#the pressing dread of late stage capitalism

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

community radio broadcasting

and four-odd horsemen who could use a little goddamn pep in their step (feat. R.E.M.)

‘sounds like the world’s ending,’ i say conversationally

head propped toward the sound of lives changing, somewhere behind camera b

radio spitting half-shaped static at my ears while i try to use them for updates

‘again?’ you reply, eyes flicking between reflections as we stall out

(you slotted the car between dirt-bitten paint and two-door sedans that would rather be anywhere else)

(i understand the sentiment)

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it'

metal on metal on plastic on sauna pokes through the last whine of the engine

music hissing away dutifully as I eye the key left in the disarmed ignition

and you lean into the headrest like a plastic beach chair neither of us bought, exactly

(and there is not dread wriggling down my throat each time i swallow)

i am a free man and i am here of my own volition and the afternoon is going well 

and the wind pushing sloppily at my face sure isn’t just moving the heat around

(and if i die in this parking lot at least my casket will not meet dirt unaccompanied)

just me, and you

(us; intwined fate, court jesters for whatever king has managed to wander past us)

baking in the front seat of a car that really should’ve eaten us by now

tossed hollering bodies into a guardrail

into a racing front bumper on a back highway with no street paint

spun out on a deer just as terrified of us as we are

(ole faithful, we grin, patronizing and confident, and this car really should’ve killed one of us, the way we drive it)

(like it’s holy, like we’re crashing a sunday service; sacrilege in poor singing and high spirits)

instead of us, intact, baking in a front seat

bathed in sunlight chasing the last dregs of midday heat

heat soaking into my arms through the menace of your open window

listing to radio waves that crackle more often than sing

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’ 

there’s a quiet irritation between us, simmering in the heat mirage

and it is the heat, probably, this parking lot desert

or it’s the squealing we get at traffic lights, thinning brake pads we’re pretending not to hear

or the yawning canyon between the F decal and a dull plastic throat wound

a little red line to remind us about an engine running on dust

the clock-face reorders itself and I stake my eyes to it without seeing

modeling an expression that could’ve always been watching that loose inch of dashboard

(like it matters, like i’m not waiting patiently for the execution slot to tick over)

it’s nostalgic, almost

boiling softly in a front seat while inertia kicks at my heart rate

trying to hedge off enough of my emotional responses to keep the panic attack half-coiled in my stomach

a little nausea pulls the veil of familiarity together, really

while i steel myself for a sound chamber made of linoleum and ice

the kind of workhouse freezer that could make a CEO long for hell

but for now there is sunlight on my arms

(there was steam when we pried the car doors into entrances)

and the weight on my chest belongs to the afternoon breeze

the one sliding unevenly down my throat, nudging at my hands, my jaw, my clothes

‘it’s air’ cry the gnat swarms throwing themselves into the back window

‘it’s like breathing water’ you mutter, like it’s a revelation, like i’m not drowning in the seat across from you

like i won't have to get out of the car soon

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’

‘shift ends at nine, right?’

‘-end of the world as we know-’

‘nine-thirty’

‘-’s the end of-‘

‘right’

‘-world as we know it’

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’

[that-hippie-user]

Musings on The Backrooms or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Non-Places

strangely familiar, completely alien. nostalgic, yet you've never been there. fear inducing, yet somehow comforting.

The Backrooms.

If you're not careful and you noclip out of reality in the wrong areas, you'll end up in the Backrooms, where it's nothing but the stink of old moist carpet, the madness of mono-yellow, the endless background noise of fluorescent lights at maximum hum-buzz, and approximately six hundred million square miles of randomly segmented empty rooms to be trapped in

God save you if you hear something wandering around nearby, because it sure as hell has heard you

it didnt take much of a description to spark the collective imagination. the timing was perfect. in a post-covid world, we all feel the despair of late-stage capitalism, and the urge to throw ourselves into the void.

gazing into these otherworldly liminal spaces we invented, i think i'm not alone in my desire for nonexistence.

like gazing into a busy road, and feeling the urge to jump into it. for the road is long, and holds many exits.

The Backrooms presents a bizarre kind of oblivion, a vast empty world that you can fall into and never have any hope of escape.

Alone and feeling cold, I'm

going through the motions.

getting turned around,

and feeling drowned,

a dreaded ocean.

walls are all around me,

but there's no way out, see?

i'm trapped in my own tomb.

i'm never leaving The Backrooms.

for someone like me, there's a strange pull to this place. i feel a need to go there, to travel its endless monoyellow halls, to see the sights and sounds of a place that wasnt meant for me.

Everything here is crazy, weird, but it feels…right. Like how the world should be. I’m in an infinite building leading to different dimensions, and I never wanna leave. Even with all the horror, I’m happy. It feels sane. Or just the right kind of insane.

i recently played a game on my Steam Deck. The Complex. it's a backrooms walking simulator where you get to explore strange liminal spaces.

no danger exists, there's no gameplay mechanics for running or fighting, you just walk. its a vast expanse of nothing, where its just you and the world you're exploring.

ironically, the Steam Deck claimed the game wouldnt function properly, something about the graphics not working as they should. and yet it worked flawlessly.

it was something i needed, a comfort that gave me an escape. and what's strange is, i felt a certain dread as i progressed, a feeling as if i was being watched. that never proved to be true and yet... it felt true.

yet somehow, i wanna go back.

i played a backrooms mod recently, set it to creative mode and made my own space.

maybe its cuz i live in a shitty run down part of town in a state i'd rather not live in, but somehow making my own bare bones living space in this setting was therapeutic for me.

i sometimes like to go back there to relax.

i just want an escape. any kind of escape.

but i'll press on, and keep going.

the exit may be ever-present, but i'm not taking it.

[harristops]

Thoughts on the Olympics now? Do you think the USWNT can win?

Bruh, one thing to get on the docket first and foremost. If Vlatko's intention was to draw, then that is majorly shitty and super disrespectful towards a team that prides itself on competition and having a winning mentality. I genuinely don't get how you'd want to draw because look at the bracket!! You are going to go up against the Netherlands who are in fit form, with one single player on that team entirely outscoring all of the USWNT. They won their Zambia game 10-3. They've scored 21 goals in their 3 games. 21 freaking goals. If the USWNT did what Sweden did they'd have an easy ticket to the finals, like Sweden does now (unless something weird happens).

I don't know if Vlatko is resting his forwards or he is delusional with his idea of not pressing, but this move had better pay off because that backline only looked marginally better than it did against Sweden, and Miedema has scored 8 or 9 goals in 3 games. If she can pick her way through the backline with some help from that lethal attacking line, they're a definite favorite to win. But, I wouldn't count out the USWNT entirely because perhaps the useless running around the pitch they did this morning was to conserve energy (because honestly the grandmas of the forward line looked gassed to hell). Vlatko is going to need a prayer and something a lot more than just his shitty tactics to pull them through the next round - Hell, not even the players looked impressed with him when he tried celebrating.

But most importantly, major credit to teams like the Netherlands, Sweden, and Brazil (especially Brazil!!) for showing up and playing their hearts out every damn game. Honestly, and I hate to say it, but with the way they've been playing, the USWNT were damn lucky to get out of the group stage solely because New Zealand is the worst team on their group and couldn't win a single game (I'm sad for Ali Riley and Abby Erceg because that shit has to hurt and they deserve better with how much they commit to playing each game). But yes, these other teams absolutely dominated this tournament while the USWNT were basically sleeping and falling over themselves. They came out, put on a clinic not only in scoring but in goal keeping, and they proved a point this Olympics that it's not just the USWNT who are contenders anymore, and they deserve more credit. I really hope we can have a Netherlands vs. Sweden showdown in the final, or a Brazil vs. Sweden showdown in the final. That would be so much fun and more entertaining to watch than whatever the USWNT are doing right now - and I can't even blame all the players, Vlatko clearly missed the assignment here and did not scout the teams properly.

Either way, there has to be a tactical adjustment for the USWNT because winning only one game in the group stage and that too against a lower ranked team, isn't anything to go for. If anything, the USWNT should've had a performance like Netherlands vs. Zambia to really get their momentum going because today was dreadful.

BUT ANYWAYS, THE PREDICTIONS:

Canada vs. Brazil - either Brazil wins in fulltime or Canada wins in PKs after they draw at full time. I don't care who wins here, but lowkey I would love to see Brazil make it to the final and win gold even if I love Canada and want Sincy to get another medal. If not, I'd like to see either of these teams in the Bronze medal match. If not for the legacy of the vets like Formiga or Sincy, but so we can see Marta throw up some more T signs for Toni (I swear this is the only reason she keeps scoring goals, lol). But seriously, Brazil can chase this if they can capitalize on late goals that Canada loves to concede, ugh.

Great Britain vs. Australia - I'd be shocked if Great Britain takes the L in this match - they've proven to be having a very stingy defense and were good with choking down goal scorers and getting late goals.

Sweden vs. Japan - it will be a miracle if Japan wins. That's all. I love the heart of that team and it would be amazing if they went far, but they cannot stand a chance against the team that is top ranked.

USA vs. Netherlands - This one is tough. If the USWNT concede a goal early, I will say Netherlands win and don't stop the barrage of goals on Alyssa (who is the only solid and consistent player on this team, by the way, and should be player of the match every match), it's over. The USWNT must score first and they must score A LOT. If the Netherlands have proved anything it's how much they want to win and how much work they've done to get to that final to grab gold.

Medal Game Predictions:

Gold Medal: Sweden vs. Netherlands (Netherlands wins).

Bronze Medal: Brazil vs. Great Britain (Brazil wins).

Honestly, those both look like way more interesting/competitive matches than the current USWNT squad in their last three games.

[artificialqueens]

Tree House Kisses, Chapter 38 (Adorney) - Scorpio and Veronica

A/N: Click here for previous chapters. And thank you so much to @saiphl for the beta help!! XO!

Chapter Summary: The girls spend a summer apart, but then start their senior year, closer than ever.

Chapter 38: Feelings

Courtney’s dad had moved with his girlfriend to Berkeley earlier in the year, and both of her parents unilaterally decided that she should spend the summer with him for some “quality time.” She’d argued, she’d protested, she’d pleaded with Karen, she’d even cried; but in the end she had no choice but to go along with the plan, sullenly packing her things and boarding the train, defeated. Her only solace was that Roy was doing a summer program in Stanford for a month, which meant that at least they could still see each other on the weekends for part of the time she was there.

COURTNEY: JFC I’m gonna be sleeping on a goddamn fold out couch all summer. This is shit.

ADORE: Awww, so sorry, princess. Xx

COURTNEY: Lol, fuck you. You have no idea what this is like

ADORE: That’s true. I haven’t seen my dad for like ten years

COURTNEY: WAH WAH WAHHH YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO WIN

COURTNEY: ;)

ADORE: lol

The truth was, Courtney hadn’t really spent much time with her dad since the divorce. Sometimes it made her sad, thinking about how close they used to be. She tried to keep an open mind, but a big part of her was still angry about him having an affair, turning their lives upside-down, leaving her mom...leaving her.

Adore was right, though. As far as absentee fathers went, things could be much worse. One night, while he sat on the sofa (the one that doubled as the least comfortable bed she ever had) watching TV, Courtney wandered over and sat down next to him.

He looked up from the TV, surprised, a smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi.” Courtney shifted slightly, tried to shake the horrible feeling that she was sitting next to a grown man that she barely knew. “Whatcha watching?”

“Just the news...if things go well this year, we can take both the house and the senate,” Peter told her. “And in 2008, that fucking shit-for-brains will finally be done and we can get the White House, too.”

“That would be awesome,” Courtney agreed, letting her head rest on her father’s shoulder. He wasn’t perfect, that was for damn sure...but when it came down to it, she supposed she was lucky to have him.

-

Meanwhile, Adore had gotten a summer job as a counselor at an arts day camp, and soon began spending her days surrounded by loud, attention-seeking child star wannabes. Every day, she came home and collapsed in exhaustion, vowing to never, under any circumstances, ever have children.

COURTNEY: How’s camp?

ADORE: The worst

COURTNEY: I’m sorry

ADORE: It’s all good. How’s the homewrecker?

COURTNEY: Weird

ADORE: Is she teaching you any good stripper moves?

COURTNEY: No, she just like, chain smokes and talks to her birds

ADORE: She has BIRDS?

COURTNEY: Yeah man, I told you. WEIRD

ADORE: What are the birds’ names?

COURTNEY: Something in Russian, I dunno. I just call them Boris and Natasha

ADORE: Lol you’re so corny

COURTNEY: I did meet some pretty cool anarchist guys down the block  

ADORE: What’s their band called?

COURTNEY: Who said they have a band?

ADORE: What’s their band called, Courtney?

COURTNEY: Pussy Whisper

ADORE: LOLOLOLOL

-

COURTNEY: Okay, so...this is going to shock you…

ADORE: ???

COURTNEY: The Pussy Whisper dudes?

ADORE: Oh jeez, what?

COURTNEY: They’re gross

ADORE: Yeah, no shit

COURTNEY: i just really liked what Tristan had to say about late stage capitalism

ADORE: Right

COURTNEY: And Grant said I was smart

ADORE: Well, that was your first clue

COURTNEY: HEY!!!

ADORE: Lol, not because you’re not. Because dudes in a band called “Pussy Whisper” that call you smart are up to some no-good shit

COURTNEY: Right. Ugh

ADORE: Bird lady still a fucking weirdo?

COURTNEY: Yeah. Although she did take me to a yoga class this morning, so that was nice. She’s actually maybe not the most vile person on the planet

ADORE: Awww, look at you, falling in love

COURTNEY: Shut up

-

Once Courtney got over her initial resistance, she had to admit that Berkely was somewhat cool. Certainly more her speed than the bland suburban wasteland she was used to. She spent most of her days wandering around used book stores, head shops, or combing through racks of cute vintage dresses. One afternoon, sunbathing in the backyard of her dad’s apartment building (which was a converted Victorian house that she also had to regretfully admit was pretty charming), she made friends with a very affectionate marmalade-colored kitten. Turned out, the cat belonged to their downstairs neighbor, and soon Courtney found herself fully enchanted with the older woman.

COURTNEY: Okay I found a much better new friend than the PW boys. She’s our downstairs neighbor and she’s like 70 and so cool. She has pink hair and all her clothes are made of hemp. She’s gonna take me to an Iraq War protest on Saturday.

ADORE: Oh jeez. You’re gonna come back with white person dreads, aren’t you?

COURTNEY: lol it’s a nice look

ADORE: IT IS NOT

-

ADORE: Abortion should be legal until the kids are like...12 years old, at least

COURTNEY: Campers getting on your nerves?

ADORE: If I snap, will you visit me in prison?

COURTNEY: Of course! I’ll bake a nail file into a cake for you and everything. XOXO

ADORE: Good cake or some bay area bullshit?

COURTNEY: Gluten free agave-sweetened carob cake, courtesy of Patsy

ADORE: Fuck off

COURTNEY: Don’t insult Patsy. She’s been protesting since Vietnam, she’s awesome.

-

ADORE: HEY CHEERLEADER THIS IS WILLAM! YOU’RE A SLUT AND WE MISS YOU!

ADORE: AND I’M VERY DISAPPOINTED THAT YOU DIDN’T FUCK THE PUSSY WHISPERERS

COURTNEY: Sorry bunny

ADORE: He’s high

COURTNEY: And you?

ADORE: Meeee? Whaaaaaat?

ADORE: Yes lol

COURTNEY: Lol, have fun

-

COURTNEY: Would it be really bad if I liked Katya?

ADORE: Omg are you gonna start calling her Mommy?

COURTNEY: Shut up!

COURTNEY: But seriously...it would be like, disloyal to my mom if I liked her, right?

ADORE: Are you gonna start adopting birds?

COURTNEY: No, I just think she’s kind of funny sometimes. I’m a terrible daughter

ADORE: Well, your mom IS the one who sent you up there for the summer. So…

COURTNEY: True

-

ADORE: So. Something happened last night that was...uh…

ADORE: Very

ADORE: ...

COURTNEY: ???

ADORE: Give me a minute...I’m processing...

COURTNEY: Tell me!

ADORE: Well, we started in Violet’s basement, drinking, and I’m not sure how but somehow it ended up being like 10 people

COURTNEY: Aww, was Violet sad I wasn’t there? Did she cry?

ADORE: lol, totally

COURTNEY: So what happened???

ADORE: Yeah, so...I went out to the backyard to smoke and Trin came and like...I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but I think I made out with her

COURTNEY: WHOA

ADORE: Yeah

COURTNEY: Is she gay???

ADORE: No, definitely not. We were just like, drunk and high

COURTNEY: Is everything cool between you??

ADORE: Yeah, I think so. We were laughing about it this morning. But like, I still feel a little bad.

COURTNEY: Why do you feel bad?

ADORE: I mean, I dunno. I don’t want people to think that I’m like, some predatory asshole, you know?

COURTNEY: No one would think that

ADORE: My track record might disagree

COURTNEY: The only thing your track record shows is you’re a ho

ADORE: WOW

COURTNEY: I WAS KIDDING!!!!

ADORE: lol, I know

COURTNEY: XOXOXOXO

-

As much as Courtney tried, and as much as she made her peace with her summer surroundings, by the time August rolled around, she began to get increasingly homesick. Missing her mom, her bedroom, even Grandma Muriel. But especially, missing Adore.

COURTNEY: I really miss you

COURTNEY: Like so much

ADORE: Me too

COURTNEY: No like SO much

ADORE: Are you high?

COURTNEY: No, are you?

ADORE: A little lol

COURTNEY: I’m not high. I just love you.

ADORE: Aww, thanks babe

-

“DORY!!” Courtney squealed, practically leaping from her car the second she pulled into the driveway. She’d texted Adore from her last stop for gas, but she was thrilled to see her best friend actually waiting for her.

She wrapped Adore into a tight hug, her excitement causing her to pepper Adore’s entire face with wet kisses.

“Hi, okay, stop it,” Adore giggled. “Nice car, by the way.”

“Oh yeah, I know, it’s pretty great. Peter gets a gold star for that one.” Courtney glanced back at the car, her dad’s old Honda Accord, shaking her new bangs out of her face. He’d surprised her with the keys just last week, and it had almost made her forgive him for leaving in the first place...almost. “It was kind of scary to do that whole drive alone, though. I’m very thankful to have made it in one piece.”

“Me too,” Adore said, with a grin that told Courtney she was home. “Now that you’re back, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ party.”

Courtney laid a head on her shoulder, sighing happily.

“You’re going to Darienne’s goodbye party on Wednesday, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Omigod! Dory! I wanted to make those peanut butter cupcakes that she loves, but you know I’m just absolute shit at decorating, can you help?”

“What on earth makes you think I’d be good at cupcake decorating?” Adore laughed.

“I dunno, you’re better at art than me,” Courtney said. “Plus, it’ll just be more fun with you.”

Adore pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Count me in.”  

-

School was going to be starting back up soon, and as Adore looked around the party at her friends, she couldn’t help but feel a little ambivalent. Summer had just been so nice, and having that small taste of freedom made her long to be done with school altogether.

Tonight, there was a big group at Pearl’s house--her usual friends as well as a bunch of the neighborhood kids, enjoying the pool and the warm evening air. Violet, Fame and Trinity lounged in the hot tub with April, watching the sun set. Pearl was standing at the grill, living her butch fantasy as she cooked up food for her guests, swatting Bob away with as he peered over her shoulder, trying to “help.”

It was a little bittersweet--Darienne had already left for Pepperdine a few weeks earlier, and Jamin for Cal Poly. Even though they weren’t as close as they used to be, it still felt strange, somehow, for them to be missing. Hell, it was even weird for Alyssa to be gone, the loudmouth head cheerleader now torturing people at UC San Diego, probably already sorority president.

A handful of people were dancing, including Courtney and Willam, twirling until they were dizzy and laughing.

“Ugh, I don’t want school to start!” Willam suddenly whined, reflecting Adore’s feelings exactly.

“I know, but this year we’re coming back as seniors, and we’re gonna rule the school,” Courtney said, imitating the line from Grease perfectly.

“Oh really? You think you’re Rizzo?” Adore challenged her.

“Why can’t I be Rizzo?” she demanded.

“Bitch, you are Sandy and you know it,” Adore laughed, grabbing a beer and sitting down on the back steps.

“I can be Rizzo if I want! Fuck you!”

“Yeah, lesbian! How dare you put cheerleader in a box! She can be whatever she wants!” Willam cried.

“That's right,” Courtney added, “I mean, I did spend all summer hanging out with a prostitute. What did you do? Day Camp?”

“I was a counselor,” Adore replied, laughing. She reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle. “Here, have another drink. And I thought Katya was a stripper, not a prostitute.”

“You don't know her. It's a very blurry line,” Courtney explained, taking the offered wine cooler.

Willam grabbed Courtney’s hand and pulled her away, spinning her around and around. “Less talking, more dancing!”

Adore shook her head, watching them with a smile, lighting up a joint. Roy sat down beside her--the last of his class, since UCLA didn’t start for a few more weeks.

“Hey, Delano. How ya doing, man?”

“Good...bro.”

Roy flashed some dimples at her, then just sat for a minute, unusually quiet, as they both watched their friends dancing like fools. Willam dipped Courtney low to the ground and she shrieked and giggled.

“God, she’s so fucking beautiful,” he said.

Adore wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. She nodded, leaning against the banister and sighing slightly.

When Roy spoke again, it was quiet. “I know, you know. How lucky I am.”

Adore looked at him, considering her reply. Finally, she just nodded and said, “Good.”

Roy gave her another smile.

“Make sure she stays outta trouble while I’m away.”

“I think I’m probably the least qualified person for that job,” Adore laughed, then held out the joint.

“Thanks, I’m cool.”

“Debatable,” Adore retorted, taking another hit.

Roy shook his head, chuckling.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Delano.”

“Aww...shut up.”

-

On the first day of their senior year, Courtney and Adore walked out of their fourth period economics class together, giggling over Laganja’s unfortunate new haircut.

“I feel bad for saying so, but it’s just so...”

“Hideous?” Adore supplied, and Courtney giggled some more.

“Yeah. Poor thing. Although it’s hard to say whether her hair is more or less tragic than Mr. Sutton’s awkwardness. He’s like a baby deer.”

“I know! But like, imagine trying to get the respect of students who are pretty much your age,” Adore laughed.

“How old do you think he is, anyway?”

“Uh, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure he graduated with Kim and Angie. I think I remember him from when Angie did show choir.”

Courtney grabbed onto Adore’s arm, eyes wide.

“Omigod, you’re right! I knew he looked familiar!” she exclaimed.

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hill that Adore noticed Courtney still walking with her. She hadn’t split off to go sit with the neighborhood kids like past years, simply walked beside her towards the oak tree, where Trinity and Willam already sat, sword-fighting with breadsticks.

“Are you...planning to join us?” Adore asked curiously, and Courtney bit her lip.

“Is that okay? I mean...it’s just a little weird without Roy and Darienne, so I thought…you can say no if-”

“Of course it’s okay!” Adore pulled her in for a side hug. “Everyone loves you, you know that.”

“Everyone?” Courtney asked, one eyebrow nearly to her hairline.

“Almost everyone.” Adore smiled ruefully. “And anyway, I want you here, so she can just deal with it.”

As it turned out, Adore was right. Everyone welcomed Courtney enthusiastically with open arms. And even Violet was unusually cool about it, containing her disapproval to some muttered asides to Fame, who promptly thumped her on the shoulder every time, akin to bopping a puppy on the nose with a newspaper.

Courtney didn’t seem to mind either way, cheerfully trading barbs with Willam and letting Fame “fix” her eyebrows, which were deemed “just too pale.”

“Are your pubes blonde, too?” Willam asked curiously, and Trinity began choking on her sandwich from laughter.

“Gross,” Courtney said, wrinkling her nose.  

“Actually, are they? I’m kind of curious,” Trinity said.

“Come on, cheerleader, just tell us!” Willam urged.

“You know, I quit cheerleading almost a year ago,” Courtney said.

“So?”

“He still calls me ‘New Girl,’” Pearl explained.

“Why are you stalling? Show! Me! Your! Pussy! Hairs!” Willam said, and Fame put her whole head in her hands, letting out a horrified groan before going back to Courtney’s eyebrows.  

“Careful, Bill, or you might get what you wish for,” Courtney sang, staring him down. “You really wanna see my pussy?”

“Uhh...no. Well, maybe...but no. Or…” Willam’s brow furrowed.

“Shit, you broke his little gay brain,” Pearl said, laughing.

“Omigod, that’s so much better!” Fame sat back on her heels, holding up a compact so that Courtney could see her new defined eyebrows.

“Oh wow, that is better! Thank you!”

After snapping the compact shut and handing it back to Fame, Courtney caught Adore’s eye, both of their faces melting into a grin. As Adore buried her smile into her sandwich, she couldn’t help but think about what a change it was from last year.

Maybe a sign of good things to come...or maybe the calm before the storm.

[a3imaginesblooming]

Summer Breeze || One-Shot Juza Hyodo x Reader

Contains: Fluff, Profanity (It’s Juza), Juza x Reader.

—

Juza could literally feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead in the stifling heat. He swiped at them with his palm, sighing heavily. Cicadas’ chirps buzzed across the courtyard and straight into his eardrums, another irritating staple of the current season. This was not the ideal place to try and concentrate on his lines, but he felt more reluctant to go back inside and deal with Settsu’s constant bitching. Even if he had to sweat it out here, he could deal with that if it meant

some peace and quiet.

More important was his role. Tsuzuru had finished up earlier than expected, and looking over what he’d been assigned… He wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. It just wasn’t him, and his frustration only ate away at him every day he found himself out here, practically glaring holes into the paper. What in the hell was a romance subplot doing in an Autumn troupe play? Better yet, why did Minagi think casting him for it was a good idea? He should know Juza wasn’t suitable to portray some dumbly lovestruck guy...

Well, maybe that was a lie.

As if somehow on cue, Juza caught a figure emerging from the dorms out of the corner of his eye. It was (Y/N), (Favourite Drink) in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other. Hung around their elbow was a basket he knew would contain an assortment of treats.

He quickly pressed the copy closed, cast it out of his mind. To see their happy face right now was suddenly far more appealing than getting worked up over lines and lines of increasingly confusing dialogue— he didn’t get creative types at all. Besides, his taste buds were all but crying out for something sweet.

“Hi, Juza!” They chirped in a greeting, smiling widely from ear to ear. He felt warmth radiate through his chest at the sight.

“...Hey.”

As they came closer, (Y/N)‘s brows knit together in an expression of concern. They’d obviously noticed how unhealthily baked he must’ve looked by now. Juza suddenly felt self-conscious, and leaned back, raking a sweaty hand through his hair, as if that would help his case.

(Y/N) looked over him, sympathetically, and extended the tall glass to him; “Here, drink this. In this kind of weather you really need to stay hydrated…” He, obedient, accepted it with lowered eyes, feeling a little guilty that he had made them worry over him. Only a grunt of thanks could escape his throat as he knocked it down a little too eagerly.

Juza swallowed, and tried again; “Thanks, (Y/N)...” Always more gruff than intended. It didn’t matter. Unlike everyone else, they had never been afraid. Certainly not now; as when they laughed, the sound was warm and seemed to fill the entire courtyard.

“You’re welcome. Mind if I sit?” They needed no invitation, of course, and hefted the basket higher up their shoulder to fit beside him. It was pleasantly comforting to feel their added weight settle on the bench.

Juza shifted to make space, only to find he’d been practically glued to the wooden surface after sitting in the same place for too long. He squinted up at the sky; it must have been a while now since he’d come out to the courtyard. He could’ve sworn the sun wasn’t so low before… When he looked back at (Y/N), who began to set out all the goodies they’d brought, all he could think was how radiant they looked now, as the sun’s golden rays of light shone on their hair, their eyes.

They cast him a glance, momentarily, and found he couldn’t quite meet their gaze, so he just stuffed a pastry into his mouth, wishing he could convey how much he loved them- their baking, without having to use words. He was too clumsy for that.

(Y/N), having finished up setting out the whole mini-picnic, sipped at their own drink with a hum of contentment. “...Hope they ain’t botherin’ you in there.” At this, they seemed to hesitate, glancing over their shoulder toward where they’d came. “They’re not, it’s just…” (Y/N) trailed off. Juza knew the feeling. It might have seemed peaceful on the outside, but faint whoops and hollers could still be heard from where they were. Summer troupe in particular could be pretty rowdy, especially hot on the heels of a performance.

“Anyway!” They turned back to him, eager for a subject change, “You having trouble with the script?” Juza blinked, nodding slowly. “Sorta.’” He admitted.

“Tsuzuru… Don’t get what he was goin’ for.” He took up the script again, as well as another pastry, and (Y/N) leaned closer to peer at it, eyebrows drawn. “Why not?”

He hesitated for a moment, but decided it would be something he’d be practicing with them watching anyway.

“Just read.” He said, and held it up to the light for a better view.

They cast him a curious glance, but after a moment of looking over the lines, seemed to digest his meaning, and sat back in equal confusion. “It’s, um… Not what I’d expect from an Autumn play?”

“Yeah. ‘S weird.”

He popped yet another pastry in his mouth, most of the contents of the basket having already disappeared in the same fashion. (Y/N) seemed lost in thought for the moment, seemingly having found a use for his script as a kind of folding-fan. He briefly wondered if they’d eat anything themselves. He’d try his best to leave some for them…

Suddenly, they shot up, a gleam in their eyes. “Juza!” They exclaimed. “You’ve probably memorised those lines by now, right?” Yeah, by now he should hope so...

He raised a brow.

(Y/N) blew out a puff of air. “You can use me as, like a… Practice dummy, I guess? Remember when we did that way back when? Gives you something to focus on.” They explained, hopefully, sounding almost out of breath. He did, but… Juza stiffened, aware of exactly what that would entail this time around.

“...Are you okay with that?” Although he asked this more to himself than anything.

“Of course! I’m the one suggesting it, aren’t I?” They moved to the centre of the courtyard, drink in hand. A light gust of wind picked up, carrying the faint aroma of Tsumugi’s well tended flowerbeds. He supposed, if it would help…

“...’Kay,” he nodded, and after picking off what he’d deemed as his share of the basket, stood up to position himself a fair distance in front of them.

His agreement pleased (Y/N), and they showed it, grinning widely from ear to ear. “Alright!” The cool, late-summer breeze was rising, stirring his finer hairs, but he could still himself blush, just a bit; like he always did when they smiled at him like that. Get it together.

After a moment of searching for their own lines, (Y/N) gave him the signal to begin, and he took a sharp intake of breath to recite:

“I’d follow you anywhere, Marcella. Just say the word. My feelings for you will never—“ Juza grimaced. It was all too strange in his voice. He couldn’t say all this sounding like he was about to violently clobber ‘Marcella’ over the head.

“I know, Roderich.” He blinked, surprised. Ad-libbing? “But this is a journey I must undertake alone. Pray, leave me be...” And from an entirely different scene too; but that was probably a mishap. He watched them painedly start away, even mimicking Tsuzuru’s stage directions. They were actually really getting into this, huh? Cute.

No, don’t think about that. Focus. He readied himself into character again, this time where they’d started: “No, you’re only making a mistake! The world beyond the Capital is dangerous; I’ve been there, I’ve seen it!” Juza took their cue, grasping at the air as Roderich would’ve done Marcella, desperately.

(Y/N), stomping their foot in faux indignation, cried out: “Enough! You are my underling, are you not? I order you to release me this instant!”

“I serve the King, and his orders overrule that of his Queen.” He said, firmly.

Marcella scoffed. “The King now lies an invalid for his reckless choices. The man is an incompetent fool, you know that as well as I!”

“Not in this, Marcella, I—“

(Y/N) broke character for a moment so he could recall the rest of it, and sipped again at their drink, to soothe their throat. His heartbeat thumped in his chest, and he realised how much fun practicing with them like this was. Doing anything with them was fun; being together made it so.

Another cooling breeze came in from the West, opposite a falling horizon. Now, he saw that the sun’s rays crawled like fingers across sunset-tinted moss and cement, grasping hold of the courtyard, its fading light soon to be extinguished. However much time he’d passed stewing away inside himself, much more had passed when he spent with (Y/N).

He liked being with them. He loved to be with them. He loved them, he—

“I love you.” And then it was said.

(Y/N) nearly spat out their drink, thumping at their chest to keep it down.

Shit.

They squinted back at their lines, as what he’d just blurted out sank in.

Shit.

“Um… I don’t think that’s…” (Y/N) flipped through his copy in bewilderment as he stood, eyes stuck to the garden tiles, dumb and paralysed. “...In the script?” Shit. “Actually, where was that other thing…?”

A sharp chord of dread struck through him, his throat drier than sandpaper. “...Juza, are you okay?” He knew their searching eyes fell next onto him, but he could not move an inch. Shit. Shit.

“...M’fine.” He grumbled, harsher than he meant it to be. Anyone else would have felt threatened. (Y/N) just frowned.

“You’re clearly not.” He felt them move steadily closer. “Juza, you know it’s okay if you made a mistake, right?”

Shit. He did, but he had to say it now. He had already said it.

“I—I mean, I wasn’t expecting it but… I’m sure it’s not so easy to remember all those lines, right?”

No hiding anymore.

“It wasn’t.” He looked straight ahead now, his mouth practically moving of its own accord. “A mistake, I mean.” He took a sharp intake of breath. “Or part of the script, I—…”

“...Said it ‘cos I meant it.”

(Y/N) froze in place, as if that was all he’d needed to say. “Wait— you meant it— I…” He didn’t know why they were so surprised. If he hadn’t fallen for them by now he would’ve been an idiot.

“So—… So that wasn’t part of the—…”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence fell between them.

“...I’m sorry. Ya’ don’t have to say anything.”

He turned away. Now he’d gone out and said it, Juza knew the best thing he could do now was leave. Forget it ever happened.

He wouldn’t forget the way (Y/N) had closed the distance between them, throwing their arms firmly around his neck to halt his withdrawal.

He could feel the warmth of their flushed cheeks and the fluttering of their eyelashes. It was something that really shouldn’t have happened, but their lips felt real against his. They tasted sweet.

His heartbeat pulsed in his throat as they drew back, still close enough to exchange breathless sighs.

“I—...” Juza felt his face burn red. What had just happened?

“Um— me too.” (Y/N) said quietly. They looked like he felt, their earlier boldness tapering off into a meek . “...Kinda for a while now.”

Their grip slackened, but he counteracted with an almost involuntary hold of his own. They leaned into him.

“...You’re...Sure?” He said quietly, almost afraid they’d disappear if he didn’t keep them close to him, physically.

“Yes.” They stated, a hard sureness to their voice. He felt his stomach tighten, subject to a thousand butterflies. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” With finality, and with newfound confidence leaned in to kiss (Y/N) again, locked in true embrace.

They stayed like that for a long time.

—

Requested by @nervwrecked, I hope it’s soft enough for you! If I’m being honest, Juza (and love scenes in general...) is kinda hard for me to write? Yikes

Thanks for the ask! •v•

[letterboxd]

Bong Hit!

Today Parasite overtook The Godfather as the highest-rated narrative feature film on Letterboxd. We examine what this means, and bring you the story of the birth of the #BongHive.

It’s Bong Joon-ho’s world and we’re just basement-dwelling in it. While there is still (at time of publication) just one one-thousandth of a point separating them, Bong’s Palme d’Or-winning Parasite has overtaken Francis Ford Coppola’s Oscar-winning The Godfather to become our highest-rated narrative feature.

In May, we pegged Parasite at number one in our round-up of the top ten Cannes premieres. By September, when we met up with Director Bong on the TIFF red carpet, Parasite was not only the highest-rated film of 2019, but of the decade. (“I’m very happy with that!” he told us.)

Look, art isn’t a competition—and this may be short-lived—but it’s as good a time as any to take stock of why Bong’s wild tale of the Kim and Park families is hitting so hard with film lovers worldwide. To do so, we’ve waded through your Parasite reviews (warning: mild spoilers below; further spoilers if you click the review links). And further below, member Ella Kemp recalls the very beginnings of the #BongHive.

Bong Joon-ho on set with actors Choi Woo-shik and Cho Yeo-jeong.

The Letterboxd community on Parasite

On the filmmaking technique: “Parasite is structured like a hill: the first act is an incredible trek upward toward the light, toward riches, toward reclaiming a sense of humanity as defined by financial stability and self-reliance. There is joy, there is quirk, there is enough air to breathe to allow for laughter and mischief.

“But every hill must go down, and Parasite is an incredibly balanced, plotted, and paced descent downward into darkness. The horror doesn’t rely on shock value, but rather is built upon a slow-burning dread that is rooted in the tainted soil of class, society, and duty… Bong Joon-ho dresses this disease up in beautiful sets and empathetic framing (the camera doesn’t gawk, but perceives invisible connections and overt inequalities)—only to unravel it with deft hands.” —Tay

“Bong’s use of landscape, architecture, and space is simply arresting.” —Taylor Baker

“There is a clear and forceful guiding purpose behind the camera, and it shows. The dialogue is incredibly smart and the entire ensemble is brilliant, but the most beautiful work is perhaps done through visual language. Every single frame tells you exactly what you need to know while pulling you in to look for more—the stunning production design behind the sleek, clinical nature of one home and the cramped, gritty nature of the other sets up a playpen of contrasts for the actors and the script.” —Kevin Yang

On how to classify Parasite: “Masterfully constructed and thoroughly compelling genre piece (effortlessly transitioning between familial drama, heist movie, satirical farce, subterranean horror) about the perverse and mutating symbiotic relationship of increasingly unequal, transactional class relationships, and who can and can’t afford to be oblivious about the severe, violent material/psychic toll of capitalist accumulation.” —Josh Lewis

“This is an excellent argument for the inherent weakness of genre categories. Seriously, what genre is this movie? It’s all of them and none of them. It’s just Parasite.” —Nick Wibert

“The director refers to his furious and fiendishly well-crafted new film as a ‘family tragicomedy’, but the best thing about Parasite is that it gives us permission to stop trying to sort his movies into any sort of pre-existing taxonomy—with Parasite, Bong finally becomes a genre unto himself.” —David Ehrlich

On the duality of the plot: “There are houses on hills, and houses underground. There is plenty of sun, but it isn't for everybody. There are people grateful to be slaves, and people unhappy to be served. There are systems that we are born into, and they create these lines that cannot be crossed. And we all dream of something better, but we’ve been living with these lines for so long that we've convinced ourselves that there really isn’t anything to be done.” —Philbert Dy

“The Parks are bafflingly naive and blissfully ignorant of the fact that their success and wealth is built off the backs of the invisible working class. This obliviousness and bewilderment to social and class inequities somehow make the Parks even more despicable than if they were to be pompous and arrogant about their privilege.

“This is not to say the Kims are made to be saints by virtue of the Parks’ ignorance. The Kims are relentless and conniving as they assimilate into the Park family, leeching off their wealth and privilege. But even as the Kims become increasingly convincing in their respective roles, the film questions whether they can truly fit within this higher class.” —Ethan

On how the film leaps geographical barriers: “As a satire on social climbing and the aloofness of the upper class, it’s dead-on and has parallels to the American Dream that American viewers are unlikely to miss; as a dark comedy, it’s often laugh-aloud hilarious in its audacity; as a thriller, it has brilliantly executed moments of tension and surprises that genuinely caught me off guard; and as a drama about family dynamics, it has tender moments that stand out all the more because of how they’re juxtaposed with so much cynicism elsewhere in the film. Handling so many different tones is an immensely difficult balancing act, yet Bong handles all of it so skilfully that he makes it feel effortless.” —C. Roll

“One of the best things about it, I think, is the fact that I could honestly recommend it to anyone, even though I can't even try to describe it to someone. One may think, due to the picture’s academic praise and the general public’s misconceptions about foreign cinema, that this is some slow, artsy film for snobby cinephiles, but it’s quite the contrary: it’s entertaining, engaging and accessible from start to finish.” —Pedro Machado

On the performative nature of image: “A família pobre que se infiltra no espaço da família rica trata a encenação—a dissimulação, os novos papéis que cada um desempenha—como uma espécie de luta de classes travada no palco das aparências. Uma luta de classes que usa a potência da imagem e do drama (os personagens escrevem os seus textos e mudam a sua aparência para passar por outras pessoas) como uma forma de reapropriação da propriedade e dos valores alheios.

“A grande proposta de Parasite é reconhecer que a ideia do conhecimento, consequentemente a natureza financeira e moral desse conhecimento, não passa de uma questão de performance. No capitalismo imediatista de hoje fingir saber é mais importante do que de fato saber.” —Arthur Tuoto

(Translation: “The poor family that infiltrates the rich family space treats the performance—the concealment, the new roles each plays—as a kind of class struggle waged on the stage of appearances. A class struggle that uses the power of image and drama (characters write their stories and change their appearance to pass for other people) as a form of reappropriation of the property and values ​​of others.

“Parasite’s great proposal is to recognize that the idea of ​​knowledge, therefore the financial and moral nature of that knowledge, is a matter of performance. In today’s immediate capitalism, pretending to know is more important than actually knowing.”)

Things you’re noticing on re-watches: “Min and Mr. Park are both seen as powerful figures deserving of respect, and the way they dismissively respond to an earnest question about whether they truly care for the people they’re supposed to tells us a lot about how powerful people think about not just the people below them, but everyone in their lives.” —Demi Adejuyigbe

“When I first saw the trailer and saw Song Kang-ho in a Native American headdress I was a little taken aback. But the execution of the ideas, that these rich people will siphon off of everything, whether it’s poor people or disenfranchised cultures all the way across the world just to make their son happy, without properly taking the time to understand that culture, is pretty brilliant. I noticed a lot more subtlety with that specific example this time around.” —London

“I only noticed it on the second viewing, but the film opens and closes on the same shot. Socks are drying on a rack hanging in the semi-basement by the window. The camera pans down to a hopeful Ki-Woo sitting on his bed… if the film shows anything, it might be that the ways we usually approach ‘solving’ poverty and ‘fixing’ the class struggle often just reinforce how things have been since the beginning.” —Houston

The birth of the #BongHive

London-based writer and Letterboxd member Ella Kemp attended Cannes for Culture Whisper, and was waiting in the Parasite queue with fellow writers Karen Han and Iana Murray when the hashtag #BongHive was born. Letterboxd editor Gemma Gracewood asked her to recall that day.

Take us back to the day that #BongHive sprang into life. Ella Kemp: I’m so glad you asked. Picture the scene: we were in the queue to watch the world premiere of Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite at Cannes. It was toward the end of the festival; Once Upon a Time in Hollywood had already screened…

Can you describe for our members what those film festival queues are like? The queues in Cannes are very precise, and very strict and categorized. When you’re attending the festival as press, there are a number of different tiers that you can be assigned—white tier, pink tier, blue tier or yellow tier—and that’s the queue you have to stay in. And depending on which tier you’re in, a certain number of tiers will get into the film before you, no matter how late they arrive. Now, yellow is the lowest tier and it is the tier I was in this year. But, you know, I didn’t get shut out of any films I tried to go into, so I don’t want to speak ill of being yellow!

So, spirits are still high in the yellow queue before going to see Parasite. I was with friends and colleagues Iana Murray [writer for GQ, i-D, Much Ado About Cinema, Little White Lies], Karen Han [New York Times, Vanity Fair, Vulture, The Atlantic] and Jake Cunningham [of the Curzon and Ghibliotheque podcasts] who were also very excited for the film. We queued quite early, because obviously if you’re at the start of a queue and only two yellow tier people get in, you want that to be you.

So we had some time to spare, and we’re all very ‘online’ people and the 45 minutes in that queue was no different. So we just started tweeting, as you do. We thought, ‘Oh we’re just gonna tweet some stuff and see if it catches on.’ It might not, but at least we could kill some time.

So we just started tweeting #BongHive. And not explaining it too much.

#BongHive

— karen han (@karenyhan)

May 21, 2019

Within the realms of stan culture, I would argue that hashtags are more applicable to actors and musicians. Ariana Grande has her army of fans and they have their own hashtag. Justin Bieber has his, One Direction, all of them. But we thought, ‘You know who needs one and doesn’t have one right now? Bong Joon-ho.’

And so, you know, we tweeted it a couple of times, but I think what mattered the most was that there was no context, there was no logic, but there was consistency and insistence. So we tweeted it two or three times, and then the film started and we thought right, let’s see if this pays off. Because it could have been disappointing and we could have not wanted to be part of, you know, any kind of hype.

SMILE PRESIDENT @karenyhan #BongHive pic.twitter.com/Dk7T8bFYtv

— Ella Kemp (@ella_kemp)

May 21, 2019

But, Parasite was Parasite. So we walked out of it and thought, ‘Oh yes, the #BongHive is alive and kicking.’

I think what was interesting was that it came at that point in the festival when enthusiasm dipped. Everyone was very tired, and we were really tired, which is why we were tweeting illogical things. It was late at night by the time we came out of that film. It was close to midnight and we should have gone to bed, probably.

Because, first world problems, it is exhausting watching five, six, seven films a day at a film festival, trying to find sustenance that’s not popcorn, and form logical thoughts around these works of art. Yes! It was nice to have fun with something. But what happened next was [Parasite distributor] Neon clocked it and went, ‘Oh wait, there’s something we can do there’. And then they took it, and it flew into the world, and now the #BongHive is worldwide.

I love the formality of Korean language and the way that South Koreans speak of their elders with such respect. I enjoyed being on the red carpet at TIFF hearing the Korean media refer to Bong Joon-ho as ‘Director Bong’. It’s what he deserves!

I like to imagine a world where it’s ‘Director Gerwig’, ‘Director Campion’, ‘Director Sciamma’… Exactly.

Related content:

Ella Kemp’s review of Parasite for Culture Whisper.

Letterboxd list: The directors Bong Joon-ho would like you to watch next.

Our interview with Director Bong, in which he reveals just how many times he’s watched Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

“I’m very awkward.” Bong Joon-ho’s first words following the standing ovation at Cannes for Parasite’s world premiere.

Karen Han interviews Director Bong for Polygon, with a particular interest in how he translated the film for non-Korean audiences. (Here’s Han’s original Parasite review out of Cannes; and here’s what happened when a translator asked her “Are you bong hive?” in front of the director.)

Haven’t seen Parasite yet? Here are the films recommended by Bong Joon-ho for you to watch in preparation.

With thanks to Matt Singer for the headline.

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Fan Fiction - Dark Heart Bright Lightning Chapter 4

Attention! Contains War Storm spoilers. Attention!!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Find this on wattpad and on AO3

Bones

Maven POV

They dragged me out of my cell into some kind of locker room and let me sleep for a day. Next thing I knew, I woke and was urged to clean and shave – shaking, I insisted to do this by myself – and then was dressed up and styled and fettered. I could hardly focus on my face in the small mirror, a massive migraine combined with nausea and tiredness drowning me in place of the silent stone. Those weren’t new sensations, but more intense than before. So strange to feel worse without silent stone, and although I wasn’t sure if my face betrayed that, I looked horrible still.

Like in the cell, there was sweat on my skin, unusual for a burner. But I pulled myself together, trying my best to stop the shivering at least. I glanced over my shoulder, as haughty as possible. Ives leaned against the wall, eyeing the other jailers in a blend of threat and boredom. She cocked her head. “Done?” she asked.

I smiled, noticing how odd that looked from the corners of my eyes. I took a meaningful step away, the cue for the Arven jailer to shove me aside with a deceivingly soft insistence.

It had to be only a few minutes with the manacles and they already chafed me. They didn’t contain silent stone, only heavy metals I could melt down if I summoned enough heat. But I figured that would be futile, that I’d fail. My ability was mediocre at best, and the lingering weight of silence continued to press the power out of me. It was like a memory I could never erase. Maybe it would war with Mother’s voice in my head while I waited for the heavy, lead-like white noise to shift into the whispered words I’d grown familiar to.

It had been too much to hope for from the start, hadn’t it?

All I could wish for was for her voice to become indecipherable with time, although that was likely to only drive me closer to insanity.

On the threshold to the corridor, the Arven man pulled harshly on my manacles, making me flinch. Ives glared at him but I laughed. I just realized: the flamemaker bracelets I’d craved to get back were now replaced by fetters, and in this moment, I yearned for them even more. I almost hoped to catch a random spark – maybe by drumming the manacles against each other? – so I would feel the fire chase way the silent ache in my bones.

Cassie Ives was a traitor. I’d been aware of it, and accepted how she took insolent pride in that, for the sake of having her company instead of no one’s. But now she betrayed that paltry gift as well, when she told me goodbye on the airfield.

“I belong in the capital,” she said, her mismatched eyes adamant as she waited for me to enter the plane.

“Unlike me, you mean?” I snorted.

“Unlike you and the rest of your family,” she countered.

I almost smiled, although I didn’t feel amused at all. She was still abandoning me, like all of them, and I was still nauseous and weak, my mood dim. But I returned to what I always did and prepared myself for dealing with the new set of jailers and enemies and the brother I hadn’t seen yet. With as much posture I could muster, I spun on my heel. They couldn’t take faux pride from me.

I’d never particularly enjoyed flying and of course, this trip wasn’t improved by my current state. The hum of the plane roared as loud in my ears as the ocean beneath would, the sight of the sea not making this any less uncomfortable or scary, and thus a whole choir trio of torment was formed.

Sunk into my seat, the white noise soon became the worst of them, since every other minute, I believed to hear words among the hum, words whose meanings were impossible to grasp but dangerously tempting to guess.

The relief I’d experienced in the Bowl of Bones became short-lived. Maybe I was getting paranoid, never able to trust my own mind again, with or without whispers and silent stone. But I knew that already, didn’t I? No one could fix me, but I’d have to find a way to deal with that, as always.

The Maven from two months ago would’ve started to analyze, to scheme, to machinate already: I would’ve found out as much as possible about those around me and used it to my advantage. Mother had taught me, and I’d done my best to internalize her instructions. But it was never enough. How could it? She was a whisper, compared to her I remained a mere human, barely above a Red in ability, and she’d remind me frequently the difference between Red and Silver lied as much in attitude as ability, so I had to make the best of it and excel at the former.

I did what I was taught: I watched. Three guards surrounded me, an Arven silencer, a Newblood nymph from the Scarlet Guard, and a burner, distant Calore cousin. The flaws of this set-up were obvious – these three had been chosen for their abilities which were able to neutralize mine. But this way, my other strengths – if I might say so at the moment – were underestimated. It was too easy to figure out what to say, how to prod and tempt them.

Was the nymph truly Monfortan, or her uniform a fraud to confuse me? Did her country and the Scarlet Guard know about me, and could they accept the deceptions and sour compromises enabling my survival?

Did the silencer resent me, blaming me and not Mare or the Samos, for the deaths of his relatives?

And was my cousin Cornelia really supporting Cal’s abdication? Or would she be more than happy to conspire to reclaim the throne with me?

And why did they, whoever they who kept me alive were, even risk that – bringing in more people? They could’ve put Cal and me alone in the cabin, letting us confront each other so our flames would meet, neutralizing each other.

But on the other hand, the heat of that discussion might’ve carried too much risk, so much the Calore brothers might’ve taken this plane off the sky to drop us into the dark sea. Maybe for once, Cal had been bright enough to figure that out from the start, unlike me, or he simply procrastinated facing me as long as possible.

I would be ready for all of that options. Fearless. But not now. Now, I was too tired for any of that, and all I could do deal with myself was to rest, hoping to sleep off the week in the Bowl of Bones.

The humidity soaked everything on the island of Tuck. It dwelled in the wet ground, muddying every path, it saturated the air with heavy, cold fog, and the noise of the violent sea just topped the dread of this place. I buried my chin in my shawl and coat and hugged myself, as good as possible with manacles. I stepped into the soppy sand, although I hated the way it sullied my shoes. All of it was disgusting and I’d never planned to come here again. But despite its ugly weather, the island had a draw. Not only for the courtesy call to Mother’s grave I was to make. I stood on the despicable beach and stared at the relentless waves of the sea, mighty surges that could swallow me easily. I didn’t want that, but I liked to imagine – to tell myself how close the end might be, to play with the danger. Like a warning to myself. I often did this, yet I knew a part of me just liked staring into an abyss, as if that helped me understand the abyss I called “myself”.

The guards shuffled behind me, growing impatient. A small joy, one I gladly prolonged. Soon they started to cough, as if I was too stupid to get a hint when I only enjoyed playing petty games, one of the few joys I’d left.

Before I could give in and turn around, Cornelia came for me, luring me with a faint warm breeze I couldn’t withstand. But as I shifted my stance, the air had cleared and I saw more of the island and its airfield and hangar. It stopped my silly notion of distracting myself from the reality: I was a prisoner of the Scarlet Guard and its Monfortan allies who had claimed this island for themselves before ever I came here, and they were back at showing their flags.

Bile rose in my throat and desperation won me over. It urged me to turn this into a scene. I hissed and cursed, stepping away from the guards who only side-stepped into a new formation to surround me. Suddenly, the maw of the ocean became tempting again, the wet death preferable to the humiliation and taunts of a public trial and execution staged by Red rats. The nymph bitches of the Lakelands would be glad, although they’d never learn of it.

The guards were hesitating to touch me, but they didn’t leave me the option of fatal escape via drowning – the Newblood nymph was in her element and Arven lowered his silence over me, though hardly with an intensity I couldn’t suffer; I just gritted my teeth. Cornelia, finally, made a move at me, despite being the least effective in subduing me.

I stared at the flamemaker bracelets on her wrists, wishing to catch one of its sparks, to start a fire, even when that was hardly possible with an Arven present. I cackled, imaging he would plunge into the sea, like Mare had gotten rid of Rane Arven in the Bowl of Bones. Even with barely two months of training, she’d been a better fighter than I ever was –

I shivered, despite the new heat wave Cornelia sent my way. I heard a crack, and too late I noticed it wasn’t shiver at all, but a shock of sparks. I spun, aimlessly hoping I could use them when they’d already found their way into the ground.

Before I could look up, I was grabbed by the shoulder. The touch startled me, but its shock was gone when I recognized the man who caused it, the white-haired electricon, Tyton.

“What’s going on here?” he growled, sourly as ever. I didn’t listen to the incompetent stutter of my guards, my eyes fixed on Tyton. Not Mare, then. But if he, a Monfortan, knew about me, I was as good as dead. His eyes met mine, and he didn’t need to say more, not for my sake: The time for hesitation was over, and we’d soon start another show.

The nymph led the way. As a Scarlet guard member, she knew the place best. Arven was the rear, the electricon walked next to me. I watched him unabashedly, in a way that would make looking away more suspicious. But I also wanted to watch him, for another reason than mere caution. The wind lifted his bleached bangs, revealing his dark eyes that sparkled whenever the dim light fell on his face.

Despite the danger and gloom he exuded, he reminded me of Thomas. It wasn’t his looks, although there was a kind of resemblance. But Thomas’s skin had been a few shades darker, his features rather south than east Asian, as Tyton’s were. Tyton was athletic and lean where Thomas had been chubby. No, the resemblance was subtler, there was something about his demeanour and expression that woke foggy memories buried beneath Mother’s manipulations. I’d thought them lost, those ephemeral images of Thomas’s smile and the seconds before and after it, when his dread returned, a fear I hadn’t been able to erase nor even understand, combined with a sense for injustice. Thomas might’ve become a rebel one day, a man ready to destroy someone like me, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. And yet he’d seen hope – in me.

When I met Mare, she’d reminded me of him, of the same blend of resignation and dreams. And I encountered, or believed so, the same in Tyton. They weren’t brave for the sake of it but because they were unable to forget what a cesspit this world was. But unlike them, Tyton would never make the mistake of trusting me, and I liked that as well. Because it enabled me to hide one less layer of my fractured self.

Candour. Another thing I cherished in Thomas.

“Are you trying to set me on fire with those stares?” Tyton scowled.

I looked aside as if it meant nothing, catching the sight of a lone person standing in a courtyard cemetery. “That’d hardly work, don’t worry,” I said, shaking my manacles. He hmphed, his gaze gliding from the cemetery back towards our destination.

“But what about you?” asked I. “Can I be certain you won’t electrocute me before we’ve met my brother?”

He stopped, glaring at me with a dark eye. I stared back, almost waiting for another gust to reveal his other eye and his complete expression. It didn’t come. “No need,” said he, “Calore’s already arrived.”

As if I wasn’t a Calore as well, how charming. But indeed, Cal stood recognizable in the shadow of a building, wearing a simple coat like mine, having shed his regalia. The corners of my mouths went up. He might be content with a commoner’s garb, but I missed my old wardrobe. It’d done so much for my image. Now I could only straighten my posture and walk with my head held high as I devoured every twitch in my brother’s stunned face.

The mausoleum stood in the dim path between two buildings, only seeing the light – if it ever found the way to misty Tuck – on certain days, at limited times. I had a Haven calculate the dates for me, and he’d demonstrated how it’d look then. I’d nodded and I had the statue shipped and installed in this spot, chosen carefully. I avoided this place, her grave. She had it all to her own, as a queen’s due, although not as one expected.

Since I’d had the secret service clear and claim Tuck in my name a year before, I’d visited the place only once to pay my respect to Mother’s body, but today was my first time to see her grave in completion. Light marble inlaid with lapis lazuli rose from the high pedestal that stored her bones. A statue was enthroned on it, the Lady Justice with the sword and the scale. Mother had liked the allegory, always laughing at her blindfold. Of course, one would hardly impede her. Elara Merandus owned the truth and she made the law and I had to commission something for her grave while her death had filled me with a void. I’d had no idea how else to describe her life apart from a myth she’d mentioned a few times. But I did my duty, as a year before. I fell on my knees in front of her.

Cal ogled me, disbelieving. “What … ” he stuttered. “What is this … monstrosity?”

I rose and turned to him. “Have you never heard? I conquered the island, and built Mother an appropriate grave. Or,” I sneered, “do you mean me?”

He swallowed and went a step backwards. “I didn’t – “

“Didn’t want me dead?” I said. “Or alive?”

He shook his head and it was exactly like on that other island, or on his throne in Harbor Bay. He had no idea what to do with me. I waited, gave him a chance.

But he did the same. I sighed. “If you have nothing to say, Cal, then this has no point. If you excuse me, I have something better to do.” I walked past him, almost colliding into the guards, and thus implied them to lead me away. They had to have order, didn’t they? They had to know –

“Stop,” Cal commanded and although my guards formed a wall I couldn’t cross, although all of this was merely symbolic, Tyton grabbed my arm and pulled me around. He didn’t let go and I thought I could smell his electricity as Cal approached me. Heat clouded him as always, and while his temperature increased, my bravado waned. This was it, then? He’d finish what Iris, Mare, Julian – so many – had failed to do?

His bronze eyes seemed sad, if he was willing to give me that. I didn’t know what to do with his “compassion”. I wanted to see his hate when he killed me, not his fake pity that was more likely disappointment, over the brother he wished for that I wasn’t. I wouldn’t never give him that, wouldn’t care about him –

“Tyton,” he said, nothing else. Yet the electricon had to know what he meant; I saw sparks in confirmation. Not by Mare’s hand, but I’d still die like my mother, and be buried next to her if I did nothing.

“So Julian had lied,” I whispered.

Cal frowned. “One thing, Maven,” said he. “Why is there no space for you?”

I laughed. Despite the morbidity, I had to. “Finally you understand, Cal? That I’m always lying?”

He winced and waved a hand and Tyton’s sparks and current vanished back into his body before he let go of me, obviously not very willing.

Cal cleared his throat and suddenly patted my shoulder, in the most strange, intimate manner. “Then, Maven, I’ll wait for you to tell us the truth.”

I cackled again, as if I knew anything about the truth when I didn’t know myself.

A/N: Let me be honest, I don’t know whether I’ll continue this. This story is extremely hard for me to write and it eats up the time I’d like to spent with other projects. I know I said this would work in tandem with Paradise Refracted, the Evane story. but exactly this combination only slows down my writing process, since Dark and Bright, despite my interest in Maven, lacks the kind of inspiration I have for other stories. I hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter though and maybe, I’ll get back to it one day.

@moikorolrezni @christineflame @flameandshadowx @znanyjany @runexandra @mcvencallore @caven---malore @i-tried-mare @warstoned @wrenskonos @samanthaslytherin @hannaharies @mareshmallow @redqueenfandom @redqueenforever @artbooks-trash @inopinion @lilyharvord @selenbean-beany @marecalrandomstuff @greenfeldbramlouis @scarletguardsource

[newstfionline]

Headlines

The new ‘get out’ push (NYT) When the coronavirus lockdowns began almost two months ago, the outdoors seemed like a scary place. As more virus research has emerged, however, the outdoors has begun to look safer. One study of 1,245 coronavirus cases across China found that only two came from outdoors transmission. Beside the research, something else has also begun to make outdoors seem more attractive. People have started to go stir crazy. This combination is leading to a surge of new expert advice that might be boiled down to: Get out. Be careful about getting close to other people or touching surfaces. But experts are arguing that it’s time to think about how to move more activities outdoors—including socializing, eating, shopping, attending school and holding work meetings. Marty Makary of the Johns Hopkins School of Public Health put it this way, “The outdoors is not only good for your mental state. It’s also a safer place than indoors.”

An economic hit ‘without modern precedent’ (NYT) The Federal Reserve chair, Jerome H. Powell, delivered a stark warning on Wednesday that the United States was experiencing an economic hit “without modern precedent,” one that could permanently damage the economy if Congress and the White House did not provide sufficient financial support to prevent a wave of bankruptcies and prolonged joblessness. Mr. Powell’s blunt diagnosis was the latest indication that the trillions of dollars that policymakers have already funneled into the economy may not be enough to forestall lasting damage from a virus that has already shuttered businesses and thrown more than 20 million people out of work.

Empty streets, no pedestrian deaths in New York (Foreign Policy) As one of the jurisdictions worst affected by the coronavirus pandemic globally, the city of New York has had more than its fair share of bad news over the past few weeks. Lockdown measures have produced one sliver of good news though: New York has not had a single pedestrian death for the longest period since 1983 (when records began). Polly Trottenberg, the New York City transportation commissioner, said the city has now gone 58 days without a pedestrian dying from being struck by a vehicle. New York Mayor Bill de Blasio is looking to make the empty streets that have produced this statistic permanent, with a plan to free up 100 miles of New York city’s roadways to bicycles and pedestrians to create space for social distancing in the cramped city. The move follows a trend of cities increasing space for bicycles and pedestrians already announced in Berlin, Paris, and London.

Think we have military primacy over China? Think again. (Washington Post) Here’s a fact that ought to startle every American who assumes that because we spend nearly $1 trillion each year on defense, we have primacy over our emerging rival, China. “Over the past decade, in U.S. war games against China, the United States has a nearly perfect record: We have lost almost every single time.” That’s a quote from a new book called “The Kill Chain: Defending America in the Future of High-Tech Warfare,” the most provocative critique of U.S. defense policy I’ve read in years. It’s written by Christian Brose, former staff director of the Senate Armed Services Committee and a close adviser to late senator John McCain (R-Ariz.). The book isn’t just a wake-up call, it’s a fire alarm in the night. Brose explains a terrible truth about war with China: Our spy and communications satellites would immediately be disabled; our forward bases in Guam and Japan would be “inundated” by precise missiles; our aircraft carriers would have to sail away from China to escape attack; our F-35 fighter jets couldn’t reach their targets because the refueling tankers they need would be shot down. “Many U.S. forces would be rendered deaf, dumb and blind,” writes Brose. We have been so busy buffing our legacy systems that, as Brose writes, “the United States got ambushed by the future.”

Mexico to start reopening border region as coronavirus lockdown eases (Washington Post) The government says it will lift a quarantine for hundreds of counties starting May 18 and will begin to gradually reopen the rest of the nation June 1 as it seeks to emerge from the pandemic.

Colombia Militarizes Brazil Border Amid Jump in Virus Cases (Bloomberg) Colombia is increasing its military presence along the border with Brazil to head off the spread of new coronavirus cases as infections and deaths rise in Amazonas province, President Ivan Duque announced. “We’ve decided to militarize all border points,” Duque said Tuesday evening. The military will have “greater presence and exercise respective control to prevent imported cases” from arriving. The government also announced more funds for the local health system to help it cope with the spike in infections. With Brazil fast-emerging as the new global hot spot for the coronavirus pandemic, neighboring nations have grown increasingly concerned that the loose approach by Latin America’s largest country poses a risk to their capacity to contain the virus, even with shuttered borders. Paraguay President Abdo Benitez warned last week that the situation in Brazil threatens his country’s containment measures as well, leading him to increase military presence along the border. The Uruguayan government also voiced concern, saying the country will increase monitoring of border crossings to reduce the risk of the coronavirus spreading from Brazil.

‘Total’ lockdown for Chile capital after virus spike (AFP) Chile’s government ordered a mandatory total quarantine for the capital Santiago on Wednesday after a 60 percent spike in coronavirus infections in the previous 24 hours. “The most severe measure I must announce is a total quarantine in Greater Santiago,” home to 80 percent of the country’s 34,000-plus infections, Health Minister Jaime Manalich said. Chile had until now opted for a selective quarantine strategy in dealing with the pandemic, limiting the measures to areas with high incidence of infection.

Thinking outside the pub (Reuters) Britain’s pubs may be shut, but one east London brewer has found a novel way to keep the beer flowing—by packing his kegs into a van and pulling pints on people’s doorsteps. Driving a white van with the slogan “tactical beer response unit” on the side, Peter Brown, the director of Forest Road Brewing, spends his day fulfilling delivery orders.

Russians running out of money (Bloomberg) Russians are running out of money after six weeks of lockdown and minimal government support, adding to pressure that pushed President Vladimir Putin to start reopening the economy even as the infection total surges to the second-highest in the world. Almost half of Russians have either no savings or just enough to cover them for the next four weeks, a survey by Moscow’s Centre for Strategic Research published this week showed. About a quarter of the population has had to spend reserves since the start of the lockdown to cover a drop in income, according to the central bank. “The situation with incomes has become pretty dreadful,” said Dmitry Dolgin, an economist at ING Bank in Moscow. “Pressure will increase either to ease the lockdown or ease fiscal policy.”

China Suspends Australian Meat Imports (Foreign Policy) China has suspended imports from four major Australian meat firms, escalating a quarrel between the two countries over the origins of the novel coronavirus. Speaking at a press conference, Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs spokesperson Zhao Lijian said the suspension was not connected to the dispute but was instead a matter of regulation—and then went on to issue further economic threats against Australia. The warnings are backed up by increasingly belligerent editorials in state media. The dispute began with the Australian government’s call for an independent investigation into the origins of the coronavirus. China has reacted strongly against allowing a transparent, multilateral probe in Wuhan and acted to impede Chinese investigators. That could be a sign that there’s something to hide—whether sloppy regulation of the wildlife trade or even a biosafety accident. But Beijing’s reaction may also be a byproduct of a paranoid system. China has a track record of using trade measures to punish countries that challenge its ideological demands, such as its suspension of salmon imports from Norway after the Nobel Peace Prize—administered by a committee appointed by the Norwegian parliament—was awarded in 2010 to the Chinese dissident Liu Xiaobo. The next step may be to foment boycotts against Australian firms, as was done to South Korean companies over the deployment of a U.S. missile defense system.

Chinese Threats against Taiwan (Foreign Policy) Taiwan has been taking advantage of its success against the coronavirus to highlight its exclusion from the World Health Organization and push for a bigger place on the international stage. Perhaps unsurprisingly, China has responded with both rhetorical threats and military provocations, according to a U.S. congressional report. But such saber-rattling is unlikely to lead to invasion given the scale of the pandemic challenges Beijing faces at home. In Hong Kong, however, the government is doubling down on repression—with a new law that criminalizes booing China’s national anthem high on the agenda.

Typhoon Vongfong churns toward the Philippines (Washington Post) Typhoon Vongfong is the first named storm of the 2020 West Pacific typhoon season, but it already has the makings of a potentially significant storm. The Philippines is bracing for a close shave or direct hit later this week as the intensifying system churns ominously closer to the archipelago. The JTWC expects Typhoon Vongfong to continue at Category 3 strength by Thursday afternoon or evening local time. During this time frame, Vongfong should track northwest, skimming the Philippines’ eastern Visayas and the Bicol region. That probably means a very close shave of the western eyewall on the eastern shores of the island of Samar, where winds ranging from tropical storm to hurricane force and a storm surge of several feet are likely.

Niger says 75 Boko Haram fighters killed (Foreign Policy) Niger’s defense ministry said it had killed 75 Boko Haram insurgents during operations conducted earlier in the week in the border region between Niger, Nigeria, and Chad. Niger’s military said the assault was in retaliation for Boko Haram attacks on military positions near the town of Diffa in the country’s southeast. On Tuesday, Babar Baloch, a spokesperson for the United Nations’ Refugee Agency, said that violence across the border in Nigeria had forced 23,000 refugees to flee to Niger in April alone. It brings the total number of Nigerians taking refuge in Niger to over 60,000.

Limits of the ‘aristocracy of the wise’ (Worldcrunch) Whether or not they were looking for it, the COVID-19 crisis has given epidemiologists bonafide public power. “At this point, if Drosten says it is too early, that carries as much weight as Merkel saying it,” quipped German economist Marcel Fratzscher about his country’s top epidemiologist Christian Drosten and top politician Angela Merkel. There is no doubt that the pandemic, epidemiologists, virologists and medical professionals worldwide have stepped into the muddy terrain of national politics. Though the public may not understand every technical detail epidemiologists offer on TV or at press conferences, there’s a certain comfort in listening to the scientists who have spent their lives studying the kinds of epidemics that now occupy our minds, if not lives. Still, as Kenyan economist David Ndii pointed out on Twitter, the current rise of the “epistocracy”—the aristocracy of the wise—should be watched with caution. Although doctors may be adept at curing our bodies and understanding the dynamics of pathogens, they have far less experience managing people and guiding societies.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Not since 1953, when the U.S. and the Soviets exploded thermonuclear bombs, has the world been such a powder keg! Only recently, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the Doomsday Clock forward 30 seconds. It now registers two minutes to midnight. Verily, it’s lights out when the clock strikes 12:00 midnight. Ka-boom, it’s over! What’s going on? Hitherto, in the aftermath of the Cold War, the clock was set all the way back to 17 minutes to midnight. Thereafter, it wasn’t until 1998, when India and Pakistan staged back-to-back nuclear weapon testing, that the famous timepiece moved forward into single digits once again. It’s important to note that resetting the clock is not a frivolous undertaking. A group of distinguished scientists make that decision. Here’s the rationale for the move closer to the dreaded midnight hour: Upon the election of Trump, the Science and Security Board for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists reset the Doomsday Clock to 2 ½ minutes to midnight. That was based upon extraordinarily provocative nasty destabilizing verbiage from the president himself. Indeed, he is commander in chief, ahem. Thereafter, following the self-crowning glory of Trump’s inauguration, which was an absolute bust, especially as worldwide protests in the streets vastly outnumbered the inauguration, global risks have measurably increased with leaders Trump and Kim exchanging simplistic infantile barbs at every opportunity. Not only, it’s also a fact that global risks have compounded via U.S.-Russian relations, featuring more conflict than cooperation, as the two Super Powers crank up tensions: (1) continuing NATO military exercises along borders, (2) undermining the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, (3) upgrading nuclear arsenals, and (4) eschewing arms-control negotiations. Truly, America is in conflict within all categories that ricochet into holocaust. On a Global basis, tensions have increased over the South China Sea. Pakistan and India continue building larger nuclear weapon arsenals. And, in the Middle East, the U.S. is driving a stake into the heart of the Iranian nuclear deal.  Meanwhile, and increasingly so, cyber threats risk outages of infrastructure power grids and water sources. Exasperating this perilous world scenario, there is the real threat of fundamental breakdown in the international order because of U.S. behavior, torpedoing trustworthiness amongst nations whilst also undermining, and, in fact, ridiculing, a very sober Paris 2015 climate accord.  In point of fact, U. S. leadership has turned deceptive and unreliable to predict or discern between sincerity and mere rhetoric, inter-meshed within goofy twitter messages. Confusion and conflicting policy statements confront allies with despair. Further endangering the world community, it is all too evident that the Trump administration is true grit for neoliberal spirits. In fact, it is speculated that if the Science and Security Board for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists computed risks of holocaust based upon the tenets behind rampant neoliberal capitalism, the clock would be reset to one minute before midnight. Indeed, especially under Trump, and especially with a big tax cut combined with rejection of any effort whatsoever to tame global warming. The biosphere is at a heighten level of risk under Trump. The case can be made that the planet is at peak risk because of neoliberal socio-politico-economic policies that are equal in weight to the threat of nuclear holocaust. Neoliberal capitalism runs roughshod over the social contract and ignores ecological responsibility. For certain, there is no profit to be found in social contracts or ecological caretaking. As a result, after 35 years of hardcore neoliberalism, the ecosystem is exhausted, frayed, and starting to collapse. Indeed, neoliberal principles of privatization of public assets, rugged individualism, and free-market dicta scrunch every class below the one percent whilst tossing aside ecological concerns into the gutter. Similar to a hefty steamroller, neoliberal ascendency literally flattens the social contract and tosses aside care for the biosphere. The brand spanking new tax cut leveled at propping up corporations and the super rich exposes $1.5T in new governmental debt. Ipso facto, government must be cut to the bone to satisfy Republican dogma. Hence, the middling classes will be screwed, as the poor get decimated. Socially conscious and ecologically beneficial government will be, and is already, ripped apart. The checks and balances that keep the ecosystem humming, like the EPA, are systematically ravaged via executive order whilst giving the finger to the Paris 2015 climate accord. This ongoing massive unraveling of guardianship for the ecosystem is smack dab in the crosshairs of a mean-spirited Ayn Rand-type conspiracy, taking full control over America. Rule via decadence is taking America back to late 19th century socio-politico-economic principles, “when men will be men.” As it happens, Trump is turning loose the most boorish elements of the transnational elite. Meanwhile, the planet simmers with overheating symptoms, and emits an orang-ish glow because of massive chemical saturation, threatening civilization down to its core. The biosphere can ill afford the world’s largest economy rejecting remedial efforts. If the Science and Security Board for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists gave equal weight to ecosystem debasement as it does nuclear threats, the Atomic Clock would bust a spring. Alas, because of excessive levels of CO2 emitted by humans with resultant global warming, which the Trump group exacerbates, the planet is weak in the knees, especially where people don’t see it, as for example,  (1) The all-important Atlantic ocean conveyor belt circulation pattern, aka: Thermohaline, has already started to slow down way ahead of schedule because of global warming, (2) Oceans have lost 40% of plankton production over the past 50 years, threatening loss of one of the major sources of oxygen for the planet, (3) In 2017, the Gulf of Mexico’s Dead Zone, where oxygen is so weak that fish die, is the largest ever at 8,800 square miles, (4) Kelp Forests in the ocean, the equivalent of terrestrial Rain Forest, are being wiped out from Tasmania to California, (5) Greenland experienced total surface melt for the first time in scientific history, (6) The massive Arctic meltdown threatens runaway global warming (“RGW”) as methane hydrates are exposed, bringing in its wake burn-out agriculture, (7) Irreversible Antarctica ice sheet collapse has commenced. But still, overshadowing all threats to civilization, positive climate feedbacks are starting to influence the global warming process, meaning the planet itself is on autopilot, emitting one molecule of CO2 via hands-free positive feedbacks for every two molecules of CO2 emitted by human activity.1 This one fact alone is reason enough to move the Doomsday Clock much, much, much closer to midnight. Postscript:  “There are growing signs that the Pentagon and the CIA are pressing ahead with preparations for a preemptive war against North Korea, including the use of nuclear weapons. There have been multiple reports in the American corporate media of behind-the-scenes discussions between the US military and intelligence apparatus and the Trump administration of the feasibility of a so-called “bloody nose” attack, involving US air strikes on North Korean nuclear facilities, with the expectation—however ill-founded—that they would not provoke a full-scale war.2 * Scripps Institution of Oceanography. * Alex Lockie, news editor, Business Insider: “US Stealth Bombers in Guam Appear to be Readying for a Tactical Nuclear Strike on North Korea,” Defend Democracy Press, January 28, 2018. http://clubof.info/

[a-tinycollectiondeer-blog]

Audio Editing - Transferring A File From Analog To Mp3

For some of the online multi-player games kinds bluetooth headset to play the game. Many forums and online documents claim you can use a mobile phones bluetooth wireless headset efficient as a headset for a PS3. Unsure if that is true or not. I use Logitech. The size the mini camcorder translates that you can take it with you wherever you are going and can be very well designed. You may easily point at the image an individual wish to record and press large red button to record everything because. Now a few look in that auction title two things come in your thoughts. One is you notice that to make sure in capital letters. That's actually quite nifty tip. Because some sellers on eBay experiment in and to help find out whether it would make a difference if they'd ride in normal lectures or in AND they found that isn't a right and From the auction titles, they are listings get more attention and other bits. Do you want to do a similar thing. If choice you might enjoy working from quite home, working at your individual pace and obtaining an entrepreneur, you can start taking the steps immediately. It's as simple as sitting down at your COMPUTER to see what's out there for somebody. You exactly what they say, "If good for your health something done, give it to a hectic person." I suppose that is the reason why I formerly were asked generally if i could do some alterations, assistance with some cleaning, work late, bring some home preparing. And I always fit it in. Now is going to also discuss how to fix corrupted files a few other great common file formats. Let's have a hunt at easy methods to fix corrupt excel list. You can definitely use any third party software to do this exercise. But before doing that Salehoo and Web-based Selling For Newbies can consider some simple tricks. Make it a habit: Keep getting this done for a short time and you will earn it a habit. I'm addicted to making content. Just two weeks back I realized i was at you shouldn't stage your local area now if you do dread creating content. Create your own product or service promote it. Online E-books can popular. Build a unique which solves a difficulty or fills a need and auction it. Better still get so many affiliates to offer it for you.

[vitalmindandbody]

Two American Reveries: how a dumbed-down society lost spate of a great impression

As Clinton and Trump prepare to debate next week , princely models are overwhelmed in a culture where most Americans do not know what is real anymore and the dream of equal opportunity is just a fantasy

Every child had a pretty good shot

To get at least as far as their old boy got

But something happened on the way to that place

They hurled an American flag in our face.

Billy Joel, Allentown

Its one of the greatest fabrications of all time, and just like it says on the dollar bill novus ordo seclorum it established an entirely new tell in human affairs. After millennia of pharaohs, lords, lords, kings, sultans, caesars and czars, with all their attendant gentries and locked-down social structure, a country was founded where birth and lineage didnt topic so much, where by application of your genius, force, labor and willingness to play by the rules, you could improve your information spate in life and achieve a measure of financial insurance for yourself and your family. Peasants and proles could aspire to more than mere survival. Progressive!

We know it today as the American Dream. The now-obscure historian James Truslow Adams coined the expression in his book The Epic of America, characterizing the American reverie as TAGEND

a dream of a social order in which each man and each girl shall be able to attain to the fullest prominence of which they are innately capable, and be recognised by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of delivery or position.

Adams was writing in 1931, but the dreaming was there from the beginning, in Jeffersons pursuit of happiness formulation in the Declaration of Independence, joy residing in its 18 th-century appreciation of succes, thrive, wellbeing.

Nobody ever came to America with a starry-eyed dream of working for famine compensations. Spate of that offered in the old country, and thats precise why we left, escaping serfdom, peonage, tenancy, indenture all different iterations of what was essentially a rigged organisation, to set it in current political verbiage that channeled the profits of our proletariat upstream to the Man. We came to America to do better, to secure for ourselves the liberation that financial defence accompanieds, and for millions largely lily-white males at first, and then slowly, sputteringly, women and people of color thats the direction it used to work , nothing less than a revolution in the human condition.

Upward mobility is indispensable to the American Dream, the notion that people can rise from working to middle class, and middle to upper and even higher on the prototype of a( imaginary) Horatio Alger or an( actual) Andrew Carnegie. Upward mobility across classes peaked in the US in the late 19 th century. Most of the benefits of the 20 th century were achieved en masse; it wasnt so much a phenomenon of great numbers of people emerge from one class to the next as it was standards of living rising sharply for all world-class. You didnt “ve got to be” exceptional to rise. Opportunity was sufficiently broad that hard work and steadiness would do, along with implicit buy-in to the social contract, allegiance to the system proceeding on the assumption that the system was mostly fair.

The biggest additions occurred in the post-second world war epoch of the GI Bill, cheap higher education, strong labor unions, and a progressive taxation code. Between the late 1940 s and early 1970 s, median household income in the US redoubled. Income inequality contacted historic lows. The median CEO salary was approximately 30 durations that of the lowest-paid hire, compared against todays gold-plated multiple of 370. The top tax bracket strayed in the neighborhood of 70% to 90%. Conceded, there used to be far less billionaires in those daylights. Somehow the society survived.

America is a dream of greater justice and the possibilities for the average “mens and”, if we are not able acquire it, all our other accomplishments amount to nothing. So wrote Eleanor Roosevelt in her syndicated pillar of 6 January 1941, an apt lead-in to her husbands State of the Union address eventually that day in which he enumerated the four exemptions necessary to American republic, among other issues freedom from want. In his Government of the Union address 3 years later, FDR expanded on this concept of freedom from want with his proposal for a Second Bill of Privilege, an economic statute of rights to antagonize what he viewed as the growing tyranny of the modern economic tell TAGEND

This Republic had at its beginning, and originated to its present strength, under the protection of certain inalienable political claims among other issues the right of free speech, free press, free hero-worship As our person has grown in length and stature, however as our industrial economy has expanded these political claims have proved inadequate to assure us equality. We have come to a clear understanding of the fact that true individual freedom cannot exist without economic its safety and independence.

Political claims notwithstanding, liberty doughnuts excessively hollow when youre going nickel-and-dimed to extinction in your everyday life. The Roosevelts recognized that compensation peonage, or any organization that inclines toward subsistence level, is plainly incompatible with self-determination. Survival is, by definition, a constrained, desperate position; ones horizon is necessarily limited to the present daylight, to getting enough of what the body needs to make it to the next. These daylights a minimum wage laborer in New York City clocking 40 hours a week( at$ 9 per hour) earns $18,720 a year, well for the purposes of the Federal Poverty Line of $21,775. Thats a scrambling, anxious world, narrowly bounded. Close to impossible to decently feed, robe, and shelter yourself on a compensation like that, much less a family; much less buy health insurance, or save for your kids college, or are represented in any of those other good American concepts. Down at peon stage, the pursuit of prosperity sounds like a bad gag. Its “ve called the” American nightmare, George Carlin cracked, because you have to be asleep to believe it.

Necessitous mortals are not free males, said FDR in that 1944 State of the Union speech. Beings who are ravenous and out of a job are the stuff of which dictatorships are stimulate. A dreadful proclamation, demonstrably genuine, and especially unsettling in 2016, a point in time when the American Dream seems more viable as nostalgia than a lived phenomenon. Income inequality, asset distribution, mortality rates: by every measure, the average individual that Eleanor Roosevelt celebrated is sinking. Exceptional people continue to rise, but overall mobility is stagnant at best. If youre born poverty-stricken in Ferguson or Appalachia, chances are youre stay around that road. Ditto if your early retentions include the wading pool at the Houston Country Club or ski exercises at Deer Valley, youre likely going to keep your perch at the top of the heap.

Income inequality, gross disparities in opulence: were to say daily, perpetually, that these are the necessary the effects of a free market, as if the market was a force-out of quality on the order of weather or tides, and not the altogether manmade construct that it is. In flare of recent biography, blind credence of this sort of financials would seem to require a firm commitment to folly, but makes accept for the moment that its genuine, that the free market exists as a universe unto itself, as immutable in its workings as the regulations of physics. Does that universe include some ironclad convention who are in need of inequality of opportunity? Ive yet to sounds the suit for that, though doubtless some resourceful thinktanker could produce one out of this same free-market economics, together with stenches of genetic determinism as it relates to calibers of self-discipline and reputation. And it would be bogus, that case. And more than that, vile. That we should allow for wildly disparate possibilities due to accidents of birth ought to impres us as a crime equal in violence to child abuse or molestation.

Franklin Roosevelt:[ F] reedom is no half-and-half affair. If the average citizen is ensure equal opportunity in the polling place, he must have equal opportunity in the market place. The proposition leads deeper than sentimentality, deeper than programme, deeper even than adherence to equality and the pursuit of gaiety that are set out in the Declaration. It cuts all the way to the nature of democracy, and to the prospects for its very existence in America. We may have democracy in its own country, wrote state supreme court right Louis Brandeis, or we may have great capital concentrated in the sides of a few, but we cant have both. Those few, in Brandeiss judgment, would inevitably use their capability to subvert the free will of the majority; the super-rich as a class simply couldnt be trusted to do otherwise, a thesis thats being starkly acted out in the present period of Citizens United, Super Pacs, and truckloads of dark money.

But the occasion for economic equality goes beyond even equations of influence politics. Democracys premise rests on the idea that the collective wisdom of the majority will demonstrate right more frequently than its incorrect. That have enough opening in the pursuit of happy, your population will develop its genius, its ability, its better judgment; that over time the national capacity for discernment and self-correction will be magnified. Life will improve. The way of your uniting will be more perfect, to borrow a phrase. But if a critical mass of your population maintained in peonage? All its vigor spent in the cuts of day-to-day existence, with insufficient opportunity to develop the full range of its faculties? Then how much poorer the prospects for your democracy will be.

Economic equality can no more be divorced from the smooth functioning of republic than the ballot. Jefferson, Brandeis, the Roosevelts all realise this home truth. The American Dream has to be the lived world of the two countries, not just a moderately tale we tell ourselves.

I have always go much more advertisement than anybody else.

Donald Trump

Then theres that other American dreaming, the numbed-out, dumbed-down, make-believe macrocosm where much of the national consciousness resides, the sum concoction of our mighty Fantasy Industrial Complex: movies, Tv, internet, texts, tweets, ad saturation, celebrity infatuation, athletics infatuation, Amazonian sewers of porn and political bullshit, the entire foray of media and messaging that is endeavouring to separate us from our brains. September 11, 2001 detonation us out of that daydream for about two minutes, but the dream is so elastic, so all-encompassing, that 9/11 was soon absorbed into the the matrix of FIC. This exceedingly complex incident horribly direct in the result, but a swamp when it is necessary to reasons was stripped down and binaried into a reliable fantasy narration of us against them, good versus sin, Christian against Muslim. The week after 9/11, Susan Sontag was virtually executed for pointing out that a few smidgens of historical awareness might help us understand how we came to this part. For this modest overture , no small number of her fellow Americans bid her dead. But if wed followed her induce if united done the hard work of digging down to the roots of the whole nasty thought perhaps we wouldnt still be fighting al-Qaida and its offspring 15 years later.

An 11 -year-old girl wears Trump socks at awareness-raising campaigns event for the Republican nominee at the Trump International Hotel in Washington DC. Image: Mike Segar/ Reuters

Heres a hypothesis, ugly, uncharitable, but opened our recent biography it begs probe: the majority of cases most Americans dont know whats real any more. How else to justify Trump, a billionaire on an ego trip capturing a major partys nomination for chairman? Another blunt-speaking billionaire tried twice for the presidency in the 1990 s and used to go in flames, but he made the error of operating as himself, a recognizably flesh-and-blood human being, whereas Trump comes to us as the ultimate individual, and indisputable maestro, of the Fantasy Industrial Complex. For much of his profession until 2004, to be exact he braced status in our lives as a more or less ordinary personality. Large than life, rest assured, cartoonishly extravagant, shamelessly self-promoting, and reliably hateful, but Trump didnt become Trump until The Apprentice debuted in January 2004. The first episode depicted 20.7 million viewers. By analogy, Ross Perot received 19,742, 000 polls in the 1992 general elections yes, Im equating referendum totals with Nielsen ratings but Trump stopped gleaning that robust 20 million week after week. The season climax that year reached 28 million viewers, and over the coming decade, for 13 more seasons, this was how America came to know him, in that weirdly intimate mode Tv has of giving luminary into the exceedingly middle of our lives.

It was this same Trump that 24 million viewers a record, of course tuned in to watch at the first Republican debate last year, the glowering, blustering, swaggering boardroom act representation who devoted every hope of shredding the pols. One amazes if Trump would have ever been Trump if there hadnt been a JR Ewing to pave the way, to show just how dear and real a dealmaking TV swindler could be to our middles. Trumps performance on that night did not dishearten , nor through all the debates in the long progress that followed, and if his consider for the truth has proved more erratic even than that of professional legislators, we should expect just as much. In the realm of the Fantasy Industrial Complex, actuality happens on a slipping proportion. The fact is just another possibility.

I speak the password primeval.

I would give the signaling of democracy ;P TAGEND

By God! I will accept good-for-nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

In nine epoches Trump and Hillary will take the stage for their first face-to-face conversation. There will be blood. The bayonets are going to be out, and the ratings are bound to be, need it be said, yuge. The American Dream will no doubt be invoked from both pulpits, for what true-blue patriot was ever against the American Dream? And yet for the past 30 times the Democratic nominee has worked comfortably within “states parties ” establishment thats battered the working and middle classes down to the bone. The brand-new Democrat of the Clinton era are always strong for political privileges, as long as they dont disturbed corporate Americas bottom line. Strong for racial and gender equality, strong for LGBT privileges( though that took occasion ). Meanwhile this same Democratic establishment met with the GOP to push a market- and finance-driven economic prescribe that ameliorates the already rich and leaves the rest of us sucking wind.

Thats the very real feeling Trump to talk to , no fiction there. Bernie as well; small-minded think their constituencies overlapped, though Trumps admitted devotion to the common man stumbles over even the simplest proof. On whether to raise the federal minimum wage of $7.25 an hour, Trumps moral compass has spun from an connoted no( wages are already too high ), to connote yes( wages are too low ), to weasel words( left open up to the states ), to yes and no in the same sigh( I would leave it and grow it rather ), and, ultimately, when pressed by Bill OReilly in July, to yes-but( raise it to $10, but its still good left to the states ). All this from the candidate whos securely in favor of abolishing the estate tax, to the great benefit of heirs of multimillionaires and none at all to the vast majority of us.

Meanwhile, the Fantasy Industrial Complex is doing just fine this election season, thank you. Communicating at a Morgan Stanley investors meeting in March, one of the commanders of the FIC, Leslie Moonves, the chief executive of CBS and a husband whose 2015 compensation totaled $56.8 m, had this to say about the Trump campaign. It may not be good for America, but its damn good for CBS. The fund rolling in and this is fun this[ is] about to become a very good time for us. Sorry. Its a terrible thought to say. But bring it on, Donald. Keep going.

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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[autodidact-adventures]

Cambodian History (Part 31): WW2 and the Vichy Regime

In June 1940, France fell to the Nazis.  Germany partitioned the country into two parts - Vichy France in the south [Vichy being the overall capital], and the occupied northern zone.  While General Charles de Gaulle encouraged overseas colonies to keep resisting, many declared themselves loyal to the Vichy Regime, including the Indochina authorities.

The Governor-General of the time was Admiral Jean Decoux, and it was a pragmatic decision considering the situation.  The Japanese army had fought their way south through China, and were on the northern border of Tonkin.  Decoux’s European troops were mediocre, and his native troops were “untrustworthy”.  Japan was nominally Vichy’s ally.

Decoux would later claim that he “went through the motions” to placate Japan.  But the extent to which he & the regime switched to fascism makes that doubtful.  Pétain’s version of the racist Nuremberg laws were enforced; concentration camps set up; and other symbols of European fascism were introduced - as the goose-step, fascist salute, and ritualised chanting of Pétain’s name.  The French-language Indochina press changed suddenly from pro-Allied propaganda, to antisemitism and cheering Allied failures.

Japan wanted to strike southwards into SE-Asia, to take over control of the oil, tin & other tropical products that they needed for the Home Islands and for the war.  The French government readily agreed, allowing them to station troops throughout Indochina, and to provide them with rubber, coal and other products.  Japan left the day-to-day administration of Indochina to the Europeans, focusing on their war activities.  This “marriage of convenience” would last until near the end of the war.

The situation was dreadful for French colonial morale.  It probably worried the Francophile Khmer elite a lot.  But worse was to come, with the Franco-Thai War of 1940-41.  [Siam had been renamed Thailand in 1939.]

The war broke out in late 1940.  The land war was inconclusive, but the French navy soundly defeated the Thai navy at the Battle of Koh Chang in the Gulf of Siam.  They might have hoped for more favourable terms, but Thailand took advantage of French weakness to demand the return of Cambodia’s western provinces, which they’d given back in 1908.  Japan brokered the peace agreement, and gave Thailand almost all the land they wanted - the only exception was the Angkor ruins, which France argued strongly for.

This was a terrible blow for Khmer faith in the French.  They’d tolerated the French - even welcomed them - so long as they’d protected them.  But now the old enemy was back.  France had failed them.  Disillusionment and depression set in, but also the growth of nationalism, and a new confidence that the Asians could defeat the Europeans.

King Monivong had ascended the throne in 1927.  A stout Francophile, he spoke fluent French and had taken on many western customs, but never lost his Khmer identity.  During WW1, he had attained the rank of brigadier.  He was mostly a figurehead and had little to do with government affairs.  He was incredibly loyal to France.

But when the news came of the loss of the Battambang & Siem Reap provinces, he fell into deep gloom, and retired to his Bokor estates.  He refused to meet with French officials, and “forgot” the language.  On April 24th (1941), he died in the company of his favourite concubine, Saloth Roeung - the sister of Saloth Sar, later Pol Pot.

France’s humiliation & defeat had spurred on the Cambodian intellectuals associated with Nagaravatta.  Nationalistic sentiments swept through some circles of the Buddhist sangha (monastic order).  Nagaravatta actually openly criticized the French, and the French responded with heavy censorship, eventually banning it completely in 1942.

The next Khmer king was Norodom Sihanouk, 19 years old, and from the Norodom wing of the family.  At this time, he made little impression on politics.  He would later claim otherwise, but it is unlikely he held any subversive or anti-French thoughts at the time.  He was more interested in chasing girls and watching films, than nationalistic politics or affairs of state.  To the French, his docility was even more than they’d hoped.

The face of Cambodian nationalism at this stage was Son Ngoc Thanh, a Khmer Krom from the lower Mekong delta, and a member of the Nagaravatta circle.

The Indochina Vichy regime was extremely repressive.  The police rounded up 1000′s of opponents (real and imagined), and sent them to prisons and concentration camps.  One was the Pich Nil camp south of Phnom Penh, in the  coastal mountains.  In addition, austerity grew more & more, with widespread shortages of food & clothing.  Taxes grew higher.  The Allied navies cut Indochina’s overseas routes, and Japan requisitioned much of Cambodia’s food & plantation products.  The Khmers held the French responsible for these shortages, and resentment steadily grew.

Yet at the same time, the French encouraged Khmerité (Khmer cultural identity) - though of course it was for their own benefit.  They were worried about their vulnerability to the Japanese, who had thrown out the British & Dutch colonial authorities in Malaya & the East Indies, and who were extremely anti-European.  The French would have been worried about Japan’s long-term intentions regarding them.  Their position with the Khmers was also uncertain, for the reasons given above.

They tried to mobilise the Khmers behind their regime.  Khmerité was meant to bolster French power, and was cultural, not political - but its consequences were unintended to the French.

Indochina was visually fascist, with huge Pétain portraits on building façades, exhorting "Work, Family and Fatherland“.  Khmer boys were encouraged to join the Scouts, and the Yuvan (a mass youth militia).  This was meant to get the youth behind the Vichy regime.  But it brought young Khmers out of their families & villages, and showed them their potential collective strength, which would in the end be turned against the French.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: A number of recent, press articles, including an over 8000 word feature piece in the New York Times have asked, to quote the The NYT’s headline, “Why Are More American Teenagers Than Ever Suffering From Severe Anxiety?” Although the question was proffered, the reporters and editors responsible for the articles remain resolutely obtuse to the obvious: The bughouse crazy environment of late stage capitalist culture evokes classic flight or flight responses attendant to episodes of severe anxiety and panic attacks. The word panic has its derivation in reference to the Greek god of wilderness and wildness, of pastural repose, of the animal body encoded within human beings and its attendant animalistic imperatives, Pan. To wit, deracinate an animal from its natural habitat and it will evince, on an instinctual basis, a flight or flight response. If caged, the unfortunate creature will pace the confines of its imprisonment, chew and tear at its fur and flesh, become irritable, enervated, languish and even die from the deprivation of the environment it was born to inhabit. A caged animal, even if the unfortunate creature endures captivity, is not the entity nature conceived; the living being has been reduced to A Thing That Waits For Lunch. Human beings, animals that we are, respond in a similar fashion. Experiencing anxiety is among the ways our innate animal spirits react to the capitalist cage. Inundate a teenager with the soul-defying criteria of the corporate/consumer state, with its overbearing, pre-careerist pressures, its paucity of communal eros, its demands, overt and implicit, to conform to a shallow, manic, nebulously defined yet oppressive societal order, and insist that those who cannot adapt, much less excel, are losers who are fated to become “basement dwellers” in their parent’s homes or, for those who lack the privilege, be cast into homelessness then the minds of the young or old alike are apt to be inundated with feelings of angst and dread. Worse, if teenagers are culturally conditioned to believe said feelings and responses are exclusively experienced by weaklings, parasites, and losers then their suffering might fester to the point of emotional paralysis and suicidal inclinations. What does the capitalist state offer as remedy? Obscenely profitable, corporately manufactured and widely prescribed psychoactive medications. Treatment, which, at best, merely masks symptoms and bestows the illusion of recovery. As R. D. Laing observed: “What we call ‘normal’ is a product of repression, denial, splitting, projection, introjection and other forms of destructive action on experience. It is radically estranged from the structure of being.” In short, it is insanity to be expected to adapt to socially acceptable insanity. Yet we are pressured to adapt to, thus internalise odious, groupthink concepts and tenets. To cite one example, homelessness is natural to the human condition and is a communally acceptable situation. Closer to fact: The problem of homelessness is the result of a societal-wide perception problem — the phenomenon is the very emblem of the scrambling, twisting, dissociating, and displacing of perception that capitalist propagandists specialize in. Homelessness would be considered a relic of a barbaric past if this very simple principle was applied: Having access to permanent shelter is a human right and not a privilege. What kind of a vile, vicious people would deny the simple proposition? Those conditioned by a lingering Puritan/Calvinist mindset to believe: Punishment for resisting the usurpation of the fleeting hours of one’s finite life must be severe. If the overclass can no longer get away with, as was once common practice in the Puritan/Calvinist tradition, public floggings to whip the labor force into line, then those who will not or cannot comply will be cast onto the cold, unforgiving concrete of a soulless cityscape. It comes down to this: societies that are ridden with vast wealth inequity, due to the machinations of a rapacious overclass, create the obscenity known as homelessness. Moreover, the situation is only one of the numerous obscenities inherent to state capitalism. Obscenities that include, events that are dominating the present news cycle; e.g., the predations of a lecherous movie mogul, to the sub-cretinous doings and pronouncements of a Chief of State who is a bloated, bloviating, two legged toxic waste dump. How is it then, liberals fail to grasp the fact the Trump presidency is not an aberration; rather, his ascension to power should be regarded as being among the high probability variables of late stage capitalism and empire building? The psychopathic, tangerine-tinged clown Trump is the embodiment of the Second Law of Thermodynamics, a development that is concomitant to over-expanded empires. Thus he will continue to flounce deeper into the quagmire of crash-engendering, economic legerdemain and perpetual war. Empires are death cults, and death cults, on a subliminal bases, long for their own demise. Paradoxically, the collective mindset of imperium, even as it thrusts across the expanse of the world, renders itself insular, cut off from culturally enhancing novelty, as all the while, the homeland descends into a psychical swamp of churning madness. A draining of the swamp of the collective mind cannot come to pass, for the swamp and citizenry are one. Withal, the likes of leaders such as Trump rise from and are made manifest by the morass of the culture itself. In a swamp, the gospel of rebirth and redemption is heard in the song of humus. New life rises from its compost. In the presence of Trump’s debased mind and tumefied carcass, one is privy to arias of rot. While Hillary Clinton’s monotonous tempo was the dirge of a taxidermist — cold, desiccated of heart, and devoid of life’s numinous spark — Trump’s voice carries the depraved cacophony of a Célinean fool’s parade…its trajectory trudging towards the end of empire. As liberals new BFFL George W. Bush might ask, “Is our liberals learning?” In a word, no. For example, the collective psyche of US culture as been enflamed by the revelations that actresses were coerced into sexual encounters with a movie mogul whose power in the industry was only matched, even enhanced, by his sadistic nature. The staff of his company assisted, were complicit in, or remained silent about his lechery, as did the whole of the movie industry and the entertainment press. All as NFL athletes are being threatened with expulsion from the League if they kneel during the national anthem. Yet the great unspoken remains: The enabling of and submission to the degradation, exploitation and tyranny, and the lack of resistance thereof share a common and singular factor: The careerism of all concerned. The cultural milieu concomitant to capitalism is at the rotten root and noxious blossoming of the situation. Jean-Luc Godard’s 1967, cinematic barnburner 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her should be required viewing for those unaware or in denial of the acuity of the film’s theme; i.e., becoming enmeshed within the psychical landscape of dominance, degradation, and submission inherent to and inseparable from capitalist/consumer culture will cause one to become party to societal sanctioned prostitution. When life is negotiated within a collective value system that devalues and deadens the individual’s inner life thus warps every human transaction, anomie descends, the worst among a people ascend to positions of power. Panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive. — William S. Burroughs, from Ghost of Chance When friends visited me in New York, where I lived for decades, I would take them on walking tours through the city. We would cross the Westside Highway and stroll the pedestrian walk along the Hudson River, or cross the East River by walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. The effect of these excursions on people was often profound…the combined elements of the elemental beauty of the rivers and vastness of the city’s architecture and scope, clamour, and the dense interweaving of traditional ethnic customs and ad hoc social codes of New Yorkers often would heighten the visitors’ senses and open them to larger, more intricate awareness of themselves and extant reality…the freeways of the contemporary mind (conditioned to be constantly engaged in manic motion, with one’s mind either frenzied by an obsession with performing (ultimately futile) manoeuvres directed to saving time — or stalled at a frustration inducing standstill) were replaced by the exigencies of life at street level; i.e., novel situations that had to be apprehended and negotiated. The possibilities of life seemed greater. The crimped eros of insular suburban thought became loosened before the city’s intricacies and expansiveness. Although: Not all, or even a scant few, New Yorkers can maintain the state of being. Few of us can live by Rilke’s resolve to “make every moment holy.” Life, in the city, becomes grotesquely distorted…High rents, inflicted by hyper-gentrification, in combination with the deification of success and its cult of careerism overwhelm one’s psyche…There is so far to fall. Angst (the word originally can be traced to the ancient Greek deity Ananke, the immovable by prayer and offering bitch Goddess of Necessity and the root word of anxiety) clamps down one’s sense of awareness. Ananke dominates the lives of the non-privileged citizenry while Narcissus, Trump’s, the Clinton’s et al and their financial and cultural elitists’ patron God rules the day. The pantheon of possibility has been decimated, a cultural cleansing has been perpetrated, by the egoist caprice of the beneficiaries of the late capitalist dictatorship of money. Hence, we arrive at the primal wisdom tacitly conveyed by anxiety-borne states of fight or flight. Due to the reality that capitalism, on both an individual and collective basis, drives individuals into madness, all as the system destroys forest and field, ocean and sea and the soulscape of all who live under its rapacious dominion, our plight comes down to this: We either struggle and strive, by and any and all means, to end the system — or it will end us. http://clubof.info/