#the nyc revolt

[3rdeyeblaque]

On April 6th in Hoodoo History: The New York City Slave Revolt of 1712 🔥✊🏾

23 enslaved Afrikans set fire to NYC one year after the slave trade markets officially opened by the East River on Wall Street.

• On the night of April 6th, 1712, 23 Afrikans armed themselves with swords, knives, guns - laced with prayer & faith - and fire against White Slavers in the streets of NYC. They set an outhouse ablaze at the home of Peter Van Tilborough on Maiden Lane, at what was then the northern edge of Manhattan. They then picked off any White Slavers nearby who tried to stop it, from the cover of darkness. 9 Slavers were killed and 6 others were injured by nights end.

• On the following morning, the Governor of NY ordered two militias to "drive the island" aka capture & kill the rebels. 6 Afrikans took their lives in protest. The rest were burned alive or "broken" at the wheel. This unprecedented event hitting the streets of NYC quickly spurred the NY State Assembly to pass an act that would permit Slavers to punish Afrikans to the extreme measures by "not extending to life or member", thus cementing a new precedent for their cruelty in the North. In addition, Slavers would now be required to pay $200 dollars in security fees to the State & annuity for any freed Afrikans. Despite these stringent laws, NYC would see more slave rebellions in the next two decades; the next being in 1741.

To be of Hoodoo is, and has always been, to fight back. Let this be a reminder, forever to be drilled into our psyches: We been fighting. We been sacrificing. We been spiriting. We been victorious.

Today, 83 Maiden Lane sits in the infamous Financial District of Manhattan & now serves as the headquarters of the AHRC (Association of Help for Retarded Children). But beneath the cloak of modern amenities & reconstructive efforts, the once-scorched Earth still remembers the night of April 6th. This is where we made our stand. This, & the streets along the northern edge of Manhattan, is a place of power.

It is important to remember the when & WHERE of this event (and those that followed) as many to this day falsely believe that the North was somehow the righteous exception to the Eurocentric cruelties of Maafa. The North was not the exception then & is not the exception now. May we:

• Meditate on the cost of true freedom that these Ancestors paid in blood so we wouldn't have to.

• Pour libations for them, especially those of us residing on or near the Financial District, as this is where our Ancestors were bought & sold from the docks on the East River to Wall Street.

• Remember our plight & presence in the Northern states that have lightened their reputation with the mask of progressive thinking.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Hungarian-Americans march up Fifth Avenue on November 4, 1956 in what was called a “March of Mourning” for those dead in the failed revolt against the Soviet Union. Many carry signs, such as the one in foreground, “Communist murderers get out of Hungary.” The marchers are at 57th street, walking south on Fifth Avenue.

Photo: Associated Press

[jonathanbyersphd]

SORRY I AM THINKING ABOUT NANCY SAYING COPY/PASTE FOR HER AND JONATHAN'S DAUGHTER AGAIN AND IIIII

[omegaremix]

Cold Waves @ Warsaw; September 15 & 16, 2022.

If I told you that I was feeling shaky going into attending Cold Waves, you’d write me off instantly. Why would I still feel nervous about attending shows? Sure, the event is everything, but every trip to grandiose New York City is still a major thing for me. It’s still feels like uncharted territory and I’m still not over it but it has everything Long Island fails to provide: the venues, the people, the exciting energy, and an allure I still can’t put my finger on. It’s all for the taking, whereas on Long Island I had way more than enough. Also: anxiety. (Film at 5.)

I was only mere days away and I had to get ready for two straight nights of taking trains to and from Brooklyn. Cold Waves would be the third show I’d attend this year - fourth if I cared going to Ministry’s “Industrial” Strength tour which I didn’t go to. I was a frantic wreck anticipating this industrial legends / synthwave festival. The tremors in my black heart would stop only if I finally arrived at Warsaw. It’s my third visit there. The first was for Hospital Productions’ 20th Anniversary and the second was for Black Marble and Cold Cave on a hot June day - before my world, my momentum, and soul were all upended.

I don my black cap, a Clock DVA shirt, blue jeans, black boots and new black leather jacket. It’s sunny out, a hazy blue sky is being invaded by cumuluses all over the place - perfect conditions for an afternoon drive westward on the Long Island Expressway, down on Sagtikos Parkway, through Southern State to Rt. 231, and heading south to Rt. 27A to the Babylon station. I took no chances catching the earlier one-hour train to Penn Station, then hopped on the ‘E’ line to Court Square’s ‘G’ line to Greenpoint Ave. The train ride was bliss as hardly anyone was on it.

It was 6:15 PM when I stepped off the G and went upstairs to Greenpoint, my favorite Brooklyn neighborhood. It only took me 15 minutes to walk a few blocks down to Driggs Av. in Kings County’s Polish neighborhood. It’s only 6:30 PM and already I’m being greeted by a crowd of three at the very front of the line. One of them saw my DVA shirt and gave me two thumbs up. “Great shit, man!”, he said. I smiled and my heart rate went up 20.00% knowing I made the right choice of t-shirt for night #1 of Cold Waves. I found myself standing at the exact same spot on line more than four years ago when I waited to enter the venue for Cold Cave and Black Marble. It was that very corner where Wes Eisold stood with Genesis P. Orridge before that show. Doors open at 7 PM as all of us trudge towards the venue for our security checks before entering paradise where I’m immediately hit with the smell of incense, a special smell distinct to my Brooklyn travels and nowhere else.

The music existed before the beginning of time and it was pumping. No wonder - DJ Andi (Harriman) was behind the wheels of steel. She’s a fixture of the neighborhood where she fit perfectly with the industrialists and synth-wave demographic that populate there. With me being 15th in line, I won a spot up front. As always without fail. I was feeling great about what was about to go down for the next five hours. The first person I thought of was my Roman goth friend Lira* who I wished was there with me. She would’ve blended in with all these vampires, witches, and mistresses attending; many walking around wearing 242, Wax Trax, Pig, Pigface, Hocico, and Twin Tribes shirts.

7:45PM is here. The dee-jay fades out, the overheads turn off and the first act is ready to go. Cold Waves is finally underway.

Spike Hellis was the first of ten on the roster and kicked off the entire festival. The fresh Los Angeles duo have enjoyed a new sizable uptick of exposure. They were active and had lots of energy on stage; a theme that they’d set the tone for the entire program. Their fast-paced EBM, electro, and electronic hybrid was a fine example of the current sound that Los Angeles had to offer. Both Cortland Gibson and Elaine Chang traded instrumental and (screaming) vocal duties with each other while conveying themes of agony, control, rage, emotional despair, and submission that rubber-stamped their own pandemic-era, all accentuated at the end with an annoyed Chang dealing the finger to an audience member as the cherry on top. Who knows what happened there? What I do know was that someone threw an empty beer can at them during their set and security called him out on it; eyes and pointy fingers in his direction with a one-and-final warning not to do it again.

For those wondering why Rein is being highly praised all over, you’ll see why. One of two solo acts, Rein wasted no time taking the stage and it wasn’t long for her to show everyone why she’s one of the most talked-about synthwave acts of recent. It’s not just her razor-sharp EBM delivery and style but also her choreography which made her perfectly groove to the music. She can seriously move it like no other and also delivered plenty of hard-edged sounds of equal measure. It was more than enough to ask who the fuck Shakira was, because she’s got nothing on her. It wasn’t just Rein who was motioning to the music. I look to my right and seen a good number of people getting into it, too; such as the guy three spaces away from me who happened to be wearing a gas mask through her set. After she closed out her set came another intermission. The next three legendary acts have yet to come into play and right behind me are three belligerent drunks (one male and two females) fighting over who bumped into who, not saying ‘excuse me’, who stood where, and lots of name-calling and f-bombs lobbed at each other’s slovenly faces. Not a dull moment so far.

Portion Control was the third and most enduring act of the festival with their debut cassette release A Fair Potion dating all the way back to 1980. I’ve constantly heard of them through new-wave, industrial, and synthwave circles. It’s my first go at them and Wow. They. Nailed. It. They became one of the very few artists I ever discovered to give me a perfect example of everything I was looking for on the very first listen. Perhaps the hungriest, meanest, and venomous act I discovered live or not. I may have caught them at their best ever and it lead me to the three Seed e.p.’s. Onstage, Dean Piavanni was a vocally sinister, persuasive, and direct force who could’ve easily taken on the audience (and would’ve won); as Jon Whybrew was on the controls transmitting ultra-energetic and juiced-up EBM and industrial techno for the small masses. It was the most exciting payout of the night so far.

If there was ‘the’ reason that attending Cold Waves was an absolute must, it was the team of former Wax Trax and Ministry members Paul Barker and Chris Connelly. They are part of the reason why everyone had some of the best moments of their lives and made for some of the greatest industrial releases ever. Billed as The Revolting Cocks Corpse and in conflict with Al Jourgensen’s version of the band, it would be their last-ever appearance. I hate to admit, a scratch off the bucket list was long overdue and years in waiting. Now, here was my chance of seeing both of them live in one shot.

Want real-deal Cocks classics? You got ‘em. Paul Barker handled his iconic bass logo-ed with the Cocks’ Beers, Steers & Queers emblem on it before kicking off with “38” and brought out former Cock (Front 242’s) Richard 23 on vocals. After that comes Connelly onstage in casual wear in a trucker hat, jeans, and a shirt that’s scrawled “Strong And Pretty” on the front, so we’re getting the nutty version of him. Then the rest of the hits came rolling in: “Attack Ships On Fire”, “Cattle Grind”, “Crackin’ Up”. When Connelly asked himself out loud what else to play, the audience yelled “Let’s Get Physical” (rest in peace, Olivia Newton John). “Well, I didn’t ask for your help!” he said coyly to all of us and we couldn’t help but to laugh. They did cap off their monumental set with “Do Ya’ Think I’m Sexy” and it felt like a dream. Connelly leans on the speakers acting all cute and blowing kisses to the crowd with a smile. Before you know it, he’s laying on the floor with arms wide open like he’s just fallen in love as Barker and company call it a night. Nothing but good times and an ultimate culmination of their Wax Trax output as I hoped for.

Finally, it was Front 242’s turn to take the stage; the apex of an already high-flying night. It would be a bittersweet performance at that as this was one of many shows on what was their final U.S. tour. Many fans thought it was because of Jean-Luc De Meyer health issues but thankfully that wasn’t the case. No matter, it was everyone’s last chance in the states to catch them before leaving North America once and for all with no turning back. I considered Front 242 to be a bonus for me as I was heavily into their pioneering Eighties material during my community college years, their later albums, and C-Tec which De Meyer took part in. I had absolutely nothing to lose seeing them live. All throughout the night I’ve seen photographers-for-hire huddle around the space in-between the rail and stage getting their dozens of shots in. For Front 242, the three-song policy got extended to four. It had to be. Warsaw security managed to catch one snap artist who didn’t know better.“No flash! No flash!” they told him as they pointed at and called him out on it. Which also begged the question: where the hell is Brooklyn’s industrial / synthwave fixture-photographer Nikki Sneakers? It’s been at least five years since I’ve seen her shooting at venues.

Front 242 played their most-recognizable and popular classics that established and pioneered EBM with “Don’t Crash”, “Operational Tracks”, “U-Men” and many more. It was all Richard 23, De Meyer, and Patrick Codenys in their unmistakable iconic tactical outfits with a shirtless Tim Kroker on live drums. They took all the power and energy they had and kept it going all the way, delivering nothing short of a rhythmic and beat-heavy experience they were known for. One funny moment to be seen was when De Meyer stood cross-armed wearing his huge shades and had such a scowl on his face, looking all bad-ass as the other three carried on. After eight or nine songs, 242 left the stage - not to lock targets and catch men - but to gear up for their first encore. We all knew there was more to come and what came was “Headhunter”, one of industrial / EBM’s most historic songs ever written. Two more songs later and 242 left the stage again charging up for another encore. As soon as we all heard the soundbyte “Hey, Poor!”, it meant only one thing: “Welcome to Paradise”. Only then was the perfect Front 242 show complete. The team of 23, De Meyer, Codenys, and Kroker took in a lengthy applause and gave a standing ovation as they all thanked New York City and bid farewell. The lights turn on for all of us to head out of Warsaw. I turn around to get going and behind me I see a female fan being consoled by her husband - and she’s in tears. Either she finally fulfilled her life-long dream of seeing Front 242 or saddened that they would say goodbye and farewell to the states, never to return.

The first five acts were amazing. It felt like I did a great service to myself in attending. I already checked off all the boxes I wanted to: take mass transit, visit Greenpoint, see Barker and Connolly play, and be associated with my kind of people. A night out in Brooklyn never fails and the thrills would still continue after the show ended. There’s always the experience of taking the alphabet and number lines - taking the ‘G’ and then the ‘7’ line to walk from 10th St. towards the Empire State Building and then arriving at Penn Station all by one-in-the-morning. Like the ride from Babylon to Penn Station, the reverse ride was quiet and not as crowded as a can of sardines. More exhilarating was the ride from Babylon back home where all the roads were empty and quiet, leading up to driving east on a wide-open Sunrise Highway at three in the morning and getting home all in 25 minutes time.

Night One of Cold Waves was now in the record books.

**********

Friday afternoon? Well, what an adventure. I had no idea that traffic was literally paralyzed on Sagtikos Parkway. It was that point where I knew it would be down to the wire getting to the Babylon station. From then on, I was finding every inch I could to cut other drivers off, find detours, and get head-starts while waiting for green lights and cursing out turtle drivers. Traffic was tight and every decision counted. One minute I thought I was going to make it and the next minute I was doubtful. South on Commack Road, down Deer Park Avenue then Route 231, and finally to Route 27A where I was only a few thousand feet away from the station. I arrive at the parking lot across from the station, bolted out of my car, ran across the street and up the stairs like a motherfucker. I finally reach the platform and - it’s taking off. Fucking great.

I had one hour until the next train to figure out how to unfuck myself and get to Warsaw in time. I tried signing up for OMNY (New York City’s wireless transit pay) months ago but was unsuccessful. Now time to try again. I downloaded the Apple Pay app- and then had to call the bank to connect my card. Now that it’s tied to my phone, I tired again to sign up for OMNY. Success! The 4:35 PM Babylon train arrives and I had 55 minutes to map out the quickest path in getting to my destination. The train arrives at Penn Station and I waste no time hauling ass to the ‘E’ line. Here we go. I hover my phone over the turnstile and - GO. Raced up and down the flights of stairs and I catch the ‘E’ train by five seconds before its doors closed. I take another 20 minutes to cool down before the transfer to Court Square / 23rd Street’s ‘G’ line. I hop off, sprint, and find the ‘G’ train that would take me to the Nassau Avenue stop, the closest one to Warsaw. It took me about two minutes and 1,000 feet to get there. I finally arrive out of breath before I go through the security checks and magic wands before entry. All clear. It’s 7:40 PM. Five minutes to go and I’m at the exact same spot I was the night before. All worship to Lucifer that I made it.

And now, night two begins.

If there was any artist to kick off Friday’s festivities that represented his hometown and carried its flag, then Confines was it. The hard-hitting, beat-heavy industrial-techno / EBM project certainly had some punch to it. Like Rein, Confines was a one-person show who did all of his instruments and movements on his own. Not bad at all. At the time of this writing I learned something about him that totally kicked me off of my seat: Confines happened to be David Castillo, co-owner of Brooklyn’s Saint Vitus bar and venue, host of the Age Of Quarantine podcast, and lead singer of Primitive Weapons. Are you fucking kidding me?! I was on the lookout to spot him at my last visit to -Vitus to see Uniform but I was shit out of luck. Now I finally found him performing at Cold Waves and didn’t even know that was him until after the fact! Fucking right. And it doesn’t stop there. I also learned that both Geography Of Nowhere 1 and Work Up The Blood was mixed and mastered by Hospital Productions’ Kris Lapke / Alberich and laid out by Sannhet’s AJ Annunziata. Wow. Talk about getting five-in-a-row on that bingo card.

Fans of Vancouver musicks enjoyed a two-for-one approaching the middle of the night’s bill. We were all treated to Leathers consisting of Shannon Hemmett (vocals), Kendall Wooding (synths), and Adam Fink (drums). For anyone who wanted the 2022’s tense of what an Eighties’ synthpop / new-wave show would look like? Well, now you have it. It was a treat seeing them perform and also seeing the slender Hemmett as an Eighties dream while Wooding and Fink played a smooth mid-tempo set. But with a wardrobe change and Jason Corbett coming into play, Leathers became Actors and Artoffact’s flagship band was the iteration that appeared on everyone’s radar as of late. They traded in their Eighties’ synthpop and new-wave cool for heavier rock. This time Hemmett took over synth duties and Wooding wielded bass as Fink stayed on drums and Corbett helped Actors push more power and electricity into their second set to keep the excitement steady from start to finish. I tried out both Leathers / Actors before and for some reason they’re not my type of heavy-rotation listening. However, there’s no denying that their talent brought them their well-deserved fanfare and exposure.

Not since Merzbow’s personnel bringing out his gear at Output have I been bracing myself with another artist’s set-up. Lighting fixtures attached all over and bulbs placed in front of huge cymbals might’ve told me that the next set would burn my eyes right off my face. Luckily, I was wrong. That was Kite’s visual set-up and a precursor to their performance. The Swedish duo of Niklas Stenemo and Christian Berg were another act I never heard anything of, and afterwards tilted me to give them a shot. Both were skilled in playing two keyboards at once (or keys- and knobs in Berg’s case) as they delivered a lively performance and Stenemo a few kicks, switching between synth-wave and synthpop. Their latest single “Bocelli” was the highlight on the night, showing their dramatics while also providing a soulful, heartfelt, and at times acclaimed power.

While Kite tore down their equipment, I thought of something. It’s been five years since I attended Hospital Production’s 20th Anniversary. I remember one moment near the end of the showcase when Bone Awl was playing their set - where all of a sudden Dominick Fernow (Prurient and Hospital- label-head) runs to the apron, stage-dives over the pit, and into the audience for a crowd-surf. It was a moment that never escaped me since then. Here I am back again at Warsaw for Cold Waves five years later and I’m at the rail for both nights. During one intermission, something dawned on me - I look at the rail, then the edge of the stage, and then the rail once again. I thought to myself: how in the fuck did Dominick have enough clearance to fly in the air, avoid banging into the rail, and land safely on top of the crowd? Good thing he successfully pulled off that spectacular feat.

Asterisk: New York City was supposed to receive Stabbing Westward as the closer to Cold Waves but had to bow out. That’s where Cold Cave gladly stepped in and ultimately sealed the deal for Cold Waves’ entire New York City stop. “Remember when we last played here?” lead singer Wes Eisold asked the audience. Yes I do, Wes. Yes I do. Seeing Cold Cave again for the second time in the same venue was another special bonus to me, and always a welcome one at that. I walk through previously-ventured territory and this time it was just as exciting as the last. All hits and zero misses from Eisold, his lady Amy Lee, and company. “Glory”, “People Are Poison”, “A Little Death To Laugh”, “Confetti”, “Rainbow Girls”, “Godstar”, “Theme From Tomorrowland”. You named it, they played it. For 50 minutes they kept a steady upbeat energy of synthwave and classic goth pedigree; not to mentions tons of smoke and fog fired towards our way to where I’m seriously considering getting myself screened. The only difference between their 2018 appearance and this one at Cold Waves? No sign of Max G. Morton, and Eisold’s heroine Genesis P. Orridge who joined him on guest vocals had sadly passed away since then.

But there was one shining onyx that fit the head jewel of the crown: when Eisold and Amy Lee brought their daughter out on stage. How fucking amazing was that? The audience collectively melted. Imagine being in your single-digits and having an amazing story to tell your friends back in school about how your rock-star dad brought you up on stage to sing for the crowd. Through their entire set, Cold Cave never let up and missed any of their targets as Eisold, Amy, and the rest played through their last encore and that’s all they wrote.

Before I knew it, it’s 12:20AM. Cold Waves in New York City was now history.

**********

I walk out of Warsaw and away from the busy volume of the patrons standing around in front of it. The night skies changed their tune to a purplish overhead. They were nice enough to wait until my moment was over to return. I’m now processing how to put the last 48 hours into words and also my place in the universe after being where I wanted to be. I head west on Driggs Street through McCarren Park weaving through the pedestrians walking towards me and observe a few small groups of people congregating and chilling on park grounds with their portable speakers. It’s only a few more blocks before I enter the ‘L’ line that will connect me to the ‘2’ line.

If only I can tell you the city’s delights that I’ve seen during my travels to Penn Station. I’ve seen female torture artists and double-pigtailed mistresses in their black onesies and shiny knee-high boots. There’s an Asian girl my height in a low-cut purple dress and her thigh is all bloodied and bandaged up; situated below her very visible purple underwear. Across from me was this gay guy who was the stunt double for The Ukiah Drag’s Tommy Conte, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek and sad-gazing in his boyfriend’s eyes who boarded off the ‘L’, but not before he blew Tommy a kiss goodbye. Another couple hopped on our crowded car. His blonde girlfriend’s neck and chest were literally covered red with hickeys and didn’t give a soaring aerial fuck about all the eyes and stares aimed at her. The ‘L’ ends and I transfer to the quick ‘2’ which only took five minutes to get me to Penn Station, leaving me with a half-an-hour wait for the Babylon train to arrive. Lather, rinse, and repeat with a left-hand forward ride to the station and another Sunrise Highway night drive back to my quiet-as-night neighborhood. A return to silent normalcy.

**********

Chicago has been widely known as the industrial capital of the U.S. It’s where Jim Nash and Danny Flescher established Wax Trax as a record store and the label that’s given birth to the careers and legacies of Ministry, KMFDM, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, Meat Beat Manifesto, and countless other acts. It’s also where Public Image Ltd.’s Martin Atkins created Pigface and Invisible Records and gave life to Chemlab, Damage Manual, Dead Voices On Air, Murder Inc., Ritalin, Sheep On Drugs, and Test Dept. All these artists made my identity, or part of it. Throughout the years I’ve followed all of my favorite artists and have never given up on them. They were there for me during my difficult times at community college and to this day I’ve never tired of their projects. It wasn’t until recently when I revisited the classics that I realized that these artists and labels were in my heart all along. Millions of industrialists join each other in various online groups to share their stories and live memories and say “hi!” to the many legends who lurk around and keep that cameraderie going. I see the company around me in Greenpoint who share similar interests, qualities, and aesthetics and those are the people I want to be associated with.

I thought attending just one Boy Harsher show was a rite of passage. Yes - more in the synthwave world. I’ve also attended shows for Nine Inch Nails, Ministry, and Killing Joke and that’s more than enough for me to hoist my flag for this genre. (Naysayers will wave their filthy unclean fingers at me and say “not so fast” because I wasn’t able to go to a Skinny Puppy show.) I’ve heard many great things about Cold Waves that I’d be a fool to miss out. Mutuals who went told me it’d be amazing and they were double-right. With Front 242’s final American appearances and with Braker and Connelly having to quit the RevCo name, this year was a non-negotiable. What started out as a one-night benefit and an honor of Jason Novak (Acumen Nation, DJ? Acucrack) and David Schock’s fallen friend Jamie Duffy evolved into an (almost) annual round of the best and legendary industrial, synthpop, and synthwave acts. Like my attendance with the previous Cold Cave and Black Marble shows, attending Cold Waves was a thank-you to the scene that gave me an identity but also to a certain number of acts that helped build it.

It’s been one of the best and most exhilarating moments of the year, ranking as high as Sacred Bones’ 15th anniversary. If the line-up for next year is as good or better (how could it?), then I guarantee you I’ll be returning.

[federalstars]

[victorinoxghoul]

TEHEE

leave my house little man

[scopophilic1997]

scopOphilic_micromessaging_518 - scopOphilic1997 presents a new micro-messaging series: small, subtle, and often unintentional messages we send and receive verbally and non-verbally.

[blossom-hwa]

when ur stomach has been in strange conditions for over a week 💀

[grimsonandclover]

Next Last

Sympathy is a knife.1

or; Broken bones hurt less than broken girls

Stanford!Tashi x tennis player!reader

Song of the post 'Limp - Fiona Apple'

You didn't respect tennis, so why should she respect you? She hated you. The spoiled nepo-baby who's never had to work a day in her life, and yet somehow you've managed to pay your way into NYU and play on the team. Somehow, you managed to beat her last year when Stanford played NYU, and now she's scheduled to play you again at the French Open. You're a goddamnned mess, everyone knows that.

So how are you still so good?

You're a trainwreck self sabotaging in front of the world.

So why does she feel so terrible when you're on the ground, crying like that, clutching your knee? She should be celebrating. But she's not.

SFW

6k words

angst, rivals to ...something? more in part 2 whenever that is, reader's got issues, death of a parent, mommy AND daddy issues, substance abuse by the reader and possible addiction/dependancy, injury, early 2000s NYC socialite treatment, reader is very irresponsible with a DUI (ewww don't do that please), some vomit, panic attacks, some trauma post-parent death, pre-established relationship, cheating, art follows tashi like a lost puppy, suicidal thoughts/depressions, thats a weird order to put those warnings in but oh well, just overall sad times, big sister tashi, reader should get a therapist but instead she parties and plays tennis, best friend patrick

"You're fucking joking." Are the first words Tashi Duncan says when she's told that she's going to compete against you next week. They come out venom-laced and shoot from her lips like daggers. Then, she says them again. "You're fucking joking."

You, the prodigy of NYU that should've been kicked out long ago if not for your pure, unbridled talent (if unbridled talent meant daddy's money, too). You, the daughter of a late, hot-shot Hollywood producer father and triple-divorcee restauranteur mother. You, the younger sister to B-list nepo-baby actress Seline, the older sister to teenage heartthrob boyband member Jonah. You, the tennis star with her name known by people who've never even seen a single match of tennis in their life during the day, and hot-mess socialite with her DUI mugshot from last year plastered on TMZ by night, your name sprinkled over several blind items on Crazy Days And Nights despite your big-name boyfriend. You, the only person comparable in skill to Tashi Duncan. You, who had already beat her once the same week you got that DUI.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

No, hate was too simple of a word. Hate couldn't begin to describe what she felt. It was more akin to revulsion. You were revolting to her. She felt physically sick when she was in the same room as you, which wasn't often. Until now. Now she had to once again share a court with you at the French Open.

For a split second, she considered pulling out. Then, she got her shit together and remembered that she's Tashi Nicole Duncan, and she wouldn't let a mess of a person like you with no respect for the sport make her think like that.

"Art, could you call my coach?"

Her pet-- I mean, her friend did as she asked, handing the phone to her. "What's the earliest you're available tomorrow?"

"You're fucking joking..." Are the first words you say when you're told that you're going to compete against Tashi next week. They come out quiet and tired, slow and disappointed. "She hates me. She hates me and she's going to kill me.

Tashi, the prodigy of Stanford with better grades than you could ever dream of achieving. Tashi, the daughter of a very much alive working-class father and happily married once mother, oldest sister to twins Nathalie and Renee, who are very normal teenage girls still living their normal lives in high school. Tashi, the tennis star every coach wants to get their hands on, with sponsors creaming their pants for her name on their products. Tashi, who's never once been arrested because that's just not a thing well-rounded people do. TMZ has barely ever even heard of her, and nobody's ever anonymously speculated who she's sleeping with. Tashi, the only person comparable in skill to you. Tashi, who looked like she'd rather she was pronounced dead the day before than hear your name announced by the umpire last year.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

It wasn't just your insecure mind making that up, either. She made it blatantly obvious that she did when you went to shake her hand after winning against her. You could still see the laser-hot glare she gave you if you closed your eyes. Feel the iron grip of her soft hands on yours, like she was restraining herself from snapping your wrist. You didn't look forward to seeing those eyes stare holes into your skull until you got a headache, again, next week.

"Maybe I shouldn't go this year. I don't know... I mean, I just recovered from my ankle, and-"

"Don't be ridiculous." Your best friend, Patrick, cut you off, rolling his eyes. "You're not a pussy bitch, you're a tennis player. Act like one."

Despite his choice of words, you knew it came from a good place. The reassuring smile on him reaffirmed that. Patrick seemingly knew what you were capable of better than you did. "You're going to do fine."

Charlie, your boyfriend, patted your shoulder as he passed you to grab a bottle of water, offering no words of comfort past that. He never tried much in that department. Or most departments, it seemed. It's like he thought relationships were like modeling: show up and look pretty, that's all. You were there showering him with praise and words of affirmation when he had a stomach bug during fashion week and was scared he couldn't walk. Charlie reciprocated by patting you on the shoulder while you paced your living room.

Turning to your mom, who was sitting in a chair nearby, didn't do much to help ease your anxiety like Patrick's words did, though. She was on her phone, texting and calling the dozens of people she kept in contact with a day. It took her a minute to realize you were trying to get her attention.

"Oh, Christ, Y/N, you'll be fine." She waved her hand nonchalantly. "You'll win and it'll all be fine. And if you don't, well... maybe she'll feel like you're even. How's that?"

God, your feet were killing you in these chunky platforms. Is that wet patch on your skinny jeans from a spilled drink or are you so drunk you wet yourself on the dancefloor? Where are you, what's the name of this place? Patrick doesn't seem to know, either. You're pretty sure Paris is about two shots away from making out with him, based on the way she's staring at him. Why the fuck did you choose to wear skinny jeans, these are miserable. The sequin dress was right there. Is the music louder than usual? The brights are too light right now-- wait, shit, no, the lights are too bright. Where's Patrick?

You feel bile rise in your throat and shove a girl out of the way so you throw up into the club toilet. It tastes like strawberry and tequila and shit. Someone's banging their fist on the stall door begging to piss, and you can hear moaning and skin slapping in the other stall. Fifty-fifty chance it's Patrick. Twenty-eighty chance it's Patrick and Paris.

You flush, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and stumble out the stall to the sinks. God, you're a mess. You know you started the night with two hoop earrings, where did the other one go? The couple in the stall are so loud, and you can definitely recognize the sound of Patrick now. Mascara is smudgeding and it's making your eyes irritated and water, but you didn't think to use anything waterproof.

You almost trip over yourself and have a repeat of last time (the time you sprained your ankle at 1OAK and couldn't play properly for three weeks) as you approach the stall, knocking on the door. "Patrick," you gag a little as bile threatens to resurface, "Pat we gotta... gotta go. It's..." you pull your phone from your bra, "Fuck, it's three. Amber's gon' fuckin' killllllllll me." Amber being your coach. You wonder how not-hungover you'll be able to act when you see her in three hours.

It takes a couple more bangs on the door for him to stop. You can hear clothes shuffling, some giggling and whispers, and the zip of his fly before the stall door opens. Paris stumbles out with a giggle, adjusting her skirt before announcing that she's gonna go find Kim, and 'good luck with Amber.'

You're barely standing and conscious, but you're not so out of it to not notice how he looks. White residue on his nostril tells all. "You've got coke?"

Patrick steps out of the stall, eyeing a girl at the sink throwing him dirty looks in the mirror before he looks back to you. "You know what I'm going to say to that, Y/N."

"Come on, just enough to keep me up. I'm gonna crash by four."

"No."

"Patrick."

"No."

You huff, leaning back on the counter and crossing your arms. "Fuck you. Since when did you join the morals police?"

"Since last week."

That's not a pleasant reminder. You want to slap him in that moment, even if it was a perfectly reasonable excuse for his sudden reluctance to feed your craving. You were a nightmare to everyone you knew last week. And the week before. You wonder how far back this could go. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, wiping his nose again and checking himself out in the mirror, adjusting his jacket.

TMZ, oh how you loathe them, has pictures of you leaving the club by the time you're meeting Amber on the rooftop court of your residence. She's livid, as she always seems to be. Like someone shoved a lemon in her mouth and no one told her she could just spit it out. "You're late. You've got the Open in four days and you're fucking late. And hungover."

"It's only two hours."

Your voice is tired and croaking, and you haven't slept longer than two since yesterday. Hungover is a generous diagnosis. You're still drunk. Charlie, who was absent from your all-nighter club hopping, makes sure you don't trip over yourself going up the stairs to the roof before leaving your side to lounge on the pool chairs. Someone texted you "Hey girl, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but..." around the time you made it out of bed, but you deleted the text before you saw any more of it. Your mind wanders to that text when you look at him.

"Two hours, my ass. Christ, I should quit."

Amber threatens leaving you as much as you promise it won't happen again. Like 'yes', 'no', and 'You do this one more time and so help me God I will make sure you can never find a coach again,' are all the basis of her vocabulary. You play and pay too well for her to ever commit to those threats.

Practice goes on until your bones ache and cry for a break. Charlie's fallen asleep with a magazine tucked under his chin. Amber leaves for the poolside cabana and calls her girlfriend while you just lay on the ground, staring at the clouds. The adrenaline starts to wear off, meaning you feel like shit. Your mouth is incredibly dry, the sun is blinding. It's like your body remembered that you're meant to be hungover and is only now catching up. At least it's after practice. Not that you did all that well. You can hear Amber argue with her girlfriend over the phone and it only makes you feel worse about being such a horrible player by showing up late and half-shitfaced. You knew they were going through a rough patch. Least you could do is make her job easier.

Closing your eyes is only temporary relief. You can still hear the cars from the streets below and Amber whisper-yell into the receiver. "I told you already... Wednesday's no good, no... well then tell them to reschedule... Rebecca, it's not like you didn't know what kind of schedule I've got when we started dating..."

It feels like your legs are going to snap when you roll over, hands planted on the hard court ground and you silently beg your muscles to push you up. You're dizzy, the doubled, now tripled vision bringing back the bile from last night/this morning to the base of your throat, but you swallow it down. Over your shoulder, you look at the pool, the sunlight bouncing from the cold water. Amber's on the other side of it, brows furrowed. She sees you watching her and turns around, back facing you.

She turns back around when she hears a splash. You fell face-first into the pool. On purpose. The cool water feels amazing, the sting from hitting the water nothing compared to the ache in your bones that has been there since childhood. You open your eyes, watching your hair billow around you like smoke, the way the sun glimmers on the surface like sparkles, the shadow peering over the ledge. "Oh, god. I'll call you later, Becca. I love you."

When was the last time Charlie said he loved you?

It's so quiet under the water. You wish the bubbles that escape your lips and float above you would carry out everything you hold in your chest. Then you could float like they do.

Like all moments of perfect peace, it doesn't last long. Babies must leave the safety of their mother's womb. People wake up every morning despite wishing to stay in bed and fall back into nothing. Amber reaches into the water and grabs your arm to tug you out and you feel like you could cry. The first wail, the sign of life. Opening your eyes to the sun leaking through blinds, signaling to you it's morning.

Is death truly the only time we have? When you ask Amber, she just frowns and tells you to stop drinking as she dries your hair with a towel.

"Come on, Y/N. Put your back into it!"

The ball barely makes it over the net, bounce, bounce, bouncing down the other side of the court. The racket is heavy in your small hands, but he won't let you put it down yet. "Dad, I can't." You whine.

"What did I say about can'ts?"

You should bite your tongue. Can't's for quitters. "Maybe I am a quitter!"

He stomps across the court, grabbing the collar of your little tennis whites. Despite the action, there's no violence behind it. "No daughter of mine is a quitter."

His voice is low, like he's whispering a secret to you. "You can."

Your collar is let go and your father stands straight. "And you will. Now, do it again like Ronald taught you."

It's Renaud. Grabbing another ball from the basket behind you, you try again. And again. And again. By the time you're done, your arms are sore for days to come and you've got blisters on your feet. He makes you drop out of your preschool Mother's Day dance to practice with Renaud instead. You had the dance down pat, practicing it for weeks.

You only ever started playing because he wanted you to. Maybe five-year-old you should've held your ground more.

Tashi bit the inner skin of her lips, her mother talking casually into her ear through the phone. "And Nathalie, well, you know how she felt about it all. Cried the whole way home."

"Is she alright? Well, clearly not, but..." She zips up the final suitcase on her bed, taking a breath. They were flying out tomorrow, the Open being the day after.

Her mother sighs, nodding her head even though her daughter can't see. "She will be, in time. First heartbreak's going to be pretty tough, poor girl."

A knock on her dorm door pulls Tashi's attention from the call. Looking up, she sees Art peeking in. She holds her finger up, asking him to wait. "Well, let Beetle know that she can call or text me about it anytime. She forgets to check my texts."

"You forget to call."

Tashi huffs. Her mother's right, of course. It's not on purpose, it's just she's constantly go, go, going, her phone often goes forgotten. "Still. I'll pick up whenever she wants me."

Her eyes trail a bird outside her window. It hops across the little ledge, pecking at something on the brick. She wished she had wings. Tashi would just up and fly to her family right now. It's been two months since she last hugged her sisters. Did they forget how she felt? Sometimes, when she can't sleep, Tashi thinks about when they were just little soft fleshy things in bassinets, waking her up at night as they cried in her parent's bedroom. Now, Nathalie was going through her first breakup and Renee was going through some rebellious phase back home.

"You've got your hotel booked for tomorrow?" Tashi asks after a moment, biting her lip again. She can't help it, her worries jump from one subject to another.

"Yes, Tash. I love you, we all love you. We're booked, we're packed, we're ready. I've gotta go finish dinner, have you eaten?"

Tashi hums a response, smiling to herself. "I miss your cooking, mom."

"I miss you. Now, get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow."

When the call ends, Art steps in fully. "Everything with Nat alright?"

She frowns in response, shaking her head and sitting at the edge of the small single in her dorm. The old mattress creaks under her, the weight of dozens like her over the years taking its toll on the springs. "Brodie and her broke up last night at some party. Nat's taking it kinda hard."

He frowns with her and sighs. "I do not miss high school..."

"What'd you come in here for?" Tashi asks after a moment, turning to face him better. She tucks a leg under the other thigh, and Art's eyes catch on the flexing muscle under the warm toffee skin for a moment. Blinking hard, he sits beside her, grabbing one of her pillows to play with. It's a nervous habit of Art's. "It's about her."

When Seline sees the news, she doesn't call. Just sends a text asking if you're alright. Jonah does call, but you don't pick up. You know if you do it'll be like pouring your feelings to a brick wall. And then, when you're done, the brick wall will recite some line from his therapist and ask you for your new dealer's number, and that will be that. Your mother has stopped trying all-together.

Tashi feels a strange sense of pity when Art shows her the headlines, an emotion she doesn't associate with you.

Charlie, mid-grind at the club, decided he no longer liked playing your boyfriend. He forgot to relay that information to you, though. Honest mistake, he assumed you'd gather that when he turned around and stuck his tongue down another girl's throat. Oh, you should've seen the look on your face.

All those unrequited 'I love you's coming back to hit you in the face in a single moment. You had even tossed one on the way here. One that he let hit his turned shoulder and slide off the curve of it like bird shit. Now, here you were, frozen on the dance floor as you watched your boyfriend of a year make it painfully clear how much it all meant to him. Charlie Maddox was known for his looks, never his brain or heart. You tried so desperately to make up for it. You'd rip the beating muscle in your chest out for him and for what?

You've never been good at holding in your emotions. You were the 'wear your heart on your sleeve' kind of gal, much to your dismay. Meaning, you slapped him in the middle of the crowd, screaming something about love and his small dick (it was average), and stormed out of the club only to be met with dozens of paparazzi who were always there waiting for someone to leave. Patrick was just getting another drink at the bar when you left, missing the whole thing. You barely made it five steps out the door, tears streaming down your face, ankles twisting with every step, before taking a detour and puking in the alley behind a dumpster. Pictures were taken of every moment. One guy even ran up and took a picture of the puddle.

Sure he wasn't the best boyfriend, and it was a long time coming, but you weren't exactly in the mental state for such a sudden change in relationship status. You flew to France tomorrow. Amber said no distractions. Here Charlie was, throwing a wrench in everything with his stupid model face and his stupid model lips and his stupid model ego. You think you would've married him if he asked. Have his stupid model babies. Not like he ever would want that with you. How pathetic are you?

You're a hiccuping, sobbing mess. Why'd you take the train here? That club was hardly worth the trip.

It's embarrassing to be sitting on the subway seats, slumped down as you stare at the floor. Not because of your status or who you are, but because... well, just look at the state of you. Your hair is a mess from partying for hours on end, you ripped your heels off your feet the moment you sat down (and they've already been stolen), mascara is running down your cheeks and frankly, you haven't stopped crying. You try to cover your face when you see camera phones curiously life up, some obvious and some not so obvious. The guy next to you gives you the side eye, squinting like he's trying to tell if he recognizes you.

You just want to curl up and die. That girl, the one Charlie practically impregnated through a kiss with his tongue so far down her throat he could probably taste her lunch, looked like Mila Kunis. It wasn't, of course, but she looked like her. Why didn't you look like her? Maybe then he'd stay. He'd try and taste your lunch. Or maybe it wasn't looks. Something that you felt like you had even less control over. You cry a little harder.

If your dad was here he'd have something to say. He'd have some schpiel about life and relationships that you probably wouldn't want to hear anyway, but at least you'd be hearing him. You'd take just about anything. Your phone rings with Patrick's number and you don't pick up. The guy next to you snaps a picture. You wonder if your dealer has anything available. Amber's going to murder you in cold blood. You'd welcome it just about now. The P.A. announces the next stop, and it's not yours, and it would be an hour of walking barefoot across New York to get to your place, but you leave the subway anyway when it comes to a stop. Because that guy kind of stank, and a kid was crying too loudly, and you could hear someone calling someone else to talk about who they just saw on the train, and you just wanted to go home.

The walk was miserable. Your feet hurt and you had to put too much attention for your liking on where you were stepping so you wouldn't get some uncurable disease from the sidewalk. Less people noticed you on the streets, but someone had clearly let the press know what train you were on and they knew if you'd left by foot, they could probably catch up. They did. Now, they had pictures of you crying leaving the club, crying on the New York City subway, and crying walking home. Fantastic. By now you were known more for your tears than your tennis. You'd hail a cab but it was rush hour, and there's no point in even trying then.

You knew it was a fruitless effort asking for them to stop taking picture of you, but you tried anyway. All requests were drowned out by the snapping clicks of the cameras. You were still drunk, and the flashes made your eyes burn and head spin. Your name was being called all around you.

"Need a ride home?" "What happened with Charlie?" "Any news you can share about your sister's latest project?" "Chin up, darling, I can't get your face." "Excited for your match with Tashi Duncan, Y/N?" "Hey, you need some shoes?"

You look over to the guy who just offered you shoes, stopping in your miserable and painful tracks. He's at least wearing socks when he pulls his sneakers off. They're a size or so too big, like clown shoes, but they get the job done. You thank him, and then go back to keeping your head down as you walk. You can already see the headlines.

Your head was spinning so much you didn't know if you could play. You're on the stationary bike to warm up, an hour or so until your match. An hour or so until you face her. You already spent last night with Amber on the practice courts, getting re-used to how the clay changes the speed of the ball, perfecting your strikes as best you can. She offered to take you again, but you were too nauseous to go. That seems to be a constant for you.

Patrick's back in New York. He's got his own tennis career to take care of, but he's sending you texts here and there. Words of encouragement.

"picture her naked or smething"

"actually no dont do that. that wouldnt even work for me"

"make chuck realize what hes missing by winning"

"i just took the fattest shit!!!! oooooh I wanna send you the pic soooo bad. thatll take ur mind off of it"

You had to block his number for a good fifteen minutes just in case. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd done that. That did almost get a laugh out of you if you weren't still so nervous.

Someone was watching on the small TV in the corner of the room, you think it was Rebecca. They're saying it's going to rain tomorrow, but that's all you can understand. So much for those French classes you took for five years straight. You tried to focus on the blurring syllables you once knew as you cycled.

Seline sends you a bouquet of good-luck flowers, but she forgets you're allergic. Jonah forgot altogether that the Open was today, and you don't have it in you to remind your little brother. He's on tour anyway, what could he really do?

Tashi's pacing the practice courts with her coach, Art in the corner talking with her mom as they half-watch her. She's stressed out of her mind. She played and won the Australian Open earlier last year. To win this would already take her halfway to a career Grand Slam. Tashi needed this. To have anyone like you get in the way of that would be unacceptable.

Her coach is doing his best to assure her she'll win. Forget last time, this was it.

"I mean, have you seen her lately?" He said with a scoffed laugh. "Nobody wins an Open like that."

You have. You won the Australian Open, too, a few years ago at 16, and you were equally off the rocks back then. It didn't do much to quell her nerves. "You've put in the work, Tash. You've been training for years, harder than she could ever imagine doing. It's in the bag. All you need to be worrying about is where you're gonna put your Suzanne Lenglin cup."

"It's only the first round. Once you get through the initial nerves, the rest will go by like nothing."

"Right." You said with no real believability. Amber was leaning over the front of the stationary bike and you slowed down your cycling, nearing the end of the warm-up. "Except it's not just the first round."

It's Tashi. It's Charlie. It's Seline, and Jonah, and your mom. It's the first major tournament you've played since...

Since him.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Amber could hear all of it just by looking at you, and she had nothing left to offer but a pitying sigh and a pat on your shoulder. Even Patrick, now unblocked again, had nothing left to offer through the phone.

Nathalie is crying on the couch and Renee is doing her best to console her twin when Tashi returns to the player room, their mother and Art following behind. She starts doing stretches in the middle of the room as she addresses her weeping sister. "Beetle, he isn't worth your tears. You know that."

Tashi's mother wraps warm arms around her twins. "Baby, heartbreak heals. You're left only with the unconditional love you hold for yourself. Let it out."

It was her mantra. Words she'd repeat after all three of the sister's occasional breakups. Time heals all wounds.

Tired legs climb off the bike. You overdid it, and Amber silently panics that the overexertion will affect your playing. The couch facing the door connected to the player's tunnel is plush enough. Thoughts trail off to your family, all of which aren't here to watch you play.

Your mother was in France, too. You asked her to come but she was busy meeting with vendors for her new restaurant. Seline was on set for some blockbuster horror film back home. Jonah, well... maybe you should text him a quick 'hey, just letting you know im about to play one of the biggest tournaments a tennis player can, against the scariest woman I know. wish me luck!' But you don't. And your father. Oh, your father. He might've been the only one out of all of them willing to show up.

That doesn't matter now, though. He won't.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He won't.

Breathing gets a little harder to do, even though you're sitting.

He won't, he won't, he won't, he can't.

The words are falling out of your mouth now like sand seeping through the cracks in fingers. "He's not here. My dad's not here."

Your wild eyes look up to Amber, whose head whips to you. Her heart drops. Rebecca stops watching the TV. You've been here before.

"Amber, he's not here. He's not here. I can't play, he's not--"

A knock on the door, your name being called by two voices. One tells you to breathe, the other tells you that "they're ready for you."

You can only assume what comes from who as tears blur in your waterline. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He's not here. The one person in your life that always would be. The one person who promised not to leave.

Tashi threw up after she played you and lost. Tashi Duncan lost.

Stanford Vs. NYU. She should've had it in the bag. It should've been nothing.

Top players lost all the time. It's a fact. Human error, lucky streak for the opponent, off-days. Not for Tashi. Losing to you was a slap in the face. It shook her confidence in herself so bad she didn't know how she'd recover. It was only when she played and won the Australian Open later that year, with you nowhere to be seen, that she got it back.

She spent a weekend learning everything she could about you. A weak moment in her own eyes, but she had to know more about the person who made her crumble. It wasn't hard to do-- researching you. You were in the press constantly, along with the rest of your family.

Your DUI and countless failed relationships, your sister getting thrown out of galas for fighting with other actresses, your brother sleeping with groupies and their tall tales about the ordeal, your mother's countless failed business ventures post-modeling career, and your father. Life and death.

Tashi had found an old interview of yours, done right after your own Australian Open win at 16. You mentioned how he's responsible for it all, pushing you to play since as long as you could remember. How despite his crazy career as one of the big producers in Hollywood, he'd still make time in his schedule to be there for all your games. He was your biggest critic and biggest fan, you said. That you didn't know where you'd be without him in any sense of the word.

When she checked the date of the interview, her heart stopped for a moment. A week before his accident. She even remembers seeing it on the news. How Tashi looked over to her dad as he folded laundry on the couch, watching it with her. "Hollywood producer found dead in major collision in L.A. A break malfunction is the suspected cause."

Maybe that moment, reading that interview on her bed with her father knocking on the door to offer tea, was the first time she saw you more than a mess. More as a hurt, teenage girl. Maybe she forgot it all, though, looking at you now.

You couldn't sit in a car for three months without having a panic attack after it happened. The mere mention of them could even make you spiral. It was after the funeral that you started your infamous 'spiral down the drain'. There was so much paparazzi outside the cemetery gates.

It's the only reason you didn't try to compete in any of the Grand Slam tournaments after winning the Australian at 16. Every time you picked up a racket for the next four years, you heard his nagging voice in your head.

"Come on. Not good enough. Put your goddamn all into it!"

"You're not getting a Grand Slam with this attitude. Do it again."

It was too much to do anything bigger than challengers or school tournaments. Every single one left you teary-eyed in the locker rooms before and after. Amber suggested a therapist several times, but nothing came of it.

You can still see the look of pride on his face after you won the Open. Every time you close your fucking eyes, he's there. Such a rare treat to see him smile, and you did it.

You thought you'd be ready now. You told Amber you're ready. It's been four years, damn it. You're supposed to be over it. What happened to time heals all wounds?

All this time, you thought you were scared of seeing Tashi again after beating her in '06. It's only now, the crowd in your ears as your name is announced, that you realize how wrong you were. He's still there, in the back of your heart. Oh, how that bit of flesh has been carved out over the years of your brief life. How it still beats, after all the shit you've put it through, only to make him proud. Could you ever make him proud again?

The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

A tennis ball soars over the polyethylene net in a perfect arch. Long-loved Chanel tennis sneakers skid across the clay ground, arm slicing through the tension and humidity in the air. Thwack! The ball is launched back to Tashi Duncan. "Come on. Not good enough."

Then, the hitch of your breath; a sharp intake like more air in your lungs would be the thing to save you.

Sweat drips from your brow to your cheekbone, sliding down like a tear. From the back of your neck down your spine like a chill. Even from this distance, you can see the drops slide down her temples and the slope of her chin. Another crack emanates from her racket. You brace for impact. You see your father behind the net.

The court ground under your feet scraping. The sound of skin ripping open in thousands of tiny cuts, the cccccrrrrrrrrack! of bone. Bone. The gasps of the crowd. The crack of bone. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Then, the only thing anyone can hear is the shriek of your cry.

Next Last

[twixnmix]

Warhol superstar Geri Miller photographed by Andy Warhol, 1972.

Geri Miller starred in Andy Warhol's play "Pork" (1971). She also appeared in his films "Flesh" (1968), "Trash" (1970), and "Women in Revolt" (1971). Geri was a go-go dancer at the Peppermint Lounge in NYC. A self-described "super groupie," she was linked to Ringo Starr, James Brown, Dino Danelli, Lenny Davidson, Dennis Wilson, Gordon Waller, Jimi Hendrix, and David Bowie.

[3rdeyeblaque]

Hoodoo Veneration Days in April 2023

The 2023 Hoodoo's Calendar recognizes these Hoodoo Saints & Elevated Ancestors on the following dates in the Month of April:

4/1 Venerable Father Augusts Tolton (B-Day)

Offering Suggestions to Father Augusts: Catholic bible/verse, red wine, & Catholic hymns 

4/4 Dr. Maya Angelou (B-Day)

Offering Suggestions to Queen Mother Maya: reading/sharing her literary work, libations of water, & dance (particularly Modern & Calypso)

4/5 Booker T. Washington (B-Day)

Offering Suggestions to Brother Booker T.: dollars/coins, libations of water (especially on the grounds of Tuskegee University), & books 

4/6 is the 311th Anniversary of The NYC Revolt

Offerings to the Dead on these hallowed grounds: libations of water, tobacco smoke, & prayers for their elevation

4/20 Chief Obwandiyag aka Pontiac (D-Day)

Offering Suggestions to War Chief Pontiac: tobacco/sweetgrass smoke, libations of water, & Ottawa Nation war drum music

🌟 FINAL copies of The 2023 Hoodoo's Calendar are available for purchase! Subscribe to the official e-newsletter for the latest updates & exclusive content access. https://thehoodoocalendar.square.site 🌟  

[sgiandubh]

Chain of fools

Promo season seems to always reactivate #BestOfFans' predatory instincts. Today, one of the people I was mildly 'following' on X, knowing she was a very decent, half-clandestine shipper had the naivete to share a pic taken today with C. Lo and behold, the KGB across the street immediately started the screeching. I would have granted them a pass, were it not for the very curious angle they chose to present things, this time:

Most, if not ALL of the women involved in that conversation were born and lived their entire lives in a country where democracy was never completely obliterated. They have no idea, nor direct experience of what a dictatorship looks and sounds and feels like and yet they look and sound and feel exactly like The Pravda, circa 1951, where enemies of the people (including Americans, so basically... themselves?!) were currently called 'reactionary/ imperialist vipers'. Replace shipper by 'enemy of the people' and voilà:

'Because she's a known shipper enemy of the people and has been one for a long time. All smiles around Cait and on SM and her tumblr page she's a snake like the rest of her ilk.'

Most, if not ALL of the women involved in that revolting conversation can recite by heart The Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag:

[Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pledge_of_Allegiance]

'With liberty and justice for all'. This includes the freedom of speech, set into stone by the First Amendment to the US Constitution, which reads:

[Source: https://constitution.congress.gov/browse/amendment-1/]

You think I am overreacting? In that case, I wouldn't be the only one. It took me exactly three minutes to find on Google a short, but very interesting blog post about the metaphor of the snake being used as a dehumanizing tool in many totalitarian regimes' official rhetoric and media. I will quote it briefly, leaving the rather ironic references to current US politics aside. I find it very interesting and enlightening, for a certain pervasive mentality, in some regions of this fandom:

[Source: https://www.dangerousspeech.org/libraries/beware-of-snakes-a-common-dehumanization-trope]

I have written it before and I probably will write it again, but the Eastern European I am feels unsettled and worried about this. It is not only unsavory, it is violent and denotes a totalitarian way of thinking I am very surprised to find in the minds of these mature women, who lived in complete freedom for all of their lives.

Oh, and by the way. Given that particular 'enemy of the people''s active and very public commitment to charities supported by C (you know, as in raising money for WCC and so on...), I am absolutely sure C knows very well who she is. And I wonder what were they expecting from her, in a work-related context nonetheless, even if (the premise is perfectly absurd, as C does not give a fuck about fandom wars) C would not stand shippers.

By the same token, why would C offer anything more than a vague, borderline formulaic birthday reference while talking to the press, knowing fully well each and every word she utters would be immediately dissected to death and weaponized by the factions of this fandom?

Ironically, their knowledge about Eastern Europe is about zero. I just had to LOL (not really), reading this very serious and concerned dialogue between Marple and The Vulgar Canadian Journo. The Canadian was pissed off about Maril showing up, as she is supposed to, for promo, in NYC:

It's not STAZI, madams, but STASI - short for Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, or Ministry for the State Security. Each and every USSR satellite state had one, but both of these arrogant and superficial Westerners make it sound like a harmless gossip and propaganda machine. In reality, the STASI, along with its sister institutions, was a supremely powerful, merciless apparatus that crushed tens and tens of thousands of lives, encouraged hatred and denouncement (for money, political protection and social climbing) even within the same family. And I personally remember the day where an agent of the local STASI, the Securitate, picked me up from school, walked with me for almost one hour until he left me on my doorstep, in a cruel attempt to make me denounce Shipper Mom. I was nine years old. I will never forget, nor forgive. I felt raped. You don't care and you could never understand, of course, but for the love of God, keep off such complicated tropes you have no idea about.

[amorphousbl0b]

Arcane does a fun thing with its narrative Darkest Hour.

Or: yet another post about how insanely smart this show is and how absolutely genius its writers are (and how jealous of them I am).

For the uninitiated, the Darkest Hour is the moment just before the climax in which the heroes are at their lowest point. When the Avengers are scattered and Loki opens the portal in NYC, when the Falcon has escaped the Death Star but lost Obi-Wan, when the Fire Nation is set to annihilate the Earth Kingdom, when Frodo fails to destroy the Ring at the Crack of Doom. The heroes must confront their flaws and change for the better for a happy ending.

Arcane’s darkest hour is, of course, in Act 3. One might place it at the very end of episode 9, and that’s certainly where the story is at its most hopeless. But I’d contend it starts as early as the end of episode 8 and carries on through the entirety of episode 9.

After all, that’s when Caitlyn and Vi have separated, lost all hope, and Cait is kidnapped by Jinx. Jinx’s mind is fully gone and throughout the episode everything falls apart around her. Silco is losing control of his chembarons and may well have lost his daughter, the thing most precious to him, and is only barely keeping his powerful façade in line. Zaun has realized how ridiculously outmatched they are in a war with Piltover and the revolutionary cause has become almost impossible. Viktor has manslaughtered his assistant and may never be cured. Jayce has manslaughtered a child and finally realizes how quickly he’s losing his morals. Mel and her mother are fully separating and she is struggling with her warlike destiny. Sevika gets the absolute snot beat out of her and limps to an empty office without a boss.

So yeah. Lot of personal Darkest Hours going on.

“But what’s the interesting thing?” I hear you ask in my ear. I don’t know why I hear you. Shut up. I’m writing. Are you even real?

Excuse me.

Arcane’s interesting twist on the Darkest Hour lies in part of the trope that I didn’t mention. That’s in the villain.

Most stories with a clear-cut villain have a plot structure something like this:

Whether things are going well for one side is inversely proportional to the other. During the Darkest Hour, when the hero is at their weakest, the villain is at their most dominant.

Wait… isn’t Silco the villain of Arcane? Not to be too blunt, but he’s having a shit time. Things are falling apart for him just as badly as for everyone else.

That's the trick. Caitlyn and Vi are suffering. Jinx is suffering. Silco is suffering. Jayce is suffering. Viktor is suffering. Zaun as a whole is suffering. There is only one party in the whole story that isn't suffering, that actually is benefitting from this horrid state of affairs...

EKKO AND HEIMERDINGER

Kidding. They're not really a part of this dance. A big part of Arcane's theming is that acting to help people without an agenda is simply more virtuous than fighting for any invariably-flawed nation that innately perpetuates the cycle of violence.

No, the side that is doing fine is the other that is conspicuously absent from my two prior lists. While the characters that make up its leadership are experiencing personal Darkest Hours, the organization itself is essentially on top of the world, having just scored a huge victory and getting set to bring the war to an end before it even begins. I mentioned how poor the situation for the Undercity looks, but not its counterpart.

Piltover.

Wasn't it so that Piltover started this whole mess? Didn't their oppression cause the revolt that orphaned Vi and Powder's parents? Isn't it their actions that drive Silco to ever greater extremes? Isn't it their normalized political backstabbing that causes Jayce to sacrifice his principles because that's the only way to get ahead? Isn't it their corrupt police force that lets Silco operate his drug empire with impunity?

Silco might look the part. He might be the most personally evil character, might be the one who causes the most misery for our main protagonists Vi and Powder.

But structurally, the shining city of Piltover, its political machine, and its Enforcers are the actual villains of Arcane.

[scarabesque-returns]

Do you think the UHC CEO blow is a deliberate attempt to test the waters for a revolt and see how fast they can quench it and put us under even more restrictions and chains? Like a 9/11 but lamer

If it is, it's a poor example of a revolt. An evil man is murdered and most people cheer. That's pretty much the extent of it so far, so I think all they're getting out of it is "Ok, yeah, the people hate us."

I'm not sure yet what to make of the killing. It seems to me the shooter planned this out very carefully. I was very amused by all the security "experts" saying he's an amateur because of all the mistakes he made, like leaving behind his backpack and his water bottle... only for the backpack to be a clear red herring filled with monopoly money.

The person in the supposed surveillance photo of his face is clearly in different clothing from the shooter. The gun autists don't recognize his pistol. They've been sending police teams to every bus stop along the route his bus took - something like 10 stops between Atlanta and NYC. All together I don't think they have any idea who he is or where he went. Not bad for an amateur.

[fdelopera]

First of all, I love your blog and I'm glad I followed you. Sending you support and comfort on this difficult day.

Second of all, I saw your tags about 10/7 being the Jewish people's 9/11 (which is true) and it reminded me of a thought that's been bouncing around my head.

I grew up in the greater New York area. 9/11 happened when I was in elementary school and I have very clear memories of the attacks and the aftermath.

For the first few days, people hoped that their loved ones in the twin towers had survived and we just lost. So they put up missing posters in New York City, eerily similar to the hostage posters we have today.

The main difference is that no one would have dared tear those 9/11 posters down.

Maybe it was different because the attack was right in the same city where those posters were put up, maybe it happened but the news didn't pick it up, maybe it's because I was a child then and I'm an adult now. 2001 and 2023-4 are practically different worlds.

Sorry for dumping in your blog, I've just been thinking about this for a while.

Thank you for your message. I love your blog too. And I'm sending you support and comfort, and solidarity! As dark as this last year has been, the thing that's gotten me through has been seeing other Jews fighting back against the antisemitic bigotry we face, and being a light to other Jews.

I was living near NYC during 9/11, too. I was living in New York State, about a half-hour away from the City by train. And I knew a lot of people in NYC who were there during the terrorist attack. I had an older friend whose husband was a firefighter — he wasn't one of the firefighters who died that day during the heroic rescue efforts, but he was part of the crew at Ground Zero in the months that followed, searching for bodies and cleaning up the toxic debris. I don't know what happened to him after that time, but I can only assume that he had the same life-long health complications that other firefighters did — the people who survived the attack but died slowly from the toxins they were exposed to at Ground Zero during the cleanup.

And I know exactly what you mean. The posters of the missing people that families put up, as the families searched desperately for news of their loved ones.

Those posters were sacred. No one in NYC would have DARED take a single one of those posters down.

In fact, no one in America would have dared desecrate one of those posters — and if they had, they would have been publicly shamed and shunned. Everyone across America knew about those posters. Everyone was rooting for the people on those posters to still be alive and to come home, no matter how bleak the chances were for their survival.

And so, it is DISGUSTING to see how fast goyim in the US have seemingly forgotten. These goyim in the US who have filled themselves with Jew-hate and twisted themselves into monsters — they truly revolt me.

Everyone in the US was affected by 9/11. And yet these goyim are now running around like a bunch of zombies, pretending that they have no idea what it's like to live through a terrorist attack. They're pretending like they've never seen posters with the faces of missing people who have been taken away by terrorists.

But we all know that they haven't forgotten. Not really. They’re just pretending that they’ve forgotten so they can have "justification" to sate their thirst for Jewish blood. These goyim are self-absorbed, egotistical monsters who hate Jews, and they want an "excuse" to celebrate when Jews are slaughtered.

Here's the reality — if terrorists attacked NYC again, a lot of these goyim would care about that.

And yes, there are many of them who are so depraved and so brainwashed that they would cheer as terrorists slaughtered their neighbors. They wouldn’t care — unless the terrorists murdered them and their family, of course!

But not all of these goyim are so far gone. Not all of them have descended that deep into the Hamasnik cult. And they would at least care about their lives.

And they would demand for the world to care, too.

And the world SHOULD care.

The world should ALWAYS care when people are brutally slaughtered by Islamist terrorists led by scum like Bin Ladin, Sinwar, Nasrallah, and fucking Ayatollah Khamenei who are trying to burn the world down for their own profit.

The memory of 9/11 should be multi-generational, like Pearl Harbor is. Parents should teach their children and their grandchildren about that day. Everyone should know about those posters. Everyone should know that when you see posters of missing people, you don't fucking rip them down.

And everyone should know that if you rip down posters of kidnapped Jews who have been taken captive by terrorists, that act automatically makes you the worst kind of monster. If you rip down the poster of a Jewish hostage, you are just as much of a monster as if you ripped down one of the 9/11 posters.

One thing I’ve learned about Jew-haters from studying the Shoah is that they do know right from wrong, and yet they choose to do wrong. They are cruel and monstrous, and the reason they attack Jews is for the perverse thrill it gives them. They are malicious. And most of all, they are pathetic.

They are filled with nihilism. That’s been another thing I’ve observed about Jew-haters. They are lazy and spiteful and jealous. And instead of working to make the world a better place for themselves and those around them, they want to rip it all down, because they feel that if they can't get what they want, no one else should have a day of comfort either.

They are attacking Jews because we are a source of good in the world. We are a source of light. They see our hope and our love, they see our connection to our 3500+ years of history, they see our determination to outlive our enemies, and they want to destroy that out of their own nihilism, bitterness, and selfish despair.

And we will survive every single one of them. Long after these Hamasniks are gone, long after the world has forgotten their names, we Jews will still be here.

We will outlive them. Am Yisrael Chai.

[doulayogimama]

This post is super TMI 😬

Sooooo for the first time in almost exactly 3 years, we had unprotected sex. I was so terrified of the thought of doing this until the last few months. I remember the first 2 years PP, I was so scared that the thought of having UP sex and risking pregnancy literally revolted me. I can’t believe that at 3 years PP, even hours later, I’m hoping that we made a baby. That I’m excited to be back in this space, knowing everything I know about pregnancy, labor, and PP depression. Like… I really want this. It will be different in so many ways and whether I’m pregnant now or will be in the future, I’m excited.

Before I got pregnant with Sky (like way before) I dreamt of an Aries baby. She ended up being an Aries. For a long time, I’ve had this gut feeling this next baby will be a Sagittarius baby (if I am pregnant, due date would be in Sagittarius season). I know it’s so silly to some, but way back in 2017, I was in India and I got a natal chart reading. The lady told me I’d have 2 children, born in 2021 & 2024. I remember being low key outraged like… WHAT DO YOU MEAN???? I’m not going to wait that long to have a baby… but then we took another big trip, then we moved to NYC, and then it took me a year to get pregnant. (I got pregnant the literal month after I was told by my GYNO that all my fertility tests came back totally fine and truly believe stress kept me from conceiving)

I also remember thinking 2021&2024… kids 3+ years apart????? I would never do that, my kids are going to be less than 2 years apart … and the reader was very no nonsense, like… honey, this is what it is. I’m just reading what I see. I’m really hoping the lady is right 🥹✨(although I know I know, first time trying and getting pregnant is rare)

I’m going to go buy prenatals today and start taking those ASAP. I just have to pray for the best. I’m healthy, eat well, I’m back at my PP weight, and I didn’t overthink it. I just told Kevin I was ready and he obliged happily 😂🙈

I’m very familiar with FAM and track my cycle every month. Yesterday, before we had sex or knew that we would have sex that day, I wiped in the bathroom and was like WHOA — if I wanted to get pregnant today, pretty sure I would have a good chance. I was also having ovarian pain, which is my telltale sign that ovulation is gearing up to happen. After so many years of tracking with temps and OV sticks, I know my body very well. I’m very grateful that my cycle is consistent —every 25-30 days, I get my period. I checked my tracker app late last night and saw that I was on CD13 and due to OV in 1-3 days (can’t know for sure without BBT but once cervical fluid is dry, that’s how one knows OV has happened).

Ahhhh I just can’t believe it. I’m back in “not trying, not avoiding” and I’m excited. I want another little baby to hold and love. I want Sky to have her own baby sibling ✨🙏🏽🤍