorpions, which is described by the Divine statement as Surely the carnal, evil-commanding soul always and insistently commands evil (12: 53)—by asking God for forgiveness in awareness of its sins, by avoiding its faults due to repugnance, by trying to keep distant from unbelief, hypocrisy, vice, and transgression, by shuddering with fear that the favors coming when it is in an agreeable state may be a means of perdition, and, in a further attempt, by finding its true purification through always seeing itself as impure, this primordially hard-natured, evil-commanding substance can rise to great heights and approach the heavenly beings. The soul at this level, which philosophers call “the speaking self or soul,” and which the Qur'an describes as “the soul at rest,” has become such an earthly being able to rise to the horizon of the heart and the spirit and possessing angelic manners, that it begins to take pleasure in religious responsibilities, which previously it did not like and which were difficult for it to fulfill. The things which it found bitter up until this point have become sweet, and in parallel with its attaining this station, the cloud of dust and smoke over the spiritual intellect and the secret that was produced by corporeality has been completely removed. Things and events appear differently to its view, and time and again it experiences raptures with the call to Him it hears from every thing and event, thinking itself to be among the pure spirit beings in great joy.

A time comes when reason becomes like the heart, and its products take on the color of those of the spiritual intellect. An initiate with such a level of reason feels stunned by awe of God and advances full of the feeling of modesty; he sometimes becomes exhilarated with the showers of Divine gifts. The heart beats “God! God!”, combining this with the breaths of reason that utter, “O the All- Forgiving! O the All-Veiling (of His servants’ sins and shortcomings)!” The initiates at this level of reason hear the whole of creation mentioning God by His Names, and their breaths resound with Him. While, on the one hand, signals come to them from the horizon of the spiritual intellect, arousing them to the worlds beyond, on the other hand they feel great worry that the gifts may be interrupted and unexpected obstacles may come in between them and the Source of these gifts, causing them to turn to Him more frequently and more intimately, admitting that whatever good visits them is essentially from Him.

The zeal they feel is the zeal of the heart, and the sorrows they suffer are the sorrows of the sincerely penitent ones. While looking at their past with repugnance, they are revived and refreshed with the hope of a brighter future and the hope that they will be able to compensate for their past defects with future opportunities. They try to fill their past voids with heartfelt sighs and groans and with reflection and remembrance. While others are busy with a life of ease, thinking that they have already lived so before, they always try to do whatever they must on the way to God.

Such people always feel themselves to be in the presence of the Lord. They stand before Him in awe, bow before Him in utmost modesty, prostrate before Him with utmost humility, and sit before Him in self-supervision. They advance with utmost awe and care, and try to fulfill what is required by having reason in the company of the heart. They shudder with awe while thinking of Him, they breathe His mercy with reflection and remembrance of Him; they focus their observations on deepening their knowledge of Him with new discoveries, and their eyes twinkle with eagerness for reunion with the All-Beloved. They do not forget their defects, which are incompatible with servanthood to God, seeing them as precipices between them and their Lord; they entreat Him, saying, “Do not abandon me to myself, even for the blink of an eye!”

Now they have distanced themselves from Satan, but they also reinforce the barriers they have put before Satan’s inlets into their heart and continue to erect new ones. Whenever they remember Satan, they feel as if they are in the valley of bandits, and they always seek refuge in God, saying, “I seek refuge in You from the promptings and provocations of the satans; I seek refuge in You, my Lord, lest they be present with me!” (23: 97–98).

They never rely on themselves, their labor, or their deeds; they do not approve of their acts, and treat them with disdain. They are always troubled and shake like a tree in a storm with the worry that hypocrisy and expectation of others’ acceptance and appreciation have found, and do find, a way into even their best deeds. These considerations follow them ceaselessly along the way, until finally the soul is welcomed with the compliments, “O you soul at rest! Return to your Lord, well-pleased (with Him and His treatment of you), and well-pleasing to Him! Enter, then, among My servants (fully content with servanthood to Me)! And enter My Paradise!” (89: 27–30); while those who have dropped halfway groan with deep regrets, “Would that I had forwarded (some good deeds) for my life (to come)!” (89: 24). They are honored with surprising bounties of the Hereafter, and favored with many different gifts from the horizon of the heart.

They are treated thus because they have lived a life of austerity without being deceived by worldly pleasures, and they have advanced toward the horizon of the peace of the heart, spiritual contentment, and resignation to God’s treatment of them. They felt obliged to advance so, conscious of their essential impotence and poverty and their absolute need of Him. They have advanced and been favored with His special wealth. They have heard many things which other ears could not hear, and seen many things which other eyes could not see; they have experienced how the most honored of creatures—humanity—was created from wet clay, how matter rose almost to the level of the spirit, and how the evil-commanding soul developed into the soul at rest. With the pleasureof watching the smiling face of their fate, they have proceeded beyond space within space and toward the All-Beloved within corporeality, to the point where the invisible becomes visible.

The exacting people of truth and wisdom have seen the soul as we have so far tried to explain. If the Master of all domains had willed it to be so, there is none who could have willed or done otherwise. If He has dressed non- existence in the array of existence, why then should we wonder at “nothing” being “everything”? If He wills, He can make a drop into a sea, a minute particle into the sun, manifest thousands of instances of existence in non- existence, and bestow kingdoms upon those who initially have no trace of one.

O my God! Surely I ask You for a soul content with You, believing in meeting You, resigned to Your decrees, and content with Your bounties. And bestow blessings and peace on the most perfect and complete of the spirits, who is our master Muhammad, and Your beloved, and on His Family and Companions, whom You love!

[dentalrecordsmusic]

The Resurrection of My Chemical Romance: MCR’s Dark Catholicism

Words by Cae Rosch

On October 31, 2019, My Chemical Romance rose from the grave.

Resurrection isn’t a new theme for them, whether it’s in the salvation narrative the band was founded on (“We’re here to save kids’ lives”) or the pervasive undead monsters and heroes throughout their body of lyrics. The Return is another step in their decades-long salvation narrative. And that salvation narrative, one in which death is intimate and impending and necessary, one in which we come alive by shouting out our sorrows and sins like a cathartic confession to rock and roll, is deeply intertwined with a darkly Catholic perspective on the world.

It’s not new to talk about MCR as, on some level, a Catholic band - there’s already great writing about this. But the band took it to a whole new level even just with the concept of The Return, and so we have to take talking about it to a whole new level too.

We know the core members of the band come from Catholic backgrounds (specifically, for the most part, Italian-American Catholic, which is uncontestedly the most melodramatic mode of modern Catholicism). And like most people from Catholic backgrounds, there’s a complex and painful relationship there. As Gerard Way has said, “I was raised Catholic, which turned me off from religion because I had a very bad experience.” Yet in the same response, he remarked that he believed in God, even if it wasn’t in quite a Catholic way.

But that’s the thing: for the sake of this discussion, it doesn’t fucking matter if anyone believes. Regardless of the belief system you grow up to have, Catholicism isn’t something you just shake off, because it’s not simply an ideology - it’s a full-body, five-sense aesthetic world. It never fully departs your subconscious. Something, however small, lingers on your soul. That’s just as true of MCR as it is of your average Catholic or former Catholic on the street. And we can see it throughout their whole body of work.

The imagery is obvious. Song titles reference the Virgin Mary revered as Our Lady of Sorrows, lyrics are addressed to nuns and set in churches and graveyards, entire photoshoots center around Gerard Way as a rock and roll priest. The underlying narrative and its accompanying implied worldview, however, are a lot more subtle. 

C.S. Lewis, though not a Catholic, was operating within a Catholic context when he wrote in Mere Christianity, “The Church exists for nothing else but to draw men into Christ, to make them little Christs.” In the salvation narrative that began as soon as the band did, MCR act as little Christs themselves. But they act within one very specific moment in Christ’s own narrative: at the moment Jesus hangs on the cross, the ninth hour, when he cries out, “Ηλει ηλει λεμα σαβαχθανι” - “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabacthani?” My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? MCR’s dark Catholicism hurts.

At the very beginning of MCR, Gerard Way thought of it as a “mission from God” despite his own troubled relationship with Catholicism. He writes, “I even firmly believed in creating MCR… The mission involved helping people and battling the forces of evil, by using word and the purifying flames produced by Marshall Halfstack amplification.” This is a saintly mission, a mission of sacrifice. It shows clearly in their early lyrics.

On their first album, the two most Catholicly obvious songs are also the two most relevant to the band’s salvation narrative. Here, in “Vampires Will Never Hurt You,” the singer embraces the necessity of sacrifice to the point of death to save a beloved from the threat of a very Catholic monster. Vampires have a relationship with Catholicism nearly as fraught as MCR’s - Catholics make excellent monsters in the Protestant culture of early vampire literature, given their literal blood-drinking, yet Catholic iconography is also the most powerful weapon against vampires. Similarly, when Way sings, “And if they get me and the sun goes down into the ground / And if they get me, take this spike to my heart and… / You put the spike in my heart,” he becomes both savior and villain. He dies to himself and becomes a monster, abandoned by God (“Someone burned the church.”) 

The only hope for others’ salvation is for him to die. Yet similar to the forsaken Christ, he still desperately cries out for his own salvation when he sings, “And someone save my soul, tonight / Please save my soul.”

“Our Lady of Sorrows,” unsurprisingly, further emphasizes the band’s drive toward sacrifice in its depiction of sainthood (“the patron saint of switchblade fights”) as an act of defiant death for the sake of salvation (“Oh, how wrong we were to think / That immortality meant never dying.”) The violent juxtaposition of that switchblade imagery with the idea of sainthood shows an intense focus on the agony of salvation - fitting, in a song named for Our Lady of Sorrows, who is depicted weeping, with seven swords that represent the seven great agonies of her life piercing her heart.

Salvation is just as painful on Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge. The album and its associated era are extremely heavy on Catholic imagery in general (see the video for “Helena” and that one priest photoshoot, you know the one).

The album’s “Interlude” is a literal prayer for the intercession of the saints (“Saints protect her now,”) and it’s immediately followed by a song directly addressed to a nun - “Thank You for the Venom.” As in “Vampires Will Never Hurt You,” the singer accepts that his sacrifice will be painful when he sings, “So give me all your poison / And give me all your pills / And give me all your hopeless hearts / And make me ill.” He takes all this onto himself to the point of violent death - “If this is what you want / Then fire at will.”

But just as the figure of Christ, forsaken on the cross, shocks us with the sudden pain of his sacrifice, the singer once again juxtaposes religious and violent imagery to force us to be aware of the complexity of the saving act - sure, his sacrifice is saving people, but it’s fucking excruciating to die. When he sings “I keep a gun in the book you gave me / Hallelujah, lock and load” in the same song as a command to “fire at will,” we can’t see him as simply accepting his sacrifice like the complacent Jesus it would be simpler to remember. Instead, he is a “little Christ” to the Jesus who calls desperately for his father as he suffers and dies. “Give me a reason to believe,” Way cries, and we feel that same desperation.

This dynamic - MCR as the abandoned, agonized martyr violently saving people - builds up through their first two albums. In the 2006 single release of “Welcome to the Black Parade” and “Heaven Help Us,” it explodes.

It’s fitting that these songs are a single and its b-side because they express the two attitudes whose tension drives MCR’s entire narrative of martyrdom and salvation. “Welcome to the Black Parade” embraces the heroic aspect of the savior, victorious through and beyond death. “Heaven Help Us” is its tortured dark side - the savior’s moment of absolute pain, isolation, and loss of faith before that victory can begin.

“Welcome to the Black Parade” is the most explicit expression of the idea of salvation, beginning almost immediately with the request: “Would you be the savior of the broken / The beaten and the damned?” With this single release, MCR becomes completely upfront about how the thematic martyrdom in their lyrics matches up with the band’s verbalized desire “to save kids’ lives.” MCR know their fan base. Their fans are the bullied kids, the depressed kids, those struggling with trauma and addiction and anxiety - everyone society calls “broken.” It’s clear who’s stepping up to be those kids’ savior.

Though “Welcome to the Black Parade” doesn’t include the kind of explicit Catholic imagery that MCR’s previous records did, lyrics like “Do or die, you’ll never make me / Because the world will never take my heart / Go and try, you’ll never break me” demonstrate a profoundly Catholic attitude toward saving hearts and souls. No matter how much pain (and there’s clearly a lot) happens in this world, the heart persists. This song is about joyous suffering enabled by a heroic savior, about a defiant march past earthly oppression and into eternal victory. That’s pretty Catholic, my friends.

“Heaven Help Us” is about the actual pain that that savior must experience for “Welcome to the Black Parade” to have its victorious end. It’s the darker side of an already dark song.

It’s no accident that “Heaven Help Us,” while just as thematically Catholic as its A-side, is far more obvious about its Catholic imagery. Catholicism knows how to show us pain in a way that’s both beautiful and shocking. When your relationship with the Church itself is alienated and painful, that imagery comes out even more. 

“Heaven Help Us” begins with a melody that eerily parallels the classic Christmas carol “O Holy Night.” But it subverts the idea of a hymn, instead almost luxuriating in sprawling religious abandonment. Its imagery is viscerally bloody - “‘Cause mostly I’ve been sprawled on these cathedral steps / While spitting out the blood and screaming / Someone save us.” The lyrics invite sacrifice (“‘Cause I’ll give you all the nails you need / Cover me in gasoline”) but also call out with the desperation of the abandoned (“And the punchline to the joke is asking / Someone save us.” 

“Heaven Help Us” is a cry born from fear and resignation to abandonment. “Would you pray for me / Or make a saint of me?” becomes horrifyingly ironic when we remember how fast the path to sainthood is for martyrs - it’s almost automatic once they’re murdered. This singer isn’t the defiant hero of “Welcome to the Black Parade.” This singer is dying, alone, prayers unanswered.

And the thing about Catholicism is that both of those figures are equally Christ. Seeds of MCR’s dark salvation narrative persist throughout their discography. Even on Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, “Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back” offers salvation through sacrifice right there in the title. The release of “Welcome to the Black Parade” / “Heaven Help Us” harvests what those seeds all grow up to become - the image of Christ, forsaken. It’s the moment where the pain of fraught relationships with Catholicism crystallizes in support of the band’s mission: going forth into the world to save kids’ lives. But apparently, it wasn’t enough to leave it there.

When MCR formed, the US was a horrific place to live for a whole lot of people. The band started in 2001, and so did the shift of the Bush administration into outright pseudo-fascism. Take it from me, a young teenager of the 2000s - that was not a good time to be a depressed kid, a gay kid, a traumatized kid, any kind of religious or ethnic minority. That was a very specific cultural context, one in which MCR needed to mold themselves into the salvific figure of an alienated rock and roll “little Christ” to save a world of equally alienated kids.

They’re now reemerging in the renewed horror of the Trump administration: the Bush administration on steroids. There’s a whole lot of alienated kids who need saving. And now, at least this one savior is back.

We may not have any new music, but the imagery of MCR’s Return situates them firmly back in their dark Catholic milieu. They announced their return accompanied by a photo of Pasquale Rizzoli’s “Cella Magnani,” a funerary statue in which an angel draws the soul of a dead woman into the celestial blue of its mosaic backdrop. The new logo, in which the letters “MCR” are written in a medieval Protogothic script, situates us back in MCR’s familiar black-and-white color scheme. In combination with “Cella Magnani,” it also places us in the medieval mode of memento mori - an aesthetic practice beginning in medieval Catholicism in which actively remembering your death helps you prepare your soul to die in a state of grace. (Side note: “Welcome to the Black Parade” is included on a popular memento mori-themed playlist curated by a nun.)

A lot of the effectiveness of memento mori comes from the Catholic perspective on the resurrection of the dead - the idea that someday, Christ will rise again and enact ultimate, perfect justice, giving everybody (and every body) exactly what they deserve. So in light of that, MCR’s Return narrative is itself a Catholic salvation narrative. MCR might not literally mean it that way, but in their own small way, this Return lets us hope that someday real justice will come. Someday, someone we trust will come to judge everyone and not even death will stop it. 

With their return, MCR’s dark Catholicism helps us remember that this is a band bent on saving lives - our lives. For people like us, MCR has spent 18 years building up the idea of a forsaken-Christ figure that exists specifically to save our lives - and that idea rising from the grave is pretty comforting.

Cae Rosch has been listening to MCR since 2004 and cries about Our Lady of Sorrows (the religious figure and the song) at least 18 times a day. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram.

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[allgirlsareprincesses]

Why I need Reylo to happen and Ben Solo to live in TROS:

I have two stories to tell that will hopefully explain why I’m not neutral about the ending of The Rise of Skywalker. I mean, I’d love to temper my expectations and say that I’ll be happy no matter how it ends, but that’s not true because this story has become intensely personal for me.

Most Reylos and even many members of the general audience agree that the Sequel Trilogy is being told from a feminine perspective. Maybe you hate it and can’t stop whinging about Kathleen Kennedy’s “man-hating agenda” *eyeroll* or maybe your reaction is more F*CKING FINALLY, but either way, the centering of a female protagonist and the fact that Leia is the only surviving member of the OT trio going into TROS clearly demonstrate that it is their hopes and dreams that are driving the story. We have to ask ourselves, what does Rey want, and will she get it? What does Leia want, and will she get it?

**Major trigger warnings for abandonment, loss of parents, terminal illness, suicide mention, and loss of child. Please take care of yourself and skip this post if need be.**

Rey, we know, is an abandoned child. Left alone on a barren planet to pick through the bones of the fallen Empire, she had to fend for herself when she was at her most vulnerable, with no one to comfort her and only the delusional belief that her family would return for her to keep her going despite the intense loneliness. She did find friends in BB-8, Finn, and Han, but Han was quickly snatched away and she left poor Finn in a coma to go find Luke Skywalker. Her story was clearly unfinished by the end of The Force Awakens, her loneliness unassuaged and her growth merely beginning. If friendship were truly all she needed to be whole, then her story would have been over then.

I have a friend, whom let’s call E, an only child whose mother died of cancer when she was a teenager. Now that she is in her 30s, E’s father just passed away as well. She now finds herself orphaned, except everyone treats her like it’s not as big a deal because she’s an adult. But she has no partner, no children, no siblings, not even a roommate, and even her cat has recently passed away. The remaining family she does have is distant and seems mostly to judge her or to want her to conform to their idea of who she should be, how she should grieve, etc. E does have a few good friends, but they are all married and/or have children and this is a constant and painful reminder to E that she does NOT have a family like this. She suffers daily, furious that people act like she should be content with just friends. She tries to explain over and over that there is nothing that compares to a partner, someone with whom she could share the deepest physical and spiritual intimacy, who would choose her and be devoted to her, and into whom she could pour all of the love she has to give. She tries further to explain that even if she puts her friends first, they can’t put HER first because she is not their spouse nor their children; there is no one on earth for whom SHE comes first. E is on medication for depression and anxiety, and has had to back out of her friends’ weddings when they triggered a panic attack. As her friend, I feel powerless to help her in her bottomless loneliness, because I know I can’t give her the one thing she needs, which is the companionship of a romantic partner.

This is Rey. Scarred by the loss of her family and a lifetime without intimate companionship, she cannot be healed by friendship alone when those friends will still inevitably have families who come first. She can’t find intimacy with people who don’t relate to her infinite loneliness and feelings of worthlessness. She shouldn’t HAVE to hold parts of herself back, to give her heart but not her body, or her powers but not her soul. Rey, as the hero of the story, deserves to have what she wants most, and what she wants is a family. As an orphaned adult, the only way she will have a family is to find a soulmate, someone who will be bound to her in every way, who can give her children and hope for the future. Not every woman wants this, but many do and Rey certainly does. Rey’s journey constantly centers around LIFE and CONNECTION: she is overwhelmed by the verdant green of Takodana, and surrounded always by life-giving, feminine water. She has connections to every person she meets, but especially to Ben Solo, whom she can touch even across space and time, PHYSICALLY touch because that has meaning, more than simply seeing one another. As a character, Rey is written to experience the fullness of life with an intimate romantic partner, and there is only one person in the story who is her equal. Reylo has to happen for Rey’s journey to reach a satisfying conclusion, and for Star Wars to remain true to its message of hope.

Then there is Leia. Throughout the entire saga, she is the symbol of hope. When Padme lies dying, her children become her hope for the future. Years later, Leia carries the hope of the Rebellion as she escapes Scarif with the Death Star plans. She brings hope to her brother Luke. Her hope helps her rescue Han Solo from Jabba the Hutt, and then again help the Rebellion to victory on Endor. Her hope helps build the new Republic, found the Resistance, search for Luke, beg Han to reach their son, and continue leading the Resistance even when they are beaten and dwindling.

And through it all, Leia has suffered loss after loss.... after loss. Her parents, childhood friends, home, everything and everyone she ever knew or loved.... were snuffed out in an instant when Alderaan was destroyed. That’s honestly a loss on a scale that is unimaginable. It’s like being made an orphan a thousand times over, because everything that might have been a happy memory is gone. She suffered repeated losses throughout the Galactic Civil War, and saw many soldiers go to their deaths. Her son was lost to the Dark Side, her brother abandoned her, her husband left, and then her son killed her husband. Next, she lost more loyal soldiers, and when Luke suddenly returned, he passed away, too. Given all of that, what does Leia still want? What COULD she still want?

For years, I have followed a blogger on social media. Let’s call her L. Like E, her life has been marked by loss: she never knew her father, had an absent and abusive mother, became pregnant at a young age by a man who did not stay with her, and so was a single teenaged mother of a baby boy by the time she was seventeen. L experienced failed romances, had more children, stepchildren, and grandchildren, and experienced several of those children pulling away from her. Finally, her beloved aunt and uncle, who had cared for her throughout her difficult childhood and were more like parents to her, passed away within the same year. Only a few months later, her eldest son, now a young man, committed suicide at home.

Many people choose to grieve privately. L did not, and her pain.... there really aren’t words. I felt that I could not turn away, that I had to witness what she shared and know, even a little bit, the depths of human suffering. I have a young son, and as I watched L share pictures of her little boy around a similar age.... I could only think that none of us is immune from such loss. At any moment, our children could be snatched away in the cruelest of ways, and what would we not do to bring them back? Worse, if possible, for L was acknowledging the historic family cycles of trauma that had contributed to her son’s despair. She found herself asking if she shared any responsibility for his death, and wondering if she had failed him as a mother. She knew on a conscious level that his choices were his own, but still the doubt and guilt gnawed at her. Agony upon agony, sorrow upon sorrow, a horrible unending night.

L is very religious. Understandably, she had a crisis of faith after her son’s death, not least because she did not know if his suicide meant they would be separated even in eternity. She studied, prayed, and consulted with spiritual advisors for years, and eventually concluded that his soul is not in her hands, and so all she can do is hope. She will pray and hope that he is waiting for her in heaven, and live her life in such a way that she will be reunited with him after death. L still has doubts and moments of deep darkness, especially as she sees the painful ripples from her son’s loss spread into her marriage, her children’s lives, her grandchildren’s lives. But she survives with hope for reunion, and I believe in a benevolent God who will give her her heart’s desire.

Star Wars MUST give Princess Leia Organa, its avatar of hope, the one remaining wish of her heart. When everything and everyone else in the galaxy whom she has loved has been taken from her, she MUST have this one thing. Her hope for her beloved son Ben must not be in vain. The Force has to reward Leia with everything she desires for Ben: his return to the Light, his return to life, the joy and love which every mother wishes for her child. For all that the Skywalker family has suffered in their long darkness, their last son must live the full life they have all been denied. And Leia - Daughter, Princess, Leader, Lover, Mother - must have the ultimate victory. Nothing else will satisfy.

I know this all sounds very melodramatic but I don’t give a damn. E and L deserve the fantasy wish fulfillment that may not be granted them in this life. Star Wars, at its best, can do this, and that’s why I love it.

[polyfacetious]

kingofdirtandnothing said: ❝ Do you know why the Gods demand blood? … Because the Gods don’t bleed. ❞

The Road to El Dorado

It all goes to hell in a hand basket in a matter of days, and Klaus cannot believe it himself, but it’s likely he would have been better off following Cortés to Cuba than staying in the relative “safety” of Tenochtitlán. 

It may not have been a stress free environment, but at least they had a minimal guarantee of food and water while they were playing hosts to the actual Emperor of the city. A tiny occupying force surrounded by thousands of warriors, kept safe only by the walls of Moctezuma’s gigantic palace.

But with their leader gone, it was only a matter of time before stupidity and impatience won over. And it all comes to a head with de Alvarado’s brilliant plan to take “the savages” out during their religious holiday. 

Because, clearly, thousands of warriors cease to be a threat the second they take a break to lay down their arms and worship their gods. Especially while their comparatively tiny Spanish (ish) force is holed up inside a palace, with miles to go to the edges of the city. Not to mention the fact that said city is in the middle of a huge lake, with only a few roads connecting it to the mainland.

Easy escape routes all around!

Klaus would have told them all this was folly in the extreme, but what does he know? He’s an Austrian-born sailor with little to no experience in battle. Nothing to counter the awesome might and strategic talent of the Spaniards.

Though, it seems, someone failed to make their hosts aware of the fact, as they are now rightfully enraged and trying to slaughter them all for the blood that was shed during their sacred holiday. 

An eye for an eye is a world-wide concept! Who’d have thunk it?

Klaus is currently glad that he took a right instead of a left somewhere, as he can hear the clashing of swords and dying screams somewhere behind him. He’s also mostly glad that he didn’t have time to put on his ill-fitting armor, because that means he’s faster than the rest of the men who truly thought they could defeat an entire city of thousands of people from the inside.

He turns a corner into a narrow alley, and presses his back to the cool stone, chest heaving with every panting breath, his heart racing so fast in his ribcage he can hear it between his ears, like a war drum.

(Though, maybe those are drums.)

He closes his eyes as he catches his breath, blind to the chaos enfolding around him. Though, sadly, not deaf.

A terrified scream yanks him from his state of denial, and Klaus peers around the corner to find a small child crying. She’s tiny, barely old enough to stand on her own, let alone run away from the man who just cut her mother down in the street. 

Klaus knows him. It’s Ibáñez. He was the first to stand with Pedro de Alvarado when he called them all to arms to attack a city in prayer. The woman bleeding out on the ground is unarmed, and he can see from the look in the man’s face that he has no intention of stopping for an innocent child either.

“¿Qué coño haces?” Klaus calls out before he can stop himself, running out of his hiding place to ram into Ibáñez. The weight of his armor works against him, and the man falls on his ass in surprise. But he’s all but foaming at the mouth with rage, and Klaus knows better than to think he’ll stop to discuss his actions.

He makes a decision before he can think twice about it, and picks up the little girl in his arms before taking off at a run.

The baby cries loudly, but Klaus can’t stop to reassure her, or slow down his run at all as he ducks into the nearest alley to get out of his former comrade’s line of sight. He avoids going in a straight line, but he will have to stop before long, or his legs will give out and that’s both him and the little girl falling flat on the ground. 

He ducks into what looks like a hen house, startling several of their odd birds into gurgles, Klaus shushes them breathlessly and gently puts the little girl down in a mound of straw. She whimpers, and starts crying again, reaching for him with chubby little hands that just about break Klaus’ heart.

This is all wrong. This is not why Klaus left home. This is not what he wanted to escape towards.

His throat feels tight, and he shushes the little girl with a shuddering breath, looking into those big dark eyes and hoping to God they’re both safe here. He just needs to make sure there’s no bad men outside, as he informs the little toddler. She doesn’t understand a word, he knows, but she stays blissfully quiet as Klaus stands to check the streets outside their temporary shelter.

That’s as far as he makes it before the cries start again, and Klaus looks over his shoulder to try and shush her gently.

He doesn’t see the man approaching until he feels the toothed bite of an Aztec blade tear into his chest, and Klaus’ hitched breath gurgles with blood as he falls onto the bed of straw and bird shit.

The baby keeps crying, and Klaus turns his head as agony ripples through him, green eyes clouding over as he reaches for the little thing, trying to shush her softly through a mouthful of blood.

He should have stayed home. Should have followed his father’s wishes and become a priest. Should have stayed and listened to his mother sing Spanish lullabies.

Klaus Fuchs dies with a heart that aches for home, and tears that drift from glassy green eyes and paint tracks over dirt and blood all the way onto the straw.

His last thought is for the little girl. At least she was found by one of her own. At least she’ll be safe now.