#the gap between the world i grew up in and its intolerances

[aikainkauna]

Sorry I haven’t been giffing/posting/reglobbing much lately, guys. It’s that behemoth of a fic swallowing up all my sitting-upright time (and a big chunk of my reclining time). Four chapters or so to go and I’m still spending about 7-11 hours every day combing the remaining text for typos (yes, some of us actually do care about our fics and don’t think it’s some dirty “trashy,” “guilty pleasure” of less value), so it’s a full-time job with overtime. So if I’m slow to respond to anything, it’s that. I’m sure that soon enough, the post-fic existential emptiness will be upon us and you’ll be seeing more gifs and tag yelling.

Although it’s just been so quiet among the nice people here and so loud among the idiots that I might just take several steps back from Tumblr in general, just for my mental health. There seems little point in making gifs nobody reblogs and saying anything when it’s drowned out by the types who give liberals a bad name (honestly, some of the shit people say on here would already have made me a Nazi were I a bloke, because apparently nothing is ever enough and I’ll always be Doing it Wrong anyway; you’re not making tolerance seem worthwhile, if you nevertheless beat the tolerant person up for wearing the wrong types of socks).

I’m still looking for that fandom old people’s home, so if you find it, that place where people are old enough to have some fucking perspective, do let me know.

This whole place is eerily reminiscent of an abusive relationship where you’re constantly having to tiptoe because you never know when the next explosion is going to come and where from, what sort of utterly random thing someone is going to call abusive now and beat you up for, even if you’ve been working hard not to upset them, have made deliberate choices to accommodate them because you know their wounds. It’s like Borderline Personality Disorder, but in the form of a website. (And yes, I know first-hand what BPD is like. Had the spouse, had the flatmate, had the fuckbuddies, had the friends.) And the worst thing about BPD is that it’s catching: being around a human minefield makes everyone jumpy, and then *their* jumpiness becomes tyrannical towards others (when the hurt person is just self-defending, they feel) and then the cycle continues. Everybody is paranoid and beating everybody up in the name of great justice, and undermining everyone else’s psyches to the point where they become human minefields themselves. And they don’t know how to stop that cycle, if they’re in denial about having a problem, because of course, if you hurt and lash out, you’re just defending yourself. (Being told you’re a shitty person for freaking out at a trigger is worse than being triggered. Good luck trying to crawl out of that into any semblance of health, if you feel you’re just an explosive piece of crap forever.)

And while I know I can help a bit by stepping outside of that and offering fic and pics and lols where people can forget about it all, I’m still in two minds about offering it in a direction where the recipient is never going to be happy anyway, and where the effort is (or seems) wasted as long as the receiving end isn’t doing any conscious healing/rebuilding itself to better appreciate healthier things. It does nothing. Why am I buying medicine for someone who abuses me for it and throws the bottle in my face? I’ve been there, trying to please people who were locked up in their traumas and paranoias, throwing all my love and effort and work at them to no avail because I thought I could help; I’m not keen on doing it again. Because now I’m old enough to know I’m wasting my time, as brutal and as “selfish” that sounds (how about calling it “self-preservation?” “Sanity?” “Kindness to oneself?” I know women are beaten out of daring to have that, for daring to even think their lives aren’t meant to be lived for other people, but fucking watch me go).

Just like partners and friends aren’t the same as professional help, fandom isn’t the ultimate cure for depression/trauma unless there’s an inner change in the ill person to better utilise it. I was that ill person and I had to go through a lot of therapy and growth to not become a 24/7 abusive bitch myself (I still have shitty hypersensitivities, but those are in-built–they’re bad enough). I changed the way I see fannish activities (I now really do see them as medicine), and only then could I enjoy them to the fullest and only then could I start writing really good fic, because it comes from a firm ground of faith in the inherent value of fic. It’s a really complicated thing to explain, the interrelationships of fandom, queer people and mental health (there should be a book on fandom/queerdom and mentalness–we are wonky in the head, sometimes fucking awfully so, and it’s *not* all due to persecution but genes).

But my gist is that there’s no point in endlessly remaining in a draining relationship with someone who doesn’t want to heal–Tumblr’s anxiety-mongering culture of self-hate, ahoy! One has to pick one’s “battles” and channel one’s energy somewhere where it’s actually going to bear fruit. Not on a site that says the phrase “I don’t discriminate by colour” is racist, or that a feminist, mixed-race royal princess “isn’t enough” or that a given sexual minority gets to rule it over everyone else. Not on a site full of kids who are too young/American to have known *real* homophobia and racism, and who don’t realise that for most people, in the real world, even not being racist or homophobic is a *choice.*

Which is why I miss that supportive community of other brainy, feminist and reasonable fans who actually had conversations so. Fucking. Much. Where are they? (DW is where the militant vegan lesbian sociopath SJWs went, and if you’re not keen on eternal frowny moral meta, ehhh.)

Where’s the actual fun? Where are the other fans who are old enough to have been through therapy and who have experienced real relationships and have known actual real “minority” people IRL, and who consequently have an open mind about things? Who can see that things really aren’t as black and white as they thought they were when they were in their teens? Where are the fans who know something about psychology and psychiatry? The ones who know how gendered socialisation works and just how deep it goes, and who aren’t fans of Tumblr essentialism and its blindness to gender-based toxins? The fans who actually understand and respect the intelligence of other fans, instead of kneejerk assumptions of ignorance and moral corruption? The fans who legit don’t think a Gen X writer who forgot to use–or simply didn’t know about the existence of–a new politically correct term, is as evil as Hitler (because ignorance=/=active, intentional oppression, Jesus!)? The fans who respect the labor that goes into fanfic and fanart and always leave comments or otherwise support fan creators, instead of thinking of writers as vending machines for something “dirty” they feel ashamed for reading?

Because I’m that kind of “old” fan and I’ll be there for you if you’re there for me.

I just need to know where the fuck you are!

[eganantiquus]

Capitalism: Its Effects on Heaven, Hell, and a Few Others // A Good Omens Meta

I think the discussion about capitalism in Good Omens is a very interesting one to have- specifically in how it relates to Heaven and Hell. I saw a post about it recently, about the Quartermaster saying Heaven would “take the sword out of [Aziraphale’s] celestial wages,” which begs the question: does Heaven have money? A system of checks and balances on the Angels’ miracles, perhaps? Heaven is, after all, the original monopoly. But how does that affect them? Or affect Hell, for that matter? (Keep in mind, I will primarily be discussing events and dialogue from the TV show, as that’s the canon I’m most familiar and comfortable with extrapolating on.) So let’s move out a bit to take stock of the bigger picture. First of all in this discussion, let’s remember that the entire structure of Heaven and Hell blatantly showcases the shittiest parts of capitalism. As a reminder, the cons of capitalism can include: a monopoly on trade, goods, or services; social/emotional necessities ignored in the pursuit of profit; lack of concern for the environment; driving need for exponentially increased profit, allowing no space for slip-ups or less-profitable cycles; Inherited wealth, and big gaps in economic equality, which creates social divisions, which cause people to resent their fellow citizens. Let’s first take a look at something we’re all familiar with. Heaven’s and Hell’s relationship with Crowley and Aziraphale. Both Heaven and Hell have an inherent monopoly on basically everything, which is something we see both Crowley and Aziraphale struggling with in different ways throughout history. They want to exist outside of the hierarchy, but there literally isn’t any outside. In terms of social/emotional needs… do I need to go into the trauma and anxiety that Heaven and Hell instill in Crowley and Aziraphale? A post for another time. And it’s apparent, however much they try to hide it, that both of them fear authority, and would do practically anything to get away from it. So, they wiggle out from under it in whatever ways they can. (See: the “arrangement,” Crowley’s “there��s more to evil than killing people, eh?” and Aziraphale’s “Well, if you put it that way, Heaven couldn’t actually object… ”) Lack of concern for the environment can be extrapolated to Heaven and Hell’s lack of care for humanity. (See also, uh, nuclear Armageddon.) Inherited wealth/prestige is definitely a thing: see the Archangels lording their power over the lower Principalities. There’s a bit more room for mobility in Hell, where doing more evil deeds = more prestige & (...dis)honor? Anyway, this is where Hell begins to deviate. Exponential need for profit in Heaven and Hell translates to their increasing intolerance of Aziraphale’s *ahem* lies. Hell is more lenient in this area too- perhaps because of their disorganization. So Heaven and Hell are capitalistic. But in what capacity, and what is the effect on their respective denizens? In practice, who’s the winner in this capitalistic structure? Hell isn’t, no matter how inherently hellish capitalism might be. They’re clearly the losers in this situation- they’ve got terrible service, (see: Hastur having to “[wait] for maintenance to come and fix another bloody pipe,”* and the Demon Eric’s “we don’t get this view down in the basement.”) lack the organization to rise up against Heaven, (see: the frankly concerning lack of organized preparation for The Great War) and are constantly put down. They all have to fight for their positions, and are intimately familiar with what the failure to succeed in this “business” means. Not to mention that their entire hierarchy is performance driven, showing the capitalistic values they, for lack of a better term, grew up in, are still ingrained in all their practices. Heaven is at the top of an office building, has views of the entire world, is clean and obviously well organized. It’s clear what the hierarchy is there- everyone walks in lines, Gabriel always stands slightly in front of Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon, all of the higher Angels we see interact with Aziraphale treat him like he’s less than them. Heaven clearly benefits from the organization and driving force that capitalism provides, while Hell is just getting by.

To dive further into what the effects of capitalism are on Heaven and Hell, let’s go into depth more about Heaven and Hell’s respective war preparation to analyze their motivations.

Hell’s war preparations are disorganized, at best. All the Demons of Hell, gathered around two ‘generals,’ getting ready to hear a pep talk best described as being far from premeditated or sophisticated. On top of this, the second something goes wrong, Beelzebub says it. Just like that, to all the Demons. It makes me cringe every time I watch it, to see the rest of the Demons turn to each other and wonder if they’re following the right leader. The thing about this, though, is that they don’t have another option for a leader. This is the place for the people who couldn’t make it in Heaven, the outcasts and Fallen, so they don’t care. There’s nowhere else for anyone to go. Hell is far more transparent about their hate, their evil, but also about their vulnerability. Perhaps not individual vulnerability, (see: Crowley needing to be Cool and Collected at every moment) but in their overall anxieties and problems, Hell is very transparent. There is no need to hide the problems Hell has, because there’s no worse place to go. In this way, Hell has accepted their fate at the bottom of the totem pole.

Now let’s talk about Heaven’s war preparations. When Aziraphale arrives prematurely in Heaven, his “whole platoon” is “waiting” for him. So, Heaven has an organized war effort. They have uniforms. They have someone checking everyone in, putting them into place. (Where do they all line up to go to war? Where does the war Occur?? Questions for another time.) However, here is the interesting part: Heaven’s whole spiel to get everyone motivated, unlike Hell, is based on fear. While Hell brings up the actual motive for fighting, saying “we lost” and “we have had thousands of years to… get smarter,” Heaven tells Aziraphale that he’s a “coward” if he doesn’t fight, while not providing any reason besides ‘he’s supposed to.’

Here lies the beginning of the difference between Heaven and Hell: their motivators. Now let’s talk about how they carry out justice, and how that is an indicator of the effects of capitalism on them both.

Hell’s trial for Crowley is a mockery of the word, let’s be perfectly clear. They don’t provide him with a defense, and have an implicitly biased jury. However, it is a trial. A trial with evidence presented against him, a prosecutor, and a judge, and everything. What’s so interesting to me, about this, is that they don’t think for a minute that there wouldn’t be a trial. If they had thought such a thing was possible, they would have taken the opportunity. But they didn’t think of it. And that is what is so important here. Hell is the one that carries out a just trial. And I think that really speaks to their experiences as the Fallen. They know what no mercy looks like, what it is to be cut off from God’s love, with no hope for recompense. And, however evil they are, they know how much that hurts. Hell is just because they were given no justice. 

Heaven, on the other hand? There’s no preamble to Aziraphale’s “trial.” There isn’t even a trial. There’s just the characteristic fake-niceties boiled down to their basest component: a complete lack of empathy for anyone who deviates from the norm. (See Gabriel’s “into the flames,” and “don’t talk to me about the ‘greater good,’ sunshine.”). And, oh yeah by the way, what kind of good and just society uses capital punishment? Isn’t that the exact sort of thing Heaven should be above? I should sure hope so! Their believed moral code, the idea that because they’re Angels, divinely Chosen by God, that whatever they do is predestined to be right, has all the flavor of a strong dictatorship. So convinced are they of their superiority that even outright capital punishment is not below them. This is an interesting contrast to their motivation of fear that we looked at in the previous section. Perhaps higher Angels use fear to keep Angels in line, but feel exempt from the process itself. Very similar to the way big CEO's in the human business world accumulate wealth and power while their workers work paycheck to paycheck.

So Heaven is fundamentally bad, and Hell is fundamentally… good?

Not quite. 

Both Heaven and Hell are operating under the millennia of repressed trauma and baggage that came with the first war. For example, let’s look at their refusal to see nuance in the issue of war Take a look at Gabriel’s “We can fight! And we can win!” to Aziraphale and Beezlebub’s “Don’t you want to rule the world?” to Adam. They can’t comprehend that someone would want to, or, for that matter, could look at the structure of The Way Things Are and go, ‘No, this is not for me, I think I’ll just do this quietly over her instead.’ Heaven and Hell have each been indoctrinated in their own ways, by God and by Heaven and by their own inability to look past their instructions.

So, Heaven and Hell operate under the guidelines of a capitalistic system because of their respective experiences with authority and punishment.  

What does this say about Crowley and Aziraphale? That they’ve managed to dodge this system (mostly) altogether, and made one of their own… based purely on joy, mutual respect, and They still have their issues, (See: Being unable to communicate effectively. When? Oh, just for all of history) but for the most part, they’re living their own lives. It takes an especially strong will to stand up to a faulty administration, even if the standing up part consists of drinking a lot of wine, sliding around killing people, and consorting with an enemy who’s actually quite nice. It takes what a lot of Angels and Demons, simply put, don’t have. Like Hastur, who doesn’t have an “imagination.” Crowley invented one for himself. Crowley and Aziraphale practically invented free will for themselves, too. Part of their ability to so wholly reject their ‘upbringing,’ if you will, must be connected to the fact that they spend so much time around humans. If we go with TV show canon, they’re practically the only ethereal/occult entities that are on Earth for any long period of time. Of course they’re going to catch on from the humans. So Crowley and Aziraphale are the only celestial beings who have been able to get free of this terrible system, and so are able to better ‘guide’ the humans, which inevitably leads them to attempting to stop armageddon. (And of course, the apocalypse, according to Aziraphale, is something no “reasonable person would permit!”)

This brings us to the humans. Specifically, how Heaven is supposed to guide them. Heaven doesn’t, insofar as we are aware, care about the humans. Perhaps other Angels do, ones who have walked among them. But for the most part, especially with Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon- the people in charge- the humans are an afterthought. They’re one knight on the chessboard, easily moved, taken, and discarded- perhaps with a bit of regret, but dispensable all the same. In this way, the exponential growth mindset that Heaven has goes to show just how far they’ve deviated from God’s design. Now, far be it from me to speculate on the nature of the Ineffable Plan, but as far as I’m aware, the Angels were created to love humanity, and to nurture them. Doesn’t sound like what they’re doing at all, does it?

So in this way, we can see that both Heaven and Hell have gotten the short end of the metaphorical capitalism stick. Hell, at the bottom of the ranks, desperate to climb back up and regain their glory, but unable to do so because of the weight of their Falling trauma; Heaven, in all its Jeff Bezos glory, unable to see the consequences of their actions close up because of their disassociation with “reality.” 

Capitalism and economics in general are incredibly nuanced things, and I do not at all pretend to fully understand them. However, I fully enjoy imagining how the complex dynamics of Good Omens universe Heaven and Hell deal with the repercussions of existence and their own actions through the lens of capitalism.

*side note from paragraph seven: I think maintenance work would be a more fitting job for Crowley and Aziraphale, and frankly, I would love to read a fic about that.

[historiesandmemories]

starter for @lexpxrdus​

Lisette had been tracking them since the beginning. At first, she’d been more than content to ignore the ever occurring dream with its recurring cast of characters and her peculiar intolerance of death as she continued her spy work for the revolution, but when one of the figures from her dream was suddenly walking the same streets as her, the issue seemed to be unavoidable. She’d thought about approaching them, questioning them, hoping they had the answered that filled her mind when the world grew solitary and quiet, but just before she got close enough, she balked, slipping into the shadows like she constantly had during the war. From then on, she kept her distance, finding one or two of them occasionally and observing, but never getting close enough to engage them. 

This went on for years, centuries. Lisette darted in and out of history, putting her spy skills to good use when she saw fit, but otherwise keeping back and following these people who seemed never to die, just like her. One day her loneliness or curiosity or bother would catch up to her, she was sure, but Lisette was always distracted by another spying opportunity before these feelings grew too strong.

But now, as she wandered the streets just far enough away from one of them to easily slip into a crowd or into a doorway to avoid being noticed, she was more compelled then ever to stop them and seek explanations. Anxiety filled her steps and was beginning to wrap a strangle hold around her throat as she began to close the gap between herself and the person, but Lisette refused to stop now. It had been too long, it was time for answers.

Reaching forward, she gently tapped them on the shoulder, holding her breath as she waited for their attention. “I’m sorry to interrupt your walk,” she said, “But I think you and I need to talk.”

[lookbluesoup]

Whumptober 3 - Delirium

Aaaand here it is, the second excerpt from Nate and Piper’s ill-fated match against Courser Z2. You can read the first part here!

Probably one of my favorite whumptober prompts so far! ��� It hurts though :’D

-------

Nate found only a single stimpack in Piper’s bag outside Greentech. “This all we have?”

Piper nodded. “Used - the rest at Ha-angman’s Alley.”

Right. Of course he remembered that. “Okay. Try not to pick anymore fights between here and Goodneighbor, then.”

“You know me, Blue.” She wheezed, “No - promises.”

Gingerly peeling his vest - her makeshift bandage - away to expose the wound in Piper’s gut, Nate swallowed. It was wet and sticky and reeked of iron. That’s too much. She barely flinched at the stab of the needle, and another cold spear of dread pierced his chest. One stim would be a stop-gap at best, but he hoped the cocktail of medicine might stave the bleeding off long enough to give her a fighting chance. Hands trembling faintly, she clutched the bandage back to her wound. 

Strategy became very simple. He didn’t bother taking their bags. It was an extra burden and none of the contents could keep her alive in the next hour. He even left his rifle behind, unwilling to risk the exhaustion its weight would bring - but kept her pistol close. Night fell quickly, and blood might draw hunters.

Watchfulness was his best defense. Nate clung to the shadows. Scrutinized every silhouetted rubble and broken window. Sometimes he thought he saw the glint of eyes looking back, or heard the shuffle of bricks close behind. Nothing challenged them. A wind too cold for the season echoed through the ghostly streets. Otherwise, it was quiet. 

Piper was watching, too, but seemed to be having trouble focusing on anything in particular. Every now and then her teeth would grit over unsteady terrain. 

It was safer, he knew, to stay silent. Sound carried further at night. Smart soldiers kept their mouth shut on enemy soil. But the drooping of Piper’s eyelids was like a fist around his heart. What if she slipped away in the dark, without another word? 

She won’t. She’ll be fine. He’d get her to help in time.

But the silence still felt intolerable. Too familiar. Too uncanny. Unsafe.

“How you feelin’?” He finally prompted as they crossed the open stretch of Longfellow bridge into Boston. If anything was within earshot, it would have already seen them by now.

“... Like I’ve been stabbed.” 

Nate breathed a laugh. “Amari’s gonna get you patched up and back on your feet faster than you can say ‘McDonough’s a synth.’ Okay?” 

“...Mh-nph.” It was not a convincing affirmation.

Seven agonizing minutes later and they were back on solid ground. Boston’s corpse loomed ahead, bleak and imposing. A maze of half-broken buildings gutted by time and unsavory denizens. By now adrenaline could no longer keep pace with his strain. Nate’s own bruises began to ache, and the blood dried across his temple itched terribly. 

Piper’s hands weren’t the only part of her that was shaking. From head to toe she trembled like a newborn fawn. He recognized the onset of shock, and Nate’s brave facade began to crack. Desperate to keep her focused, he forced a conversation. Just a whisper, only for her and hopefully not enough to attract attention. Small talk, mostly. Memories they shared. Anything to keep them going - one step at a time. Piper’s answers became increasingly delayed and incoherent. But at long as she was speaking, he clung to hope.

“Hey, wait.” Her expression soured with bleary confusion. “You didn’t get the chip…” 

“We’ll come back for it.” 

“Th-at bad, huh?” She stared down at her gut, frowning unevenly.

“I just don’t wanna take any chances.” He didn’t want her to think too hard about the contradiction in his words and actions, either. “We’ll have one hell of a story when we get back to Diamond City, hunh?” He added, in a voice a little too fast to be mistaken for calm. 

“God. Nat’s gonna be - piiissed…” Piper drawled.

“Psh, over a little roach-bite like this? Couple’a stitches and you’ll be peachy.” 

It took a moment for her gaze to settle on him, but Piper smiled back. Then garbled between rapid breaths, “Yu’re cute when you worry - Bloo.”

Anxiety hit him like a double dose of psycho. “Hey, that’s good Sweetheart, keep callin’ me cute. Tell me how pretty I am.” Keep talking. Stay with me. 

“Blue’s bloo… Pretty eyes…” Piper sighed, words thick with delirium. She’s in shock. 

“Not as pretty as yours.” He cooed with a tepid smile, squinting back strong emotion. “So keep ‘em open for me, okay?”

She blurted out a groan of a laugh, dragging a hand down toward the wound as the motion aggravated it. Piper was shivering violently now. Nate gritted his teeth, slogging along as fast as he could without tripping from the numbness spread down his calves. Hot coals seemed to press into the tendons of his elbows and knees, and tendrilous throbbing in his chest made it hard to catch his breath. “You see those stars up in the sky? Couldn’t see a single one before the War. Did I ever tell you that? … Piper?”

“N-o…”

“There were too many lights, across every inch of Boston. All these buildings lit up like Diamond City infield, all the time. Cars, too. Every hour of the night it was noise and neon. Couldn’t find the dark in an alleyway. Drowned out all the stars. None at Anchorage, either; too much smoke.” Nate’s voice staggered, “Wasn’t until I got out here that I - saw stars like this. They’re so beautiful, don’t you think?”

Piper smiled at him indulgently and blood leaked from her grin. Her lips slackened, and her eyelids drooped shut unevenly. 

“Hey, hey!” Nate hissed in alarm. 

“Blue… I can’t-” She drifted off, “fh-...”

“Look at me Pips, don’t go back to sleep, you can’t do that yet. Scribbles?” 

She didn’t answer. 

He shifted her in his arms, buckling under the weight. “Piper.” Tears blurred his eyes. 

A faltering hand slipped from her stomach, hanging loose over the concrete. Lifting it back into place, a wave of dread jolted through him as his fingers came back stained red. 

“C’mon, give me somethin’ here.” Nate whined through gritted teeth, stroking her pallid cheek. There was no colour to it, no warmth. Her blood on his hand left a savage smear where Nate touched. He winced. “We’re close - we’re so close. Stay with me a little longer.” God, not like this. Please, not like this.

Numb all over, he shoved himself to his feet and stumbled forward. Putting one dead-weight foot in front of the other was all he could do, as she grew cold against him and the black puddle in her gut soaked through his shirt. 

“Piper” He whispered into her hair, heedless of the tears that spilled against her brow, clinging tightly to her limp form, “Don’t go.”

Only vaguely could he comprehend collapsing in front of Goodneighbor. Obscure figures shouted something; a bright red coat came running out of the gate. They tried to take Piper’s body from his arms, and Nate fought against it with delirious anguish. “No-” 

“Easy there, friend.” A gravelly voice urged. “We got her. Looks like you two walked straight outta hell.” 

A stranger finally wrestled Piper away, leaving Nate eerily rigid in the absence of her form. He could not uncurl his fingers. They throbbed with pain from the tension left behind. 

Then a firm grip lifted him up, and Hancock barked orders to a bunch of Drifters collected nearby. The mayor half carried, half dragged Nate down the street. He said other things, too. Questions, maybe. But it was impossible to make sense of the words and Nate hadn’t possession of his tongue to answer, anyway. The world spun out of focus. Goodneighbor’s bright neon drowned out everything else. Nate couldn’t see the stars anymore.

[dfhvn]

A Day In LA With Deafheaven // Stereogum

Loud Love : A Day In LA With Deafheaven The California screamers open up about real life, baby ducks, and 'Ordinary Corrupt Human Love'

Full article by Larry Fitzmaurice via Stereogum

Everyone has to grow up eventually — even ducklings. “Look, dude — the baby ducklings!” Deafheaven guitarist Kerry McCoy stops as we’re mid-conversation, pointing out a plump of web-footed friends on a small rolling pitch alongside the walking path of Los Angeles’ Echo Park.

“I know! They’re getting big,” the band’s howling lead singer George Clarke marvels, as the two stop to briefly ponder the not-quite-grown, no-longer-young fowl squatting and waddling on the grass.

“I saw them the other day, too,” says McCoy.

“They were more yellow before,” Clarke explains with a level of attentiveness that would make one think he raised the ducklings himself.

I’m here to observe what Clarke describes to me as “what a normal day for us is like,” as Deafheaven luxuriate in the relative calm before the busyness of touring and promo that will accompany the release of their fourth album, Ordinary Corrupt Human Love (out July 13 via ANTI-). These days, Clarke and McCoy are sticklers for routine — and as they recount their regular goings-on to me, it’s slightly adorable that these longtime friends’ day-to-day approach bears close similarity: wake up around 7 in the morning, hit the gym, run some errands, meet up in the park for a bit, and watch a movie or an episode of Billions before crashing out. Both spend part of their day caring for others: Clarke for his grandfather who currently lives with him, and McCoy for a few persistently hungry cats. “I have to stay out until 6 or 7 PM, otherwise they meow until they get food,” he mock-complains with a grin.

Earlier in the day, Clarke and I hit up the Echo Lake outpost of crunchy Cali natural-food chain Lessen’s, as he dumps a variety of salad-bar ingredients — corn, beets, kale, shredded cabbage and peppers, and a heaping helping of steamed veggies, if you’re looking to take on the Deafheaven Diet — into a container. We walk over to the sprawling Echo Park and Clarke unfurls a sizable blanket, festooned with the album art for the band’s 2013 star-making LP Sunbather, before stripping to a white tank-top and laying out belly-down to nosh while we chat about the latest mixtape from Oakland rapper All Black. McCoy joins us soon after along with former member Stephen Clark, who stoically sips from a bottle of water and sucks down a few cigs while the trio are quite literally sunbathing under the LA rays.

All it takes is one listen to Ordinary Corrupt Human Love to deduct that this period of respite is well-earned. Since their alluring 2011 debut Roads To Judah, the band’s dark-arts alchemy of death metal’s frigid rush, shoegaze’s impressionistic swarm, and the emotional catharsis of post-rock has somehow only grown more epic with every release. That’s even more true with their latest record, which at times recalls Mellon Collie-era Smashing Pumpkins and Sunny Day Real Estate’s Diary in its ultra-bright melodic sweep. There are female vocals present, courtesy of West Coast occult-rocker Chelsea Wolfe — as well as actual singing, as Clarke shows off a deeper vocal register beyond his signature burned-out bark.

The personal boundary-pushing and overall prettiness of Ordinary Corrupt Human Love doesn’t so much suggest a newer, shinier Deafheaven as it does a natural progression (or a full realization, even) of the genre-blending hard rock sound they’ve spent most of the decade refining. As tempting as it might be to refer to the album as Deafheaven’s “mature” turn, there’s still a youthful passion that courses through it like a lit match dropped into dry brush — but that doesn’t mean the quintet haven’t gone through some serious personal changes in the interim between 2015’s New Bermuda and now (which marks, to date, the longest gap between Deafheaven records).

“We were 24 when Sunbather came out,” Clarke reflects while discussing the intense emotions and personal strain the band’s been through since that record’s release. “We were still sleeping on floors when we were home, but the rest of the time we were on tour with idle hands and free cash.” He pauses for a second and chuckles ruefully. “Some people are smart — but we decided not to be.”

Before their current residence in LA (Clarke and McCoy have lived in the city for about four years now) and Deafheaven’s teeth-cutting Bay Area days, the pair spent their adolescence scrapping about in the central California suburbs of Modesto. “It was normal,” McCoy describes their respective upbringings, “but it’s all relative. I’m sure Bill Gates’ kids have seen some shit, too.” But he’s quick to note that the relative mundanity of their upbringing also made for a normalization of the intolerance the young punks experienced growing up, too: “I’d just accepted that the way the world went was seeing a giant truck with a Confederate flag drive by, calling me a fag.” (In the middle of this parkside recollection, Clarke interrupts to point out something decidedly not normal: a shirtless pedestrian sporting a full-chest Monster energy drink tattoo. “Check out how lit this tattoo is,” he giggles, as we briefly debate its authenticity.)

When he was 15, McCoy’s father took him to a protest against the Iraq War, and he wore a white armband to school afterwards, which resulted in him getting “destroyed” by his classmates. “We recently went to the March For Our Lives,” Clarke mentions, “and I think it’s really cool that kids these days — even if they’re not 100% informed on stuff — are really making an effort to be. Comparatively, there was no one [in high school] thinking about anything else other than the direct narrative you were given in this small town.”

Music had been in both of their lives from an early age — McCoy’s father once worked as a music journalist, and some of Clarke’s earliest memories include leafing through CD booklets with his mother — and the outsider feeling both of them shared only further deepened their sonic interests. “When you’re living in the Central Valley and you’re into ‘alternative’ things, it forces you further into the hole you’re digging for yourself,” Clarke explains. “You’re already a loser with acne, and now you’re painting your nails for a Misfits show,” McCoy follows up with a chuckle. His first band was a punky high school outfit called The Confused, which self-distributed a CD called What The Hell that everyone in his social circle thought “sucked.” Clarke’s inaugural musical foray was in a band called Fear And Faith Alike that, in his words, “was very 2002 metalcore.”

CREDIT: Frazer Harrison / Getty Images

Clarke and McCoy first became friends when the latter saw “this fool” (Clarke) sitting outside in the rain during high school, decked out in fishnet arm sleeves, a Slayer T-shirt, and a white backpack covered with pentagrams and band names scrawled in Bic. They stayed close as the former bounced around high schools, returning to Modesto after barely graduating in San Jose; after a few failed attempts at forming post-high school bands, the two formed Deafheaven in 2009 after McCoy joined Clarke to share a $500/month apartment in the Upper Haight area of San Francisco.

Deafheaven began as a pretty much anonymous project, to the point where the pair created a Facebook page for the band that essentially positioned it as a one-man act. “We didn’t tell anyone we grew up with about it,” Clarke explains. “We knew if we told people it was us, everyone would be like ‘Fuck off.'” In 2010, they recorded a demo with Bay Area producer Jack Shirley for the cost of $500, a sum which Clarke and McCoy (who were scrambling to even make monthly rent) struggled to pay back for six months.

“This man���s patience is endless,” Clarke speaks admirably about Shirley, whom McCoy refers to as “the Ian McKaye of the West Coast” and “like a straight-edge Marine”; he’s produced every Deafheaven record since. “They were broke beyond broke,” recalls Shirley, whose work with Deafheaven has led him to record acts like Wolves In The Throne Room and Jeff Rosenstock. “It wasn’t a huge deal, though. I try to be patient in those situations, and I’m glad I didn’t [let money get in the way], because it would’ve severed my ties with a band that I have a great relationship with now.”

After the demo made the rounds online, Deafheaven expanded to a full-band lineup and signed to Converge frontman Jacob Bannon’s Deathwish Inc. label, who released Roads To Judah and Sunbather — the latter of which received a profile-raising critical response that metal and “heavy” music in general typically doesn’t enjoy. “We went from a band that nobody really gave a fuck about, to … not the world’s biggest band, but a thing!” McCoy exclaims. “I had an apartment, I moved to LA, I got a girlfriend — life got kind of big.”

The success Deafheaven enjoyed following Sunbather’s release was, for a band on their level, a bit dizzying. Their fanbase spanned kindred spirits like Mono and Explosions In The Sky to rapper Danny Brown and Third Eye Blind’s Stephan Jenkins. On the other hand, the band found themselves unwittingly receiving the indie-TMZ treatment after a Swedish blogger spotted them hanging out at the VIP area of Gothenburg’s Way Out West festival with a Sub Pop representative (full disclosure: I was also present for said hang), ginning up a post shortly after speculating about the band’s potential next career moves — a surprise to the folks back at Deathwish. “I felt so bad,” Clarke says in a tone of sincerity about the accidental reveal.

CREDIT: Gari Askew II / Stereogum

Combined with the extensive post-Sunbather touring schedule, the increased attention on Deafheaven — as well as the pressures of writing and recording the band’s next album, which they’d committed to within a tight time frame under new label home ANTI- — was starting to take its toll on everyone involved. “All this touring and great stuff was fun and exciting, but it blows up your personality with regards to things you have when you become middle-class,” McCoy states. “And you have habits that blow up with that.”

As work on New Bermuda progressed, the pressure of following up their big breakthrough began to wear on the band — hard. Shirley states that, as a “habitually sober” person, he didn’t witness any dysfunction in the recording studio; but McCoy describes the ways in which Deafheaven’s members dealt with the situation as “unhealthy,” and he and Clarke started to literally lose sleep over the prospect of what would come next. “I’d wake up in the middle of the night thinking that everyone was mad at me because the record sucked,” says McCoy, “and we’d all have to go back to Whole Foods — everyone was laughing at us.”

Various substances were on-hand and frequently present during this time — a product of bad habits never dropped and exacerbated by the party-hardy temporary lifestyle that touring afforded. “You’d be like, ‘Well, I gotta be in the practice space for five hours today — better bring two 40’s,'” Clarke remembers. “When you’re touring for five years, your body degrades,” explains guitarist Shiv Mehra, who joined the band along with drummer Daniel Tracy while Sunbather was being recorded. “Drinking doesn’t help.”

Clarke recalls a show in Sao Paulo on the band’s first South American tour supporting New Bermuda as a colliding point for the band’s substance use and personal strain. “It should’ve been insane,” he recalls with a touch of regret, “But everyone was backstage burnt that the booze wasn’t there yet.”

“We were all just sitting there staring at our phones, waiting for whoever — or whatever — to show up,” McCoy adds. “Our entire world wants to come backstage and be the guy to hang out with you, and they know there’s a certain way to do that.”

“We were all still bothered by each other from touring,” Clark, who possesses a quiet yet thoughtful demeanor, states. “We didn’t have any time off from each other for years.” Following New Bermuda’s tour cycle — a period of time he says “quite literally ruined his life” — he chose to leave the band and was replaced by current bassist Chris Johnson, but still remains close with everyone.

“I didn’t handle having money well,” Clark asserts with straightforward conviction. “It was so easy to party, and I was never much of a partier — so I was all over the world having fun, with no longevity in mind. It all came crashing down.”

“It was a dark and bad experience,” McCoy states plainly on the time period surrounding New Bermuda. By the end of the album cycle, everyone was exhausted, and the mere act of being in the band had turned into drudgery.

“It stopped being fun,” Clarke states on his view towards the band at that point. “It became a chore.”

I ask if there was ever a point during this period of time in which he thought Deafheaven would cease to exist. Later, when I relay his answer to others in the band, they’re quick to note it was an exaggeration, but it’s a rough reply regardless: “I kind of thought someone would die,” says Clarke. We’re not gonna break up because we don’t have anything else, but something drastic or scary happening was within the realm of possibility. If anything would’ve taken us down, it would’ve been … tragic.”

When I press on if there were any specific close calls that took place, the three demur, nervously laugh, and murmur to themselves, “Maybe — not really,” declining to elaborate. “When you’re fuckin’ around, you’re fuckin’ around,” Clarke says with an uneasy chuckle.

Clarke quickly follows up: “When you have a problem, you have a problem.”

Work on Ordinary Corrupt Human Love informally began in late 2016 around a single piano riff McCoy had been toying around with, but much of the album was written and recorded from October of last year until this past February. Deafheaven camped out in a cluster of Oakland homes and, after an informal jam session during the first day of recording, found that the time off did them good.

“We finally dealt with all the stuff that made New Bermuda so dark — and when we did, we realized that all that other stuff was junk,” McCoy passionately describes. “When we all got in a room together, I was like, ‘This was the juice of life right here.'”

“It was like we’d been holding our breath for three years, finally let it out, took another one, and said ‘Everything’s gonna be OK,'” Clarke adds.

In truth, there was still a ways to go. To this day, Deafheaven’s members describe themselves as living “healthier” than before, but McCoy is the only band member who’s completely sober, a decision he made during recording late last year after an extended struggle with drug addiction. It’s a sensitive topic for him to discuss, and the details he’s willing to offer regarding his path to sobriety are scant — but he makes it unmistakably clear that things could not go on the way they were for much longer.

“I’d come to a point where I was done being out there,” he explains, “And I was willing to try anything to get off it.” McCoy reached out to a friend, who helped put him on the path to recovery; he’s been sober since late 2017. “My favorite thing in the world was to play guitar,” he states, “And for a long time, I forgot that. Ever since I made this decision, my life has gotten immeasurably better.”

Casting aside the past was essential for not just McCoy, but the entirety of Deafheaven to move forwards after the fraught period of time they were trying to leave behind. “I don’t think anyone who worked on New Bermuda wanted to make another record that sounded like New Bermuda,” Clarke states, who goes on to describe Ordinary Corrupt Human Love as the sound of “people enjoying what they’re doing.” If the aesthetic of the new album reflects the emotions of the people who recorded it, then the lyrical content zooms in on the world around them — the splendor and sameness of peoples’ everyday lives.

CREDIT: Gari Askew II / Stereogum

The universal, explicitly humanistic focus was developed after Clarke began collaborating with photographer Nick Steinhardt to, in his words, “photograph people in their natural habitat.” “I told him I didn’t want anything extraordinary — just people in their everyday routine, looking at a snapshot of someone in their day and just drinking it in,” he explains. The album’s cover features an anonymous woman in Los Angeles’ Civic Center area, her scarf blowing in front of her face; the inlay art features a child holding out his hand to his mother as he prepares to cross the street.

McCoy describes the album cover as “a potential alternate version” of the iconic album art for Radiohead’s The Bends, and Clarke cites the tinted-hue portraiture of Belle And Sebastian’s visual art as a parallel — both comparisons serving as reminders that, despite their roots in heavy music, their palettes span far beyond what genre purists might come to expect.

And if Deafheaven’s genre-agnostic approach seemed polarizing around the time of Sunbather, it seems weirdly prescient now. In a way, the 29-year-old McCoy and Clarke are indicative of the landscape-flattening streaming generation, in a good way. Sure, it’s easy to bemoan the age of the algorithm and the fluctuating state of discovery for budding music fans in the digital age. But it’s even easier to forget that discovering “good” music used to possess a distinct social element not far off from joining the football team in high school: Are the indie kids any different than the jocks if they still bristle at people joining their lunch table?

For Deafheaven’s and younger generations, discovering new music is easier than ever, and if you’re willing to turn discovery into creativity as they have been, the possibilities are endless. And anyway, even though Deafheaven’s earlier work was sometimes overshadowed by the band’s perpetual and ineffective battle with the metal scene, the band’s members have since learned to hang with the genre misconceptions. “My girlfriend sent me a screenshot about how ‘Honeycomb’ has a punk section — that’s textbook Oasis!” McCoy says with an easygoing laugh that speaks to a greater truth when it comes to getting older. Sometimes it’s easier to just let old grudges go.

Despite the cloudy forecast, it’s a bit brighter of a day than we’re expecting. With the threat of sunburn fast approaching, we pack up the blanket, take a leisurely walk around the park, and head to the 826 Time Travel Mart. The Mart’s a funky Sunset Blvd. spot funded by the Dave Eggers-founded nonprofit 826, featuring arch, kitschy items ranging from giant dinosaur eggs to a powdered concoction called “robot milk” — but McCoy’s less invested in the temporally-out-of-whack wares on display than he is in the tutoring courses being offered in the next room of the nonprofit-funded space.

An employee explains the programs offered as McCoy listens intently, and when Clarke returns from grabbing a coffee nearby he does similarly. At first blush, the thoughtfulness and social investment that the pair show during my time with them might seem too fitting of a narrative for a band trying to straighten up and fly right — but such character traits often come with growing up, too.

“Nikki Sixx was 27 when shit got really bad and he tried to clean up for the first time,” Clarke points out as our time comes to a close, before McCoy has to go check on the cats and Clarke’s grandfather needs help getting his computer fixed. “We reached that age too. We want to take what we do seriously and have a career — and to eliminate the things that get in the way of that. If you don’t die at 27, you can do a lotof shit.”

[ncfan-1]

Not As You Remember

In which Ursa Wren tries to talk to her daughter. [Gap filler between 'Legacy of Mandalore' and 'Zero Hour'.]

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

Whenever Ursa Wren left her family to go fight, bright, staticky holocalls home became a commodity more precious than gold, squabbled over by the operatives, so that even a clan chieftain’s heir was left to barter, threaten and bribe just for a few minutes at the comm. Barter and bribes were beneath her dignity, she knew, but after the last time she’d nearly gotten her head cracked open, Ursa was inclined to be a little more sparing with threats.

Holocalls were a commodity paid for in currency of long watch shifts and meals of Ursa’s least-favorite field rations and unsatisfying, near-tasteless protein paste—often the kind Alrich liked to joke bore a closer resemblance to sculptors’ clay than actual food. (She often found herself missing his humor when they were apart. She could find traces of it in his kin, but those traces only made her hungrier for the genuine article.) But when a time came that their leader thought it likely that transmissions wouldn’t be intercepted or used to discern their location, these things earned Ursa a few minutes more at the comm than she might otherwise have had

First, one of her parents (usually her father, but sometimes her mother) appeared, seeking a status update. The fortunes of Clan Wren, sworn as they were to House Vizsla, were closely tied to the successes and failures of Death Watch. Any report Ursa gave them was to-the-point-this wasn’t the primary reason for her calling, and they both know it.

“Alright, Ursa,” her father would often say, with a shake of his head that signaled a particular kind of exasperated fondness. “I’ll put that artist husband of yours on the comm. Mind, he may not be able to stay awake all through your call. It’s been paint, paint, paint non-stop ever since you left. I don’t know when that boy finds time for sleep.” ‘That boy’ being nearly the same age as Ursa herself, but her father never seemed quite able to accept the younger generations as anything but children.

Alrich would eventually appear, blinking sleep out of his eyes, just as likely to be holding Sabine in the crook of his arm as not.

Ursa found a smile unfurling over her lips, muscles that had had no exercise in what felt like an eternity aching as they were called back into use. “Have you been sending your work to our esteemed Duchess again?”

His eyes sparkled. Ursa wasn’t sure if it wasn’t just the connection dropping momentarily. “My latest piece should reach her any day now.” He flashed a slightly lopsided smile her way, shifting Sabine—fast asleep, though she’d been fussily wakeful the last time Ursa had called—in his arms. “I wonder if the Duchess will finally follow through on her threats to have my gifts to her jettisoned into the sun.”

Personally, if Satine Kryze ever did such a thing, Ursa thought she might storm Sundari and kill the woman herself. What a waste it would be for her husband’s artwork to be destroyed, what an intolerable waste. “Another woman might find cause for concern in her husband sending so many unsolicited paintings to another woman.” He seemed supremely unconcerned, which suited Ursa perfectly. “One day, you will have to forward one of the ah, love notes she sends back to you after receiving your gifts.”

Quick as a shriek hawk, his smile widened to a grin. “I’ve saved them all; I keep them in a scrapbook. I’ll show them to you, the next time you come home.”

Yes, when she came home. Those words made Ursa all too aware of the distance. Holocalls provided the illusion of proximity, but reality gave the lie to that illusion whenever his face shimmered and froze, before the connection was reestablished. The price she paid for fighting for the return of the old ways, Ursa recognized, now that Clan Wren no longer put up a façade of supporting the Duchess’s rule. It was a worthy burden, one she had shouldered willingly, and not one she would abandon now. Still, its weight grew burdensome at times.

“How are things at home?” Ursa asked, more quietly than she had first intended. “How are the children?” How are you? but it wouldn’t budge past the back of her throat.

“Tristan is sleeping, presently. He’s recently progressed to level two of basic blaster training.”

Ursa had thought her older cub’s aim was improving the last time she had overseen his training. She nodded. “And Sabine?"

Alrich shifted the baby’s weight so that her face was more readily visible to her mother. “Also sleeping. At last,” he added, so tiredly that Ursa couldn’t help but laugh.

“Is she so unmanageable as all that?” Ursa teased. “Has my husband at last exhausted all his nerve?”

“She cut her first tooth last week,” Alrich replied tersely. He stroked the soft, dark fuzz on Sabine’s head as he went on, “The doctors have given her medicine for the pain, your mother has supplied us with more teething rings than I think one baby could ever use, but the only thing that will quiet her for more than a minute at a time are the handles on my paintbrushes.”

At that, Ursa’s smile faltered, though Alrich’s despairing tone over the savaging of his paintbrushes might, under other circumstances, have made her laugh. “Isn’t she rather young to have begun teething?” It hasn’t been that long since I was last home, surely?

He shrugged. “I’m told that human babies can begin teething as young as three months old. Don’t concern yourself over it, Ursa; she’s just trying to get a head start on her brother. Now, you are currently stationed on the second moon of Kalevala, are you not?” His eyes gleamed with curiosity. “I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting that moon. What is it like?”

Ursa felt tension seep out of her spine as he asked a variation on a question that was, by now, intimately familiar to them both. Alrich had grown up in Sundari, and though the nature of his work had taken him to other cities, other worlds, he spent most of his life before (and for a few years after) their wedding in Sundari. (He went into raptures over the architecture whenever the subject was broached. Ursa honestly felt a little guilty about all the times she had blown up buildings in Sundari under orders from Pre Vizsla. She was also just a touch worried about what Alrich might do if the Crusader Mural at the base of the royal palace was ever targeted.)

Alrich had not traveled as Ursa had, and his curiosity led him to ask, “What is it like?”

She started, as ever, with descriptions of the native flora. Ursa was rarely ever stationed inside a city, so descriptions of plant life, geography, the weather, they inevitably came first. If she had visited one of the cities on the world where she was stationed, descriptions of the city followed. Of course they did; Alrich was so hungry for information about local artwork and architecture that he would hardly have let the call end without that information being passed along to him.

That was where it started. As they spoke more and more, Ursa found herself drifting into other topics. Sometimes, the dialect of Mando’a spoken where she was stationed was so different from the ones she had grown up with that she could barely communicate with the locals. At times, she found herself complaining about the weather, which was invariably incredibly unlike the frigid wastes of northern Krownest or dry, sterile Sundari. Petty squabbles among the operatives were discussed, along the reconciliation that followed. A song she had learned. A holonovel that was being passed around camp.

All of it came pouring out of Ursa’s mouth in a torrent, because the timer was reading thirty seconds, and she knew she would have to disconnect soon, but oh, I love you, I’ll speak with you again as soon as I’m able.

-0-0-0-

Ursa had no difficulty picking out Sabine in a crowd or out in the wilderness. In fact, she had so little difficulty that she was actually somewhat concerned. If Ursa could so readily identify her daughter, she had little doubt that vengeful members of Clan Saxon could do just the same. But her armor, in shape and design, was her armor. Even a child was entitled to that amount of freedom of expression.

(She found it buried deep down past her worries, but that Sabine was so easily recognizable gave birth also to a spark of relief. Sabine was a starburst of color in the tundra, and it made it easy for Ursa to focus on her any time she wished to—which, these days, was most of the time.

The only thing was that, when things had settled down enough that they could do so, the bits and pieces of Sabine’s armor that she had had to discard while she was… away would have to be re-forged to fit her properly. Ursa know that there were certain communities that wore less armor than was Clan Wren’s standard, but looking at Sabine with these bits and pieces missing was just… It reminded Ursa of far too much.)

Now, Sabine was out by the eastern wall of the fortress, inspecting a malfunctioning utilities box, brow furrowed as she examined the tangle of wires.

“This is worse than…” Sabine cut herself off with a sharp click of the tongue as she reached further into the box, her eyes narrowed slightly. She now spoke Krownest Mando’a with a provincial, slightly slurred accent Ursa longed to iron out of her voice, but when she had last tried to broach the subject, Sabine’s face had crumpled like paper crushed in someone’s first, and Ursa’s voice had failed her.

Ursa watched as Sabine went about her work, wondering when she would notice her. She always was prone to getting lost in her work. I see that much has not changed.

What had changed was the speed with which Sabine realized she was under scrutiny. All of a sudden, she whirled around, wrenching her hand out of the utilities box and reaching for a blaster, before her eyes focused in on Ursa and she let her blaster fall back into its holster. “Mother,” she greeted her, making like she wanted to fold her arms across her chest, but stopping shy and letting them fall at her sides. "I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you coming.”

“You should be more mindful, Sabine,” Ursa chided her. “I don’t know how much longer we will be able to suppress news of Gar Saxon’s death. His kin will be out for your blood.”

Even if Sabine hadn’t been the one who killed him. Even if Gar Saxon had attempted to do something that every Mandalorian everywhere would recognize as an act of base cowardice (Different communities had differing rules of engagement, especially where duels were concerned, but one rule that was universal was thus: under no circumstances do you ever shoot your opponent in the back after the conclusion of the duel). Gar Saxon had forfeited his own life when he aimed his blaster at her daughter’s retreating back, but Ursa was coming to realize, bitterly, that this would matter not at all to his kin. She was slowly coming to grips with the idea that Mandalorian space would be just as lawless a place as it had been during the Siege.

(Coming to grips, perhaps, with the idea that Mandalorian space had never stopped being a lawless place, that the Empire had painted over the rot with sterile black and white and “do your duty,” and she had never realized. The lawlessness had grown quieter, conducted away from the light. Ursa had been focused on one thing or another, and hadn’t realized what was slipping away from her.)

“They’ll be after yours, too,” Sabine pointed out. “And—“ She stopped herself, clamping her mouth shut. Jaw taut, fists clenched.

‘And’… ‘And’ what? Ursa feared she knew. She hoped Clan Saxon would have sense enough not to jettison the only piece of leverage they had over Clan Wren. She hoped. “How are the repairs coming along?” she asked, and her voice sounded pitifully faint to her own ears, even accounting for the wind. Milksop meek, trembling at the knees.

“They’re… coming.” Sabine scowled at the utilities box. “The wires are messed up pretty bad—we’re probably gonna have to order replacements. But I can bypass some of the bad ones for now. It’s not a permanent fix, but it should tide us over until we can replace the wires.”

Ursa caught her mind snaking in mild confusion even as she nodded. “You seem well-versed in rerouting utilities.” It had been years since she had thrown away Sabine’s old class schedules, but memory held an edge as keen as mullinine. Her daughter, already skilled with repair and mechanical work, had taken many classes to further her knowledge. None of those classes, Ursa thought, would have taught Sabine how to rewire a damaged utilities box.

Sabine flashed a hard-edged smirk her way. “When I was living on Nar Shaddaa, the place where I lived had problems like this a lot. The landlord would remit half our rent for the month if I’d do repair work for him without charging.”

Nar Shaddaa. Ursa had not actively kept tabs on where Sabine went and what she did after fleeing Sundari. What little she knew, she had learned from others (well-meaning informants or political rivals come to gloat), and it painted a picture so incomplete Ursa would have sworn it was moth-eaten. She’d had no news of Sabine after her flight from Sundari that she would have credited, not entirely, not until it was reported that Sabine had joined the Phoenix Squadron.

The idea of Sabine having lived on Nar Shaddaa for any amount of time made Ursa itch. She knew that the life of a fugitive was hardscrabble, but the idea of either of her cubs, let alone the younger, living in such a crime-infested hive was not something that could be borne gladly. “I have never been to Nar Shaddaa,” Ursa remarked, fixing Sabine in a piercing stare. “The closest I’ve come was a visit I paid to Nal Hutta—“ Terrorizing the Hutts and gunning down their lackeys; not once did I ever hope that a child of mine would do something that could top that, not once did I ever hope for that “—and Nal Hutta is, by all accounts, a far cry from the Smuggler’s Moon.”

For the best results, phrasing it as a question would have been better. Ursa wasn’t so green as to not know that. Her lips were pressed firmly shut as she looked expectantly at Sabine.

Sabine’s hand was trained on the utilities box, her eyes narrowed against the glare that made the snow on the ground seemed to glow. “…Nar Shaddaa’s about like you’d expect,” she said finally. “It’s cold—not as cold as here, but colder than Nal Hutta—and dirty, and crowded.” She grimaced. “Really crowded. Plenty of people go there looking for any kind of new start, but can’t scrounge up enough credits to leave if their luck’s no good.”

“Still, you would encounter greater diversity there. Diversity of people, of languages.” Two images flashed through Ursa’s mind like a sudden burst of sunlight through gray clouds. First, there was Sabine, all of eight years old and reading through Huttese workbooks and lexicons when other children her age would have been reading chapter books and comics. Second, the surprise stamped on visitors’ faces when they caught sight of non-human faces among Ursa’s clan; when, when had that become the exception, rather than the rule? Even Alrich had been a touch surprised when he first met Clan Wren as a whole, which in retrospect Ursa supposed she should have taken as a clue.

“Yeah, there was plenty of that,” Sabine agreed. “Lots of diversity with their art, too.” Her eyes warmed slightly, but otherwise her face remained carefully neutral, a mask of skin and muscle stretched over bone, as impenetrable as beskar. “You can see Corellian holo-sculptures and Tatooine sand paintings on the same street. The locals, the people who were born and raised there, have their own kind of art.”

“And what is that?”

Sabine set her toolkit on top of the utilities box, rooting around for whatever it was she needed inside. “You know how shopkeepers on some worlds use neon signs? Nar Shaddaa makes an art form out of neon lights. There’s a whole genre of art there dedicated to neon artwork. Not just flats mounted to a base, either; I’m talking free-standing sculptures, with multiple colors. Malachite, ultramarine and this purple color about halfway between mauve and heliotrope were the most common where I lived, though some people liked to use silver and black, too.” Her eyes glazed over in reminiscence. “There was a sculpture of a Cassius tree in a market square that must have been over four meters tall.” The eagerness in her voice seemed close kin to what Ursa felt in battle—ever-hungry, never quite satisfied. “The ‘tree’ was supposed to be in bloom; its flowers changed color from gold to silver depending on what time it was.”

Listening to her talk like this was like listening to Alrich whenever he returned home after a viewing at one of Sundari’s art galleries (Provided he had actually liked the artwork he had seen there). Ursa smiled and found herself asking, “Did you ever participate yourself?”

A shutter came crashing down over Sabine’s eyes. “No, Mother. You know me; I stick to my paints.”

“…Of course.”

Sabine said no more, and eventually Ursa headed back inside, unsated.

-0-0-0-

She wasn’t coming upstairs for supper much.

Oh, fair, it was rare for all of Clan Wren to be in the dining hall at the same time—the only time they ever were was on feast days, or when they broke their fast after a death. Typically around a quarter of the seats were filled on occasions when Ursa took meals there. More commonly, people took their meals in their own living quarters, or ate outside while on watch duty. Ursa was used to presiding over a mostly-empty hall, and with all the years her husband had been held hostage, her son had served in the ISC, and her daughter had been… away, Ursa was used to having none of her immediate family with her when she took her meals.

Ursa should not have felt the absence keenly. She should not have felt it at all, she thought irritably. After so many years of absence, it should have been more surprising to look down and see her daughter’s head (dyed) and distinctive (brightly colored) armor. Should have been more jarring to hear her voice than not.

Absence was determined to be more jarring than presence.

Sabine rarely came to the dining hall for supper (Ursa suspected she had continued her old habit of going straight to the kitchens whenever she was hungry). Even Fenn Rau showed up in the dining hall more often than Sabine, and half of the warriors of Clan Wren still tensed on impulse whenever he sat down with them. Perhaps it had something to do with the way some of the children had decided that this strange warrior, who spoke a dialect of Mando’a strange to their eras and who had accompanied the chieftain’s runaway daughter home, was just the person to ask the sort of questions they thought a strange warrior from another Mandalorian world might know the answer. If the man was going to be pestered, it might as well not be while he was trying to work.

But tonight, still no Sabine.

Finishing her meal—no rations or veg-meat or protein paste that looked like sculptor’s clay, but toothsome stew packed with enough meat and fruit and tubers that the broth was barely discernible—was like being a child again. All Ursa wanted to do was leave the dining hall and go elsewhere, but she was constrained to sit and finish her stew. As a child, her mother had watched her, keen as a tundra burrowing owl in the dead of night; now, her whole clan watched her, and her dignity demanded that she stay instead of storming off like an impatient child.

 Yes, my whole clan watches me. Looks to me for guidance, and depends upon me for protection. They all do, but for the one I—

Ursa credited the years her mother had spent teaching her how to eat properly for the fact that she didn’t just wolf down her stew.

It was difficult to say where Sabine might have gone. She avoided notice quite comprehensively for someone with armor more colorful than the aurora, much more so than Ursa could ever remember from the days before Sabine went away to Sundari. As best as Ursa could determine, Sabine hadn’t really reconnected with any of the distant cousins she had been friends with as a child, not even the ones who were apparently willing to let bygones be bygones concerning the weapon. As best as Ursa could determine, Sabine hadn’t even tried to reconnect with them. Tristan was the most likely to be with her, and he told his mother that Sabine mostly just kept to herself.

Kept to herself and worked—Ursa had noticed that much. Sabine had a preternatural gift for knowing when something in the fortress needed fixing. If a sensor beacon needed repairs, Sabine did the repairs. If the software in the fighters’ targeting computers was malfunctioning, Sabine knew just what needed to be done to fix it. When the shield generator for the fortress began to sputter, Sabine crawled underneath with a toolkit, and there she stayed until it was fixed. For the life of her, Ursa couldn’t tell if she was just trying to make the most of the calm before the storm, or there was more to it than that.

(That Sabine knew how to do maintenance and repairs on fighters had taken Ursa aback, at first. It was Sabine’s expertise with machines that had drawn the Academy’s eye, but this was another thing that the Academy hadn’t taught her. The Academy had taught Sabine slicing and reprogramming in preparation for a ‘glorious’ career in espionage, and weapons repair and creation when she was discovered to have an aptitude for that, but nothing to do with fighters.

It had occurred to Ursa later that living aboard a ship constantly involved in dogfights and being involved with a rebel cell that housed fighters, if a different type than those found on Krownest, had likely given Sabine ample opportunity to learn. She wondered who had taught her, who had left their mark on Sabine in the form of their teachings, but couldn’t find it in herself to ask.)

The fighter bays were empty, as was the control room or the ground-based defenses. Ursa checked the sparring rooms, but no Sabine. The outer walkways yielded up no vibrant color, just the darkness of winter night.

Finally, Ursa went where she supposed she should have gone first, if she’d not assumed that Sabine would still be working. The door to her daughter’s room was shut when she came to it, but not locked, not this time. When Ursa opened the door, she was immediately struck by an astringent odor so powerful it made her eyes water. The sight that greeted her when she got past the smell was still an incongruous one, even though Sabine had been living here for a few weeks now.

She’d found her daughter, alright. She had found both of her cubs sitting on the floor, a floor one could barely walk on for everything that was strewn about. What’s this, now?

None of what was lying out was Tristan’s—Ursa knew that much. Tristan was invariably much more well-organized than this, and he didn’t bring his things into other people’s rooms unless it was absolutely necessary. He was sitting on the edge of the mess, besides, while Sabine was perched in the middle of it, as though sitting behind a shallow wall.

Directly in front of Sabine was a small easel supporting a strip of painter’s wood about three quarters of a meter in height. A box of paints sat open by her right leg, along with a palette and a cup full of water and paintbrushes. A sheet of cleaning paper lay on top of a wooden block, the paper dotted with streaks of paint and water. One of Sabine’s blasters had been disassembled, lying in pieces on the floor while the barrel soaked in a small tub of cleaning solution, the source of the odor that had struck Ursa when she opened the door. Datapads were strewn all around, some of their screens showing fighter schematics, some showing artwork, some showing topographical maps of Krownest, one with text in Bocce, and one with text in a language that Ursa thought might have been Ithorese.

They weren’t talking when Ursa entered the room, instead sitting in a silence that she would almost have said was companionable, if not for the fact that Tristan was looking at Sabine with a sort of concern that was noticeable even past his baseline-worriedness. Silent they might have been, but not lost in anything; they both looked up the moment Ursa crossed the threshold into the room. Tristan nodded mutely, but Sabine’s face creased in light annoyance.

“You might wanna knock next time,” Sabine said, frowning. She picked up a paint brush and dabbed it with a splotch of dark blue paint on the palette. “I could be doing anything in here.”

“I… apologize.” She had a point, after all; it had just occurred to Ursa, like sandpaper on bare skin, that Sabine had been prepubescent the last time she had lived in this room. (Ursa was, perhaps, a little surprised that Sabine’s rebuke had been delivered so calmly; she would have expected more anger, maybe shouting.) “I wanted to tell you that if you want to eat, it would be better to eat while there is still food left.”

Sabine nodded, her eyes straying back to whatever it was she was painting. “I will. I’m working right now.”

Since sunrise she had been working. Come to think of it, Ursa wasn’t entirely certain Sabine had eaten lunch, either. Pursing her lips, Ursa wondered if the crew of the ship Sabine had joined (the Ghost, wasn’t it?) had ever had to force her to eat. Ursa found herself briefly contemplating tying Sabine to a chair and force-feeding her. It would undoubtedly end poorly, but still…

Ursa caught Tristan’s eye. Immediately, he was getting to his feet, nodding at his mother and his sister in turn. “I need to check in with the watch,” he apologized, staring down at Sabine’s head with his brow furrowed. “I have to go for now.”

“’Kay.” Sabine looked up briefly, but her eyes were far away. “I’ll see you later.”

Still fixing Sabine with that concerned look of his, Tristan left.

This left Ursa and Sabine, the latter settling back into her painting as though she had been alone the whole time. Ursa wondered bemusedly if Sabine would even notice if she tried to catch a glimpse of what she was painting. Apparently, she was in that area still perfectly aware, because when Ursa came closer to try to get a look at the wood, Sabine abruptly angled it away from Ursa and glared up at her. “I’ll show it to you when I’m done. I don’t want anyone seeing it before it’s finished.”

Her father was just the same; Ursa could recall with awful clarity how he would never so much as give her a glimpse of the portrait he had made of her until after it was done. That point of similarity wasn’t a balm so much as a thorn, when Ursa had been left to wonder if their work was all of them that she would be allowed to keep.

Ursa settled down in the low wicker chair by the sliding doors of Sabine’s closet and watched her in silence. The lights flickered from time to time (a problem in a room with no windows), but never for more than a moment or two at a time.

 Something else to make a note of on the maintenance lists. I let this room stand empty for far too long.

“If you won’t let me see your unfinished work,” Ursa said after a few minutes had passed, “may I at least ask you what the subject is supposed to be?”

Sabine stared at the front of the wood for a long moment before replying, “Have you ever been to Garel?”

Ursa narrowed her eyes as she peered more closely at her daughter. “I’ve never heard of Garel, Sabine. Is it one of the planets you’ve been to?”

The idea that her daughter was well-travelled, let alone more well-travelled than she herself, jarred. It had jarred when it first occurred to Ursa, when she realized that the fact that Sabine had survived all those years… away meant that she had likely traveled to more planets in the space of several years than Ursa, even during her time in Death Watch, had visited in her life. It still had a sense of wrongness to it now.

“Lived there for a while.” Sabine put down her paintbrush and reached for one of the datapads. She tapped the screen with her fingernail, biting her lip. “The cityscape was… something. I’ve been planning to do a piece on it for a while; I’ve just never had time.”

Ursa glanced over the datapads and the disassembled blaster with a jaundiced eye. “From everything else you seem to be trying to do at the moment, I’m not certain you have time now.”

Sabine jerked her head back, her lip curling back from her teeth just a little, less threat than simple reflex. “I’m working, Mother. I’m getting plenty of stuff done like this.”

Familiar ground yielded no traps or tricks. Ursa scoffed, almost smiling. “Sabine, we have had this conversation more times than I can remember.” How many times had she walked into this room when Sabine was younger, only to find her daughter apparently trying to do several different things at once? “I have a hard time believing that you can give your attention to so many disparate tasks. At the very least, I have a hard time believing that you can give all of these tasks as much attention as they require when you try to do them all at once.” She tapped the handle of one of her blasters for emphasis. “For instance, the blaster you are trying to clean. How likely is it that you’ll finish that quickly when you are trying to paint, look over fighter schematics and read maps, and read… whatever it is on those other datapads?”

“Maybe it won’t get done fast.” Sabine stared intently at the screen of the datapad she held in her hand. “But I don’t have watch duty tonight, and I’ve got plenty of other blasters. That’s not even one of my main blasters over there.”

There was a slight bite to her voice, but otherwise, no display of temper. No real show of her teeth. The ghosts of old shouts and complaints clamored in Ursa’s ears, even as Sabine said nothing, even as Ursa said nothing. Sabine tapped a few more times on her datapad, set it down gently, and resumed painting.

This… A shade of a child sat on the floor before her, small and thin, her long, black hair spilling over her shoulders. She was sketching in a sketchbook, slapping away her father’s hand when he tried to filch it and laughing at his exaggerated expression of pain. She was forever trying to do five things at once, paint, sketch, work she had brought home from the auxiliary Academy at the end of the term, work her mother had assigned her, maintenance on her weapons, and any number of other things, depending on where her mood took her. Ursa was never convinced that she could do five things at a time as quickly as she could have done one thing at a time, but she never missed deadlines, never turned in pitifully inferior work.

What sat before her today was a stranger by comparison. The child’s face had been like a window to her mind, revealing thoughts and emotions. None of her experiences were strange to Ursa; she had been present for them all, or had a good idea of what her daughter was experiencing when out from under her supervision. Now, her face was as a mask, stronger than beskar and more opaque than Chandrilan SinguBlack*. No weapon could break it; no light could pierce it. No eyes could discern the truth behind its wall. There was no key with which to turn the lock.

Her child, the child who had left these halls to go to Sundari, had devoured and repurposed herself, cannibalizing hair and lips and armor and voice and hands. Hair dye in lieu of war paint, garish paint on her armor eradicating blood and scrapes and the marks that had been made at their forging. Heart chewed up, rent to pieces, stitched back together in a shape Ursa didn’t recognize. Similar, yet different. Technically the same person, and yet no one Ursa recognized.

For a moment, one horrible moment, a protest dripping with her blood battered against a wall of teeth. However ignorant she had been, whatever cruel innocence had caused her to wreak that abomination, Ursa found she wanted back the child who had left for Sundari, snowflakes catching in her hair.

She was Ursa Wren, chieftain of Clan Wren, ruler of Krownest. She mastered herself, and with a silent nod, left her daughter to her painting.

-0-0-0-

Years ago, Ursa Wren made a choice. A choice that was perhaps no true choice at all, the choice of a woman with a blaster digging into her back and a firing squad before her. Still, she claimed it as a choice, because whatever her cub had done, whatever perversion she had wrought, there were things a mother owed her child. Her child was owed an explanation that didn’t involve mealy-mouthed justifications for what she did. Her child was owed the truth, however unpleasant.

Years ago, Ursa Wren made a choice, and resigned herself to living with it. She could have her daughter back, or she could have her clan (less her daughter and her husband) safe, for a certain value of “safe.” She could have her daughter by her side and her clan hunted to the ends of the galaxy, or she could cast her daughter away and live under the yoke, but still, live. It was a matter of what she wanted: did she want the knife trained over her neck to fall, or didn’t she? No, of course not. Ursa Wren was not just a mother, and what her daughter had done…

“You will never see her again. She is exiled; whatever path she walks will never lead her here. She will die in the great expanse, or you will die before she ever returns.”

This was what Ursa told herself to quiet her mind.

“Your sister is gone. She can never return. I will not ask you to forget her, but do not speak of her if you wish for your father to live and your clan to survive.”

She had said something similar to Tristan. Her daughter was gone but her son was still with her, and a mother had as much of a duty to the one as to the other. He had accepted it in his quiet, unhappy way, and they never spoke of Sabine. Not once in all those years. With nothing else to do, Ursa had not… had not forgotten, exactly. She had locked memory away as you would lock a dangerous prisoner in a high-security prison cell. Monitored closely and kept quite comprehensively under control.

With glacial slowness, memory had crystallized.

And then, Sabine returned.

It was nearly as much a curse as a blessing that her daughter had returned. Everything Ursa had done to keep her clan safe was at risk, but she could not find it in herself to regret allowing Sabine to live under this roof again, any more than she could regret gunning Gar Saxon down. However many problems it created for her, fighting for survival and dominance came more naturally to Ursa than did politicking and bowing and scraping to the Empire.

She’d not dared to hope for her daughter’s return. She’d not dared to hope that Sabine’s exile would be rescinded, let alone that she would rescind it on her own initiative.

Neither had Ursa expected that Sabine would return to her so different.

When the Jedi insinuated that he knew her daughter better than she did, Ursa had bristled. How likely was it that a man who had had her daughter for only a few years would know Sabine better than the woman who bore her, who raised her for over a decade? How likely was it that Sabine would ever open her heart to a Jedi? Ursa still wasn’t certain of just how well the Jedi knew her daughter. But neither was she certain any longer that she knew Sabine so well herself. She had changed the locks of her mind, and not furnished her mother with a key. Ursa wasn’t certain she ever would.

-0-0-0-

The morning dawned as winter mornings were wont in the polar tundra of Krownest—marginally lighter than the dead of night, but the sun did not grace the earth for long, nor with any strength. The stars shone bright and cold, glittering like shards of broken glass. Though trying to find Sabine once the day had begun could be like trying to track down a single pebble in a quarry, it was easy enough to find her when morning was still “dawning.” Sabine wasn’t the early riser she had once been; Ursa didn’t even have to rise that early herself to catch her on her way out of her bedroom door.

“Sabine?” she called, her voice damnably faint again.

Faint enough that Sabine, it seemed, did not hear her the first time. She was blinking sleep out of her eyes, hiding her yawns behind her hand. There she went, walking away, and Ursa followed after her as though she might never…

No, that was foolish. “Sabine?” she called, and it was as though her voice had never been faint at all.

Sabine paused and turned around, blinking rapidly. “Mother?” Ursa was greeted with a look of blank incomprehension. “What’s wrong?”

A slightly disbelieving smile curdled on Ursa’s mouth. “I wish to speak with you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

Silence drew up between them like a fogbank, clouding an already indistinct impression. Sabine’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been wanting to talk to me a lot lately. I just have to wonder…”

You were gone for so long. Is it really so difficult to believe that I would want to speak with you often? Even were she at her most reckless, Ursa knew (hoped) she had sense enough not to say such aloud. If ever there was something fit only for driving Sabine further away from her, that was it. And Ursa had already given her as much of an explanation as was needed, spelled out the necessity of it. If there was nothing more to be said on the matter, then let nothing more be said.

“There were…”

‘There were’ what?

Ursa closed her mouth and opened it again, even as Sabine’s eyes searched her face with caution. As Ursa groped for something, anything to say, she met only emptiness. What was it… what could she say that would not sound trite even to her own ears? She had only a vague idea of what Sabine would be responsive to, and what would drive her walls higher, her mask thicker, her heart harder.

“Sabine, I—“

Whatever Ursa might have said died suddenly when a siren started going off, then another, then another, in a cacophonous din. But what her ears recognized immediately, her mind was slow to accept. She stood there, open-mouthed and gaping like a fish stranded on dry land, while the words slipped further away.

Sabine glanced past her down the hall. “Sounds like trouble,” she pointed out in the provincial, slightly slurred accent that Ursa longed to smooth and sharpen until it was just the same as the voice Sabine had possessed when she left for Sundari, lightyears and eons ago. “We should get moving.”

Before Ursa could say anything, Sabine slipped past her, caution etched still on her face.

After entirely too long staring at her daughter’s retreating back, Ursa followed, nearly choked with formless words.

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

*Ersatz VantaBlack paint.

[eovinmygod]

From www.newstatesman.com By Mehdi Hasan

As a Muslim, I struggle with the idea of homosexuality – but I oppose homophobia

I've made homophobic remarks in the past, writes Mehdi Hasan, but now I’ve grown up — and reconciled my Islamic beliefs with my attitude to gay rights.

’Tis the season of apologies – specifically, grovelling apologies by some of our finest academic brains for homophobic remarks they’ve made in public. The Cambridge University theologian Dr Tim Winter, one of the UK’s leading Islamic scholars, apologised on 2 May after footage emerged showing him calling homosexuality the “ultimate inversion” and an “inexplicable aberration”. “The YouTube clip is at least 15 years old, and does not in any way represent my present views . . . we all have our youthful enthusiasms, and we all move on.”

The Harvard historian Professor Niall Ferguson apologised “unreservedly” on 4 May for “stupid” and “insensitive” comments in which he claimed that the economist John Maynard Keynes hadn’t cared about “the long run” because he was gay and had no intention of having any children.

Dare I add my non-academic, non-intellectual voice to the mix? I want to issue my own apology. Because I’ve made some pretty inappropriate comments in the past, too.

You may or may not be surprised to learn that, as a teenager, I was one of those wannabe-macho kids who crudely deployed “gay” as a mark of abuse; you will probably be shocked to discover that shamefully, even in my twenties, I was still making the odd disparaging remark about homosexuality.

It’s now 2013 and I’m 33 years old. My own “youthful enthusiasm” is thankfully, if belatedly, behind me.

What happened? Well, for a start, I grew up. Bigotry and demonisation of difference are usually the hallmark of immature and childish minds. But, if I’m honest, something else happened, too: I acquired a more nuanced understanding of my Islamic faith, a better appreciation of its morals, values and capacity for tolerance.

Before we go any further, a bit of background – I was attacked heavily a few weeks ago by some of my co-religionists for suggesting in these pages that too many Muslims in this country have a “Jewish problem” and that we blithely “ignore the rampant anti-Semitism in our own backyard”.

I hope I won’t provoke the same shrieks of outrage and denial when I say that many Muslims also have a problem, if not with homosexuals, then with homosexuality. In fact, a 2009 poll by Gallup found that British Muslims have zero tolerance towards homosexuality. “None of the 500 British Muslims interviewed believed that homosexual acts were morally acceptable,” the Guardian reported in May that year.

Some more background. Orthodox Islam, like orthodox interpretations of the other Abrahamic faiths, views homosexuality as sinful and usually defines marriage as only ever a heterosexual union.

This isn’t to say that there is no debate on the subject. In April, the Washington Post profiled Daayiee Abdullah, who is believed to be the only publicly gay imam in the west. “[I]f you have any same-sex marriages,” the Post quotes him as saying, “I’m available.” Meanwhile, the gay Muslim scholar Scott Siraj al-Haqq Kugle, who teaches Islamic studies at Emory University in the United States, says that notions such as “gay” or “lesbian” are not mentioned in the Quran. He blames Islam’s hostility towards homosexuality on a misreading of the texts by ultra-conservative mullahs.

And, in his 2011 book Reading the Quran, the British Muslim intellectual and writer Ziauddin Sardar argues that “there is abso­lutely no evidence that the Prophet punished anyone for homosexuality”. Sardar says “the demonisation of homosexuality in Muslim history is based largely on fabricated traditions and the unreconstituted prejudice harboured by most Muslim societies”. He highlights verse 31 of chapter 24 of the Quran, in which “we come across ‘men who have no sexual desire’ who can witness the ‘charms’ of women”. I must add here that Abdullah, Kugle and Sardar are in a tiny minority, as are the members of gay Muslim groups such as Imaan. Most mainstream Muslim scholars – even self-identified progressives and moderates such as Imam Hamza Yusuf in the United States and Professor Tariq Ramadan in the UK – consider homosexuality to be a grave sin. The Quran, after all, explicitly condemns the people of Lot for “approach[ing] males” (26:165) and for “lust[ing] on men in preference to women” (7:81), and describes marriage as an institution that is gender-based and procreative.

What about me? Where do I stand on this? For years I’ve been reluctant to answer questions on the subject. I was afraid of the “homophobe” tag. I didn’t want my gay friends and colleagues to look at me with horror, suspicion or disdain.

So let me be clear: yes, I’m a progressive who supports a secular society in which you don’t impose your faith on others – and in which the government, no matter how big or small, must always stay out of the bedroom. But I am also (to Richard Dawkins’s continuing disappointment) a believing Muslim. And, as a result, I really do struggle with this issue of homosexuality. As a supporter of secularism, I am willing to accept same-sex weddings in a state-sanctioned register office, on grounds of equity. As a believer in Islam, however, I insist that no mosque be forced to hold one against its wishes.

If you’re gay, that doesn’t mean I want to discriminate against you, belittle or bully you, abuse or offend you. Not at all. I don’t want to go back to the dark days of criminalisation and the imprisonment of gay men and women; of Section 28 and legalised discrimination. I’m disgusted by the violent repression and persecution of gay people across the Muslim-majority world.

I cringe as I watch footage of the buffoonish Mahmoud Ahmadinejad claiming: “In Iran, we don’t have homosexuals . . . we do not have this phenomenon.” I feel sick to my stomach when I read accounts of how, in the late 1990s, the Taliban in Afghanistan buried gay men alive and then toppled brick walls on top of them.

Nor is this an issue only in the Middle East and south Asia. In March, a Muslim caller to a radio station in New York stunned the host after suggesting, live on air, that gay Americans should be beheaded in line with “sharia law”. Here in the UK, in February, Muslim MPs who voted in favour of the same-sex marriage bill – such as the shadow justice secretary, Sadiq Khan – faced death threats and accusations of apostasy from a handful of Muslim extremists. And last year, a homophobic campaign launched by puffed-up Islamist gangs in east London featured ludicrous and offensive stickers declaring the area a “gay-free zone”.

I know it might be hard to believe, but Islam is not a religion of violence, hate or intolerance – despite the best efforts of a minority of reactionaries and radicals to argue (and behave) otherwise. Out of the 114 chapters of the Quran, 113 begin by introducing the God of Islam as a God of mercy and compassion. The Prophet Muhammad himself is referred to as “a mercy for all creation”. This mercy applies to everyone, whether heterosexual or homosexual. As Tariq Ramadan has put it: “I may disagree with what you are doing because it’s not in accordance with my belief but I respect who are you are.” He rightly notes that this is “a question of respect and mutual understanding”.

I should also point out here that most British Muslims oppose the persecution of homosexuals. A 2011 poll for the think tank Demos found that fewer than one in four British Muslims disagreed with the statement “I am proud of how Britain treats gay people”.

There is much to be proud of, but still much to be done. Homophobic bullying is rife in our schools. Nine out of ten gay or lesbian teenagers report being bullied at school over their sexual orientation. LGBT teens are two to three times more likely to commit suicide than their heterosexual peers.

Despite the recent slight fall in “sexual orientation hate crimes”, in 2012 there were still 4,252 such crimes in England and Wales, four out of every five of which involved “violence against the person”. In March, for instance, a man was jailed for killing a gay teenager by setting him on fire; the killer scrawled homophobic insults across 18-year-old Steven Simpson’s face, forearm and stomach.

Regular readers will know that I spend much of my time speaking out against Islamophobic bigotry: from the crude stereotyping of Muslims in the media and discrimi­nation against Muslims in the workplace to attacks on Muslim homes, businesses and places of worship.

The truth is that Islamophobia and homophobia have much in common: they are both, in the words of the (gay) journalist Patrick Strudwick, “at least partly fuelled by fear. Fear of the unknown . . .” Muslims and gay people alike are victims of this fear – especially when it translates into hate speech or physical attacks. We need to stand side by side against the bigots and hate-mongers, whether of the Islamist or the far-right variety, rather than turn on one another or allow ourselves to be pitted against each other, “Muslims v gays”.

We must avoid stereotyping and demonising each other at all costs. “The biggest question we have as a society,” says a Muslim MP who prefers to remain anonymous, “is how we accommodate difference.”

Remember also that negative attitudes to homosexuality are not the exclusive preserve of Muslims. In 2010, the British Social Attitudes survey showed that 36 per cent of the public regarded same-sex relations as “always” or “mostly wrong”.

A Muslim MP who voted in favour of the same-sex marriage bill tells me that most of the letters of protest that they received in response were from evangelical Christians, not Muslims. And, of course, it wasn’t a Muslim who took the life of poor Steven Simpson.

Yet ultimately I didn’t set out to write this piece to try to bridge the gap between Islam and homosexuality. I am not a theo­logian. Nor am I writing this in response to the ongoing parliamentary debate about the pros and cons of same-sex marriage. I am not a politician.

I am writing this because I want to live in a society in which all minorities – Jews, Muslims, gay people and others – are protected from violence and abuse, from demonisation and discrimination. And because I want to apologise for any hurt or offence that I may have caused to my gay brothers and lesbian sisters.

And yes, whatever our differences – straight or gay, religious or atheist, male or female – we are all brothers and sisters. As the great Muslim leader of the 7th century and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, Ali ibn Abi Talib, once declared: “Remember that people are of two kinds; they are either your brothers in religion or your brothers in mankind.”

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the political director of the Huffington Post UK, where this article is crossposted

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

[ofroseandrock-blog]

7-15-17

The lack of electricity has gotten worse – we are now down to about 2 hours per day, sporadically, and usually in the middle of the night which means people have to either miss out on using it to charge phones, wash the laundry or shower, or be ready to spring from sleep once it goes on and get the chores done. The heat and humidity are oppressive. People cannot save leftovers or keep produce and meat to plan for meals as it will spoil quickly in impotent refrigerators. This means any leftover food must be given away or go to waste. Any produce my family gathers from their farm must be eaten; and of course, there are more peaches, apples, peppers,cucumbers and tomatoes than can be eaten by the family before spoiling in this heat. No electricity often means no internet access, preventing many from being productive and efficient in their work, or even keeping connected with happenings in the world, politics, and relatives living outside of Gaza. Many people use batteries as back up to power small lights and charge phones when the electricity is out, however the increasing gap between working electricity is not enough to charge the batteries to run for 22 hours. The heat is intolerable – a pregnant friend told me she has taken to sleeping on the tile floor because it is cooler than in the bed at night, and her children also. There is no relief from the heat, unless you are lucky enough to have a car with A/C. In my whole life I have never slept without a blanket or sheet to cover me, even in the worst humidity in New England summers or living in Thailand. I always had at least a fan to provide some moving air. Since I arrived in Gaza 2 weeks ago, I haven’t slept a single night with cover. I lie on my back (also not my natural sleeping position – I’ve always slept in the fetal position) without any cover and barely move in my sleep. One is sweating, constantly, and tired. It is difficult to focus on getting work done, or much else for that matter, because of the discomfort of the heat, nevermind the lack of electricity and internet. The situation is unacceptable because it is unnecessary. The triangle of internal political divisions of the Palestinian ruling parties – Fatah in the WB and Hamas in Gaza, Israel, and Egypt are playing a perpetual game of tug-of-war and the people of Gaza are continuously caught in the middle and suffer from chronic suffering. Fatah (the Palestinian National Authority) refuses to pay Israel for Gaza’s electricity in order to pressure Hamas; Israel refuses to provide the electricity to Gaza thought they have the capability to and a responsibility to Gaza as its occupier; and Egypt, despite sending some relief in the form of extra fuel to run Gaza’s damaged power plant, continues to maintain a hard close on its border with Gaza – an act that has crippled an already broken economy and made travel outside of Gaza for the average Palestinian virtually impossible until it reopens. There is no excuse for the world’s lack of intervention, for the complicity of the most powerful governments in the world such as the UK and the US in supporting this suffering.

The pregnant friend I mentioned earlier, Nuhal – Issra and I visited her home today for lunch in Beit Hanoun area in northern Gaza. After a beautiful meal (which also has to be planned around the electricity – which one cannot plan for because it does not work according to any schedule), we brought chairs up to the roof of her building to escape the heat in her home. It was still hot up there, but at least there was a slight breeze and shade to one side beneath a tall (name?) tree. As we sat and sipped Turkish coffee, Nuhal pointed over the edge of the building where the tree grew, an area of dirt and dead grass littered with trash between her building and the next. She explained how she and her husband used to have lemon and olive trees there that they’d planted, but in the last war Israel had targeted much of the farm land and destroyed future harvests. They had considered replanting, she said, but were worried about the effects of the trash that now covered the land and residual chemicals from bombing. She told me the story of how the side of their home was hit by the bomb, when she was 9 months pregnant with her second child. Her first daughter was 3 at the time, sleeping in her bedroom which was on the side of the building that was hit. She rushed in to find her covered in rubble from the ceiling, but luckily she had been wrapped in a blanket which had protected her from serious injury. “I hated that summer”, she recalled with a distant look in her eye. Her mother’s building had been covered with white phosphorous and she had developed brain cancer not long after. She ended up dying shortly after diagnosis.

“People here always seem happy and resilient,” she told me, “but it’s not resilience. They have no other option but to smile and laugh and go on. But everyone here is suffering underneath the smiles. No one forgets these experiences. I will never forget them.” As she falls quiet, I look off into the distant, hazy humid sky over the sun-washed sand colored rooftops… I notice a strange object that seems to be hovering, still in the sky – like a big white balloon. I ask Nuhal about it, and she explains it is an Israeli surveillance balloon, as matter of fact as if she’s telling me the name of a planet in the night sky. Just another piece of the horizon.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned in the post.

[awkwardpariah]

The American Troubles

I've been thinking about the possibly for instances of violence by right-wing nationalists and neo-Nazis during the 2020s, but I've kinda been scared of thinking about going into a deeper analysis of it because on some level I think that gives it credibility. But I'm reaching a point where I can't not think about it. So buckle up because this is going to be one of my longer posts detailing what I think is leading to what I'm calling the American Troubles.

First we must identify the contributing factors to the present and impending economic and social upheaval. This will require identifying phenomena at the root of American culture, longstanding socio-economic trends impacting the world, and the political situation that has ultimately stemmed from it.

The Great Cycles

There is a phenomena in American history that emerges as two great cycles of history: The first being the Saeculum Cycle, lasting roughly 80 years or a human lifetime. Within the Saeculum are four 20 year generational cycles marked by the emergence of a generation's political culture upon entering adulthood. The second cycle is the 50 year Economic cycle that marks the emergence of a generation's position as the primary economic driver and the retirement of another generation from that position. These cycles contribute to fairly predictable generational archetypes, and are punctuated by crises. Please see the Strauss–Howe generational theory for details on the Saeculum cycle, and the Next 100 Years by George Friedman for a deeper examination of the economic cycles, as I'll be using terminology from both.

The Saeculum Cycles

As stated before, Saeculum cycles tend to end with the death of the bulk of the generation that lived through the last Saeculum crisis, and leads to a major social upheaval that can potentially threaten the survival of the government. The simplest explanation I can give of this is that it is one thing to know that the Holocaust or the Great Depression happened, it is quite another to be told about the look in the eyes of those liberated at Auschwitz or not being able to eat lunch one winter by your grandparents who were actually there. Human beings really haven't changed that much, and there is a lot of power in the words of respected elders. When you lose those elders, their warnings and lessons fade and mistakes new and old emerge.

Now, it should be noted that there are approximately 3 maybe 4 examples of this in America's relatively short history, which is why I've been hesitant to adopt this theory into the timeline. But, the 3 known examples, in descending order are: World War II, the Civil War, the Revolution, and the beginning of the Enlightenment. Two of these cases were major social upheavals, but the other two were the result of international events largely unconnected to the internal politics of the US, with the Enlightenment seeing no violence to speak of; however one could make an argument that the Second World War establishes that the Saeculum Cycles impact Western Civilization as a whole, and not just the US. I would argue that while that has some merit, the US absolutely faced social calamity in the early 1940s, in part resulting from the Great Depression which had not been fully resolved by 1941, and had created the social upheval to allow for fascist and communist movements to emerge in America. It was only by the unifying threat of global war that the US was able to essentially combat these internal problems with an external enemy.

However you may feel about the validity or consistency of the Saeculum Cycles, they are four distinct minor cycles:

High: Institutions (social, economic, and governing) are strong, and people tend to conform to the established order to push the society in a common direction. (Example: Post-World War II to the Kennedy Assassination.)

Awakening: Institutions are attacked in the name of personal freedom, usually right when social progress is at its zenith. Activists during this period tend to look back at the previous High as an era of cultural and spiritual poverty. (Example: the rise of modern Conservatism and the Hippie movement of the 60s and 70s)

Unraveling: Institutions are weak and distrusted, while individualism is strong. Unraveling are defined by social and economic decadence. (Example: The 1980s all the way through the middle of the second Bush Administration)

Crisis: The period where the shit hits the fan. All the decadence and irresponsibility of the previous cycle leads to a collapse of the social, economic, and political institutions people take for granted. The last time this happened was between 1929 and 1945. We’re in the middle of the latest one right now. During the crisis institutions are rebuilt and society identifies the common enemy threatening its survival, leading to a new High.

Each minor cycle has its own Generational Archetypes, which are as follows:

Prophet: People who are born into a High and grow up self absorbed  and indulgent only to attack the institutions that helped them prosper during an Awakening, and become morally self righteous later in life. (The Baby Boomers)

Nomad: The generation that grew up in the shadow of the narcissism of the Prophet generation and become alienated nihilistic adults before growing more pragmatic later in life. (Gen-Xers)

Hero: The kids that grew up during a period of decadence only to watch it all come crumbling down. This makes them team oriented and intrinsically optimistic about their ability to change things. (Millenials and the Lost Generation.)

Artist: The generation that grows up during a Crisis and become committed to building new institutions. They’re more willing than previous generations to sacrifice for the greater good. (Gen-Z and the Greatest Generation).

The Economic Cycles

Every 50 years or so one generation ascends to being the dominant economic force as their parents and grandparents retire leading to a crisis as the economic order breaks down. In 1980 the Greatest Generation retired and the Baby Boomers ascended, before that it was the Lost Generation that ascended in the 1930s, as the Generation born just prior to the American Civil War retired, and so on. In 2030 or so, Millennials will be in their 40s and 50s and will ascend as the Boomers retire. As we saw in the 1970s, or the Long Depression of the 1870s, the period leading up to tipping point of the economic cycle can itself be a prolonged crisis, rather than a singular instance. I would argue that this is true for every cycle, because while 1929 is typically placed as the beginning of the Great Depression, that was only true if you lived in urban areas. For poor farmers, the dust bowl and the contraction of available capital began the depression much earlier. The tipping point is not the point when the situation goes bad, the tipping point is when the situation becomes intolerable. So for those of you who think the economic conditions of America in the 2010s were stressful or just unsatisfactory, the next decade will get worse before things get better. The tipping point, tends to feature a fairly major change in economic policy, ala Reaganomics, the New Deal, the end of Reconstruction (really Sherman's economic policies under Hayes), Jacksonianism, and the Revolution.

The Convergence of the Cycles

We are in one of the most unique periods in American  history where a Saeculum and Economic cycle are ending at the same time. To put that into perspective, the last three Saeculum ended with World War II, the Civil War, and the American Revolution. The last economic cycles ended with the Stagflation crisis, the Great Depression, the Long Depression, the Panic of 1819, and the American Revolution. This will be the first time since our country was founded that the two great cycles will end at the same time. That should make everyone just a little nervous. We are seeing the end of the world created by the Lost Generation and the Greatest Generation, as well as the collapse of the economic system established by the Reagan administration; and the serious of the end of these cycles cannot be understated. What we're seeing right now with a widening wealth gap, the disintegration of the purchasing power of the middle class, and the emergence of ultra-right wing and/or "White Nationalist" groups are fore-shocks to the impending crisis. In both cycles there is also a breakdown in ideology, a loss of faith in the political and economic theories that have governed people's worldview. You're seeing this today with the rejection of the elites/experts, and in some cases an outright rejection of the principles of democracy itself. President Trump and his supporters for example, either reject the popular vote results in 2016 election, or go so far as to claim that its a good thing that the popular vote doesn't decide the President in the first place. An extension of this belief extends to the Republican party's fanatical defense of gerrymandered districts that force Democrats to win by double digit margins in a state just to win a simple majority of its seats in Congress. I expect this rejection of democratic principles to get worse in the 2020s, and combined by an economy that is likely to make the wealth gap even more pronounced and the middle class standard of living an unsustainable fantasy, it is not difficult to imagine violence emerging in the United States.

I am not willing to go so far as to claim that we will see a Second American Revolution or Civil War, more likely we'll see two new trends: A New Progressive Era, which I've covered in my Great Reset posts, and the titular subject of this piece: The American Troubles.

The American Troubles

We are already seeing the beginnings of the divide in American society that could very well lead to a period of violence and social upheaval: one one side you have the Progressive wing of the Democratic party, on the other the White Nationalist wing of the Republican Party. These will not be Bernie Sanders' or Donald Trump's movement's anymore; they'll be taking on life as much more radical incarnations of what those two old men began.

New Progressives

The Progressive wing of the Democrats will take on a life of their own as a more egalitarian entity that is far more skeptical of modern capitalism than previous generations. Its still not a truly coherent entity, but it is more united than it is to the Democratic party itself. By the 2020s we're likely to see the ideology of this new Progressive movement emerge in earnest; don't expect them to call themselves Democratic-Socialists, they're more likely to claim affiliation with entirely new ideology (which like every new ideology, will take pieces of older ideas and unify them under a new perspective). These groups will push for reforms in the 2020s at the state and local level, and they'll have some success, probably going so far as to attempt constitutional reforms. But their real moment of victory will come with the election of either 2028 or 2032 where they'll push for major reforms at all levels of government and American society. Don't think Universal Healthcare, or raising taxes a little bit, think Nationalized Healthcare, Banking, and Housing; think changes to the legal code that allow for multiple accusations of sexual misconduct or racist behavior to be admissible as character evidence in court; think government administration reforms where whole departments are replaced with project management AIs; and of course think large-scale immigration reform to make it much easier for people to attain citizenship.

White Nationalists

Don't just think Neo-Nazis or even Neo-Confederates (though there will certainly be plenty of both), the real threat will come from groups that today aren't all that militant. Homogenized, religious communities, suburban gun owners, and rural workers in agriculture, manufacturing, and mining. These are overwhelmingly white, male, protestant, and lower-middle class groups, who's livelihoods have been eroded by contemporary economic policy, and who also believe their culture is being eroded by contemporary social policies, particularly with regard to immigration and the more equal treatment of women in society. Don't think of these people as just actively hating women, gays, immigrants, ethnic minorities, etc. for the sake of hating them, but rather the fact that they feel resentful that other groups seem to be succeeding while people that look like them seem to struggling more than they used to; and in their minds capitalist economics is a zero sum game: if "other people" are doing well, that means less opportunities for white men. You see this argument pop up a lot when Trump and his ilk try to defend high employment but low wages by stating that labor is cheaper now that women have joined the workforce. These groups could become a problem if Trump is unseated in 2020, but it may be more likely that they fester for a few more years and don't become a real threat until the next crisis really emerges.

Conflict

There is one important point to remember about the White Nationalists and how much of a threat they can be by the time of the next convergent crisis: they are the minority. Non-Hispanic white men make up about 30% of the US right now, or around 100 Million people. The fighting age population of this group will be around by 2030 (55% will be considered "working age, over 20 and under 64) so around 55 million people. Then you have to consider ideology, and an actual willingness to fight. About half could be considered moderately liberal, another quarter would casually support rebel groups but not actually pick up arms and join them, so that leaves a hypothetical rebel White Nationalist "Nation" of around 13 million people. Not small by any means, but not geographically unified either. They're also poorer, less educated, and have a higher elderly dependency ratio than other demographics, meaning they can't source arms or dedicate as much of their population to combat as readily as the more diverse and faster growing portion of the country. So we're more likely to see an American ISIS with territory spread out like a spider's web than a coherent government with control of a geographically defensible region or even a group of states. But make no mistake these people will be dangerous, they will be armed, and they will likely be a defining threat to America in the 2020s and 30s, especially as new pro-immigration policies are adopted to make up for the drop off in productivity from an increasingly elderly dependent population.

These groups will start out fairly widespread, but not coherently connected, with seemingly random instances of violence against the government and immigrant populations around the country, but the most dangerous groups are likely to emerge in corridors of rural Ohio-Indiana, Alabama-Mississippi, and Iowa-Nebraska-Kansas. The worst violence at the start will be in the California, Texas, and Arizona where immigrant groups will be entering the country in large numbers, but the states they'll be fighting in will be overwhelmingly opposed to these groups and too important for the government to tolerate their actions, so you could see some Waco-style raids on militia groups in these states early on, but those in the "Heartland" will have more local support and a perceived reason to fight. They will actually be less combative than their allies in the coastal and southwestern states, but will become more militant as more reforms are brought forward by the Progressive government. There may be an attempt to create a kind of "Heartland Republic," but these groups will functionally be on their own, facing confrontations with local law enforcement, National Guard and possibly even US Special Forces. At this point its difficult to characterize the period of conflict beyond, "It's gonna be ugly, but it will end." Its not impossible to imagine a White Nationalist Group raiding a statehouse or even winning a contested election in one state and declaring independence, or groups of said domestic terrorists attacking far outside their "home territory," possibly against Washington itself, with likely no strategic success but plenty of perceived success to their supporters and opposition. But, Americans tend to rally together in the face of such a clearly visible foe, as do all humans really, and the White Nationalists may very do more to assure the destruction of their way of life by fighting than if they continued formal political resistance.

The End of Agrarian Patriarchy

The coming crisis will be the most transformative period in US history, and will redefine how America sees itself, but it many ways it is just the inevitable conclusion of easily the most significant trend in human history: the end of Agrarianism. Every cultural institution from education, family structures, to every major religion all stems from Agrarian social norms. If a society needs a lot of farmers, it needs a lot of children because farming is a career that does not generate a lot of capital for social services and kids can help care for a family's elderly, and children can start doing work on a farm fairly early in life, making them economic engines. However, any society dependent on the birthing of large numbers of children (because many are likely to die in a society with inadequate access to healthcare) is by its vary nature repressive, and patriarchal. Women are burdened with producing and caring for offspring, while men are free to work. Without going into detail, this is basically why so many cultures are obsessed with male lineages, chastity, and hetero-normative behavior. However, during the enlightenment something incredible happened: humans started to make more food without needing nearly as many people. This led to a large population that could focus more on careers that further advanced quality of life, which further reduced the need for an agrarian class, and so on. The Industrial Revolution kicked this trend into high gear, and the information age has left menial labor the least attractive career on the table, and made children the greatest source of conspicuous consumption.

The next crisis won't be tied to agriculture, and both sides won't even acknowledge that this way of life is ultimately what they're fighting over, but rest assured this will be the defining cause of the next battle for the soul of America, and indeed will drive the political confrontation we'll see in every developed nation going forward. The aftermath will lead to a country that is more diverse and less patriarchal, with family groups that today are seen at best as unusual subcultures, and at worst a social taboo. The next crisis end with a reversal of the Reagan Revolution: more diverse and decentralized social order and a more centralized government. I remain an hopeless optimist, and feel that the Republic will be reborn from this era stronger than it was before, and a better America will come about from the hardship we've yet to face.

[lillianeverette]

The World takes shape: Plains

Grandia is a land both vast and deep. Every tree is home to sylphine spirits, every stone is blessed by some antediluvian entity. All of its people are sculpted after empyrean beings, all of its lands born from Mother Nature’s opulence. Now witness its majesty.

The following is a continuation of my journal as I travel across the bountiful expanses of Grandia our dear home. I, Arturias Octavian Orryn Smithe III, have made it my solemn duty to traverse the world and then to produce for its many peoples a written recapitulation of my experiences. I have seen the bloodshed of man against man, his intolerance, his malice towards his brother and to this I say “FOR SHAME!”. It has always been my gentlemanly and amicable heart that has led me through this life and now that I am at its mid point I can ignore no longer this incongruity in the hearts of my fellow man. It is then the hope of these entries to shine a more open and thoughtful light upon the many wonders of these myriad lands. I think through my painstaking diligence I can deliver onto the world a tome of understanding. I believe that once all have read this book they too shall see that no matter what shape, color, size or other dimension our fellow beings take we are all united in Being and thus should open our hearts and minds to each other!

The Great Plains of central Ashe. Pronounced as “aye-sh” for those who do not live on the Middling Continent. “How to describe the Great Plains!?” Why it is indeed an momentous task that even the most skilled minstrel might fail, it is in fact one of Grandia’s ten thousand wonders! Vast oceans of grass billow gently in the wind. Rollings hills don these pelts of earth to do war against the vastness of the sky. The peoples of these plains worship both equally, for who could have vision to see which is larger?

Slow lumbering Great-beasts populate the area, the reasons the beasts of the Plains grow so large is unknown by modern Alchemy however the Tieshi people say they grow large on the lush grass of the Great Plains which is uncommonly thick, green, and robust as compared to the grasses of other ecosystems. The Shi’ezi believe that their patron god Eshe created the plain to size with her own vast form as she hoped for her people’s humanity to equal her own divinity. When she saw the other gods had chosen to stand above their creations she grew sad and knew that if her people where as great as she they would see only the disparity between themselves and their fellow beings. She lowered their stature to equal that of the others but kept the Great Plains and its creatures as they were hoping that they would inspire them to grow divine in spirit if not in body.

Indeed the Great-beasts and the land’s vegetation do seem connected. The grass grows so thick and lusciously that the beasts are sustained on it solely. The grass is also interesting as it is the only form of plant life on the entire plain and does not change in species over its entire expanses. The edges of the Great Plain can be marked by the sudden and iron bound rule of the plains grass. The beasts seem to know of their reliance upon it as they are careful not to tread upon it overmuch. This is indeed wise as I have taken a sample and put it into a ceramic pot for observation and in my five weeks travel through the plains it has not grown at all; after speaking with several Tieshi I learned that the grass grows as slow as trees and can live just as long. Beast Trails snake through the Plains allowing grass to grow strong between them, these dirt paths have been observed to last thousands of years and are looked at akin to how many civilizations would look at rivers and other landmarks. The Great-beasts it would seem are beast of habit. In the Outer Plains the grass grows as if it were a wondrous carpet, growing no taller than halfway to the knee of a human such as myself. Travelers often call it the pillow lands as no bed roll, padding, or tent is needed to sleep upon it and the beasts largely stay to their trails.

The Deep Plains are quite different. Here the grass grows denser, lusher, and most importantly taller, I have taken samples from this as well and have concluded that it is indeed the same grass as in the Outer Plains as claimed by Alchemists studying the area and the people of the plain. The grass can grow up to seven feet and this makes it far too difficult to walk in the grass itself. Any travelers who cross the deep Plains will have to use the Beast Trails. It is considered best practice to have scouts both ahead and behind the main party at all times. If a beast is spotted the rest of the travelers can be alerted and given time to delve a few yards into the grass and wait quietly for the beast to pass. While spending a week encamped in the Deep Plains with a group of four Shi’ezi trades-folk I ran into this very scenario. All of a sudden Shu’ten, a young boy who had been our forward scout and who I had befriended by presenting him with various sweets from the shops of Lurkendborg, ran to us in great fear and haste. The others looked at me with great seriousness, here in the Deep Plains where life was marked with danger and man the smallest thing, all were expected to know the tools of survival. Remembering my instructions I leaped headfirst into the grass gaining several strange looks from my She’ezi companions who slipped between the blades of grass with a practiced grace. Progress required one to push harshly against each ropey stalk finding small gaps as pushing against anymore than four at a time was futile. As such we only made five feet of progress before we heard the stamp of large feet and a great heaving breath. We all fell silent. 

Then the beast was before us. It walked on four legs as large as tree trunks, its body covered in a thick mat of long hair. Two great horns adorned its head, smooth and gleaming. Steam rose out of its huge nostrils which sounded like a bellows for a great furnace. It turned its face in our direction. For any of my readers who have seen a cow or a bull or even a horse it is rather similar to that and yet……. I did not notice it until I saw its eyes. This is an ancient creature. My companions always talked with reverence about these beasts and I thought it was out of fear of their violently territorial behavior. But no dear reader it is out of respect for something that is far greater than any of us. Its fur is matted with dirt from decades of wandering, twisted and twisted upon itself, its horns are smooth after fighting countless others over potential mates, Its hooves are as worn and solid as stone. Its eyes are a rich brown with no irises but not solid in color. The surface of the eyes seemed to warp and shimmer as if it were a pool of liquid seen from above. Where light caught the eyes it shown gold. Deep brown and effulgent gold danced back and forth and within this dance I could some how make out the hundreds of years of memories contained within them. I leave you here, humbled before the greatness of these plains contained within the eyes of a single Being.