#the revolution will not save me as a physically disabled person. it will not save any of us. we do not matter to leftists. i am sorry but >

[rabbithaver]

every so often i will see a post from a leftist on this website that is so egregiously ableist that i remember that like. oh yeah the userbase of leftists on this website is violently anti-disabled people and will jump at any chance to demonize any of us for any reason. i just forget that fact because i'm extremely dedicated to curating my space

i'm paraphrasing here but i saw a post that said, "every time i see an American [disabled person] mention being scared about the election because they're afraid of losing their benefits i have to laugh. anybody who wants blood-soaked money from the US government deserves to starve" which. like. goodness that's a lot to unpack. i think we should burn the whole suitcase instead !

[beneathashadytree]

HI GUYS! LONG POST, MAKING A BIG ANNOUNCEMENT OVER HERE! I WILL BE ACCEPTING WRITING COMMISSIONS FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS, DUE TO THE FACT THAT I LIVE IN EXTREME POVERTY… PLEASE REBLOG!!

Here are my commision prices:

1$-2$ —> an SMAU (depends on length)

5$ —> a drabble (around 500 words)

10$ —> a oneshot (around 1000 words)

20$ or more—> a ficlet (2000-4000 words or more)

What fandoms I’m willing to write for (the ones in bold are the ones I’m best at and hyperfixating on):

Attack on Titan

Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice

My Hero Academia

Haikyuu!!

Jujutsu Kaisen

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure

Moriarty the Patriot

Tokyo Revengers

One Piece

Bungou Stray Dogs

Kuroko no Basket

Ikemen Sengoku

Ikemen Vampire

Ikemen Revolution

Ikemen Prince

Love and Deepspace (my current fav)

How do I request a commission?

Either contact me via my DMs here, or on my Ko-Fi! I’ll be linking my account at the bottom of this post.

What’s the commission format?

Tell me your name or your OC’s name, their gender & pronouns, describe them to me both physically and in terms of personality, then tell me which character you want me to write them with. I’ll be writing “character x reader” or “character x OC” fics, so I need to know what I’m working with! Any extra details will help a lot. Of course, we will discuss everything concerning your commission privately.

If you want to check out my previous works to have a rough idea of how things will look like, be sure to check out my masterlist, which is my pinned post! Of course, my writing improves over time, so it may not be precisely as it is there.

How do I pay you?

You can pay me via my Ko-Fi account, which is linked to my PayPal! Here’s the link to my Ko-Fi.

Please consider helping me out, whether by requesting a commission, or by sharing this post and my links as much as possible!! I’m trying my best to do all I can now that I haven’t got many options left.

As some of you might already know, I’m a dentist, but still at uni. Sadly, studying dentistry is extremely expensive, and I can’t rely on my parents to pay my fees for me for a few reasons.

The first being that my dad is a heart patient, and can’t work anymore. The pension he receives is literally less than the equivalent of 90 dollars. Of course, that doesn’t provide anything in terms of food and living (we usually can only afford a meal or two a day) except for some of his meds—not even all of them. His health is steadily declining.

My mother is extremely narcissistic and very, very abusive. I’ve gone through hell living with her because I have to, but even she can’t even afford to take care of us because no one wants to hire her at her old age, and she’s used up all her savings on my dad.

I’m also physically disabled, and can’t move around often. I also have to have surgeries every now and then because of the chronic illness I have.

I am in serious, dire need of money, both for my tuition fees, and hopefully to be able to live. I have to keep us afloat until I can get married in a couple of years, since I can’t live alone. Besides, my dad doesn’t deserve to suffer with his heart problems.

I tried working with dentistry last year, and that worked for a while, but this year no one’s hiring due to the terrible state of our economy. I have no skills aside from my writing, so that’s what I’ll have to work with. I’m getting seriously desperate, so I hope you guys understand why I’m doing this, and hopefully feel inclined to offer any support you can—even if not financial, but just by reblogging this post!

[zelzebee]

an introduction;

hi. I’m zel.

I’m here mostly because I write fanfiction (and a little for the memes).

Whether we want to be completely impartial or not, writers infuse their beliefs, views, and experiences into everything they put out into the world. So, some things about me that end up in my work:

- I am queer, and trans. I don’t believe in the gender binary, and I think labels are all made up and we should let people identify however they want! Other people’s feelings about themselves are none of my business.

- I am disabled and chronically ill. I experience both physical and mental disabilities that affect my life daily. These experiences seep into pretty much all of my work, because disabled people deserve to be represented! This also affects my ability to always update consistently! My works are not on any schedule. I may post seven chapters in one week and then only post one chapter the next two weeks.

- I am politically radical. This means that I believe in changing the world into something that we’ve only ever tried to imagine— a type of world and society that has rarely (if ever) existed on the earth. Some radically political ideas that will appear in my work: restorative justice, the abolition of prison and policing, reparations to communities and individuals harmed by any state, nation, or government, interpersonal conflict and resolution, mutual aid, and most importantly: a definitive lack of the bigotry so often found in popular media.

- I am a chronic multi tasker. Unfortunately, I lack the ability to focus on one project at a time. For example, right now I have eight! main works in progress that I am moving between as I work. The saving grace of this personality quirk is that I also lack the ability to leave things unfinished. Eventually, I will finish every work that I’ve started.

More interestingly, here are my current WIPS from my favorite fandoms:

- an ever expanding universe; a series of Star Trek one shots; mostly from voyager, strange new worlds, or next gen!

- and all things end; a very, very queer lord of the rings retelling

- when the thorn bush turns white; a twilight college AU with polyamory, and healing from trauma! slay

- a constellation of lovers; an ATLA post-canon fic centered on Sokka and Zuko: also with polyamory and gayness

- in the shade of yggdrasil; some stories about the norse gods and myths

- a queen for camelot; a merthur fic for a friend who is obsessed with the idea of queen merlin in the golden age

- the gospel of judas; ok ok, like, i KNOW but also, gay jesus is such a slay story

- saga of the revolution; this is the pinnacle of my work if i ever finish. Star Wars re-write. fuck george lucas.

I hope you comment and send me questions, but even if you don’t, I’m glad you found me!

happy reading <3

zel

[aura-loveshine]

Fringe-dweller’s true tales.

I looked up at the half moon, and thought “this will be the 5th full moon since you died”... 

Three nights before you were so suddenly taken from the physical earth, you camped overlooking the beautiful large body of water. you explored the multifaceted countryside, you were always like a kid when it came to exploring. you would have honoured and felt connected with nature. you would have sat with a j and admired the full moon on Friday the 13th. it would have been so beautiful to see the full moon over the water, the reflection, the light bouncing off the rippling water and quartz crystal sparkly rockbed... 

I hope those days spent at that campsite were healing, I hope you felt at peace, I hope you spent those days happy, content. I imagine you playing guitar and adventuring with our magic merlin dog, enjoying the wildlife, the peacefulness. I imagine you listening to the abc radio you loved and talking to the other campers, sharing your quirky unique self, making people laugh, or think. I imagine you satisfied to have achieved the long time goal to drive to the tip of Australia, from Cook Town to Cape York in your FWD. I imagine you had chocolate or something sweet even though you were running out of everything else. 

I wonder if you dreamt those nights... I wonder if you had a feeling something was coming. I wonder about the last conversations you had with tribe. i wonder about where you thought the wind might take you next. I wonder if you actually were on your way to visit me... ill never know whether I/you/we could have done anything to change what happened... I can't believe after all the physical pain you endured through-out your 34 years, that you experienced pain in your last alert moments... I think about our dog being with you when it all happened... 

I imagine you loving being omnipresent, exploring the universe in your cosmic pirate-ship with Xena, your beloved 17 year old dog. I'm not surprised she passed 12 days after you... I'm glad your both free of your aching sore physical bodies. You both lived so adventurously. you and Xena are the only ones I know that can say they lived in their vehicles/bus for over 11 years, driving over a million kms around and through Australia. I also don’t know anyone else that helped as many fringe-dwellers as you did, loved and supported so many beautiful women without trying to take it to a sexual level, who invited people to travel with you and see new incredible parts of Australia. you saved forests, educated people, changed Bunnings national policy, inspired people to live better and more freely, you lived more in your short life-time than anyone I know. you experienced pain, near death experience, limitation childhood abuse and death of loved ones and still managed to be the incredible being full of enthusiasm with an open heart and playful inquisitive nature. 

I was relieved to hear you had been reconnecting with your mum and family. that our close friends had quality time with you before everything changed...       I know you knew there was a high chance of you dying while on the road due to road death statistics... but all the justifications can't outweigh the heaviness of not being able to message you, call you, find out where you are now, what your building or what fascinating experience you’ve had recently.

You were the first and only male partner I have shared a ‘de facto’ type lovership with, having only been with women until you. you were so respectful, you were loving and gentle...  travelling in a old coaster for 6 months with you living a true dream... you built us a bush shack in two weeks, you built us a bush palace in a month and a half, all while been technically ‘disabled’... you showed me sacred sites of Australia, you climbed into caves, swam in ocean with crocodiles a few kms away,, we ate dinner alone with Dick Smith in the desert, casually chatting. you introduced me to Robin Mutoid at Burn out, I loved sitting with you and Robin in the coaster watching you two light up talking about mad hatter genius building ideas... and plans to create an explosive pineapple grenade to the filming we were doing.

Some of my favourite memories of my life-time, have been with you. I cherish you, I cherish my photos of you, I'm relieved I didnt listen to you when you told me to stop taking photos and be in the moment, but now I can look at those memories when I need to see you. every time I see a old coaster van I'm going to think of you... so many things remind me of you... having merlin with me is the silver lining, I'm relieved she was safely found after 15 days of being missing in the bush. I'm relieved she's with me. but I wish I was instead bringing her back to you...

You led such an incredible life I hope to share your stories and pictures with the world. you inspired so many people while you were alive... and even after... thousands of people read about your death on social media and tv... the articles and posts used the photos I took of you. it was surreal to see you and our dog in articles, for what happened to be so publicised... for a tragedy so personal to be used as ‘grief porn’... I hope to use the publicity of it all to make change to the stretch of road. needs better signage, a lower speed, something! I can't get it out of my head that you were the 9th fatality out of 30 accidents in 31 years, within a 4km stretch of road... 9 fatalities is too many. 9 is the final number. you are the last one to be taken out there...

The bush fires started raging not long after you died... in a strange way, the fires seemed fitting in my state of grief. Our lives were all forever changed... I was forever changed. The fires burning for months. My grief, anger, shock and feeling of helplessness burning inside me for months.  the sense of emergency through out the country, the sense of disaster within me.

It was all a bit much trying to deal with you dying, Xena dying, merlin being missing for 15 days and everything else that happened over the next 2 months as well the fires raging, rainforests burning, native wildlife in crisis, homes burning, people dying and the nation all in panic and smoke. Being 1500kms away from my forest home and family while the fires burned out of control less that 40kms away, with road blocks and potential fires in between. Trying to have your life celebration festivities while experiencing heavy rain, wind warnings and strained tumultuous emotions all round... thunder and hail while my mums saying she is taking all my valuables and art to a safe house coz the fires are getting closer, and they are prepping to have to evacuate with the dog, cat, ducks and chickens... luckily, it never came to that, the fires were contained 25kms away from our home, contained only 20kms away from my closest town, a well known beautiful alternative community. 

A moment that will always bring a smile to my heart, was when I was finally driving home. Id had a really rough night, id been holding so much in, trying to just get through everything to get home, id started falling apart... we had just started driving, when we saw a small’ish’ dust devil. the ‘tornado hunter’ part in me instantly wanted to drive up the near by road to chase it. I held back, until I heard my friend say “we could throw some of him ashes into the dust devil”... and I zoomed up the road as quick as I could. although the little twister had gone out of reach, I trustfully threw some of your ashes towards it. my heart felt uplifted as I watched the ash catch, float up and dissolve toward the dust devil.

You weren't scared of dying, you lived actively seeking to push your own limits, always with a cheeky grin. but you always landed like a cat, you were always there, doing your thing... alive. you always came back... you would have heard about the fires and driven straight to help, you would have fought the fires like you had before. you would have used the experience as a way to further pursue actual change for the planet, would have been apart of the vocal community questioning how the government failed to protect and how we needed to have upheaval and revolution...

You drove so safely on the roads. I dont know what happened to the other driver, except that he was seemingly uninjured. was it actually an unfortunate accident? or did the driver lose control going around the corner at 130kms in a 100 zone.... 

Was it really ‘your time to go’? if I hadn't been to the crash site and dealt with all that I have, I might fantasise the idea that you pulled the ultimate fucked up prank, that your hiding out in your doomsday bunker, mischievously laughing at no one knowing your alive, being completely ‘offline’, plotting the moment to reveal yourself... to see you, hug you would be.... 

We separated as lovers 15 months before you died, as we had to go on seperate journeys, we had to become individuals again. we were both struggling with very different things, we had to salvage our friendship and love, to take a break, allow some time... and then... you died 7 hours away, on your way to my area... on your way to see me and Xena.. I can't help but feel I'm being punished somehow, question if I shouldn't have made you leave. you might still be alive... am I silly to dwell on thoughts like that? I thought we had more time.

All I can do is live passionately, continue to be inspired by you and cherish you and our time together, learn from my experiences, healing these wounds by living, by loving, by sharing truth, by having daily gratitude and celebrating the positive events and changes as they come.

I know, for a long time, I will count each passing full moon...

You will always be my gypsy pirate king.  

Fly Free my Lover. I'll see you on the other side once again.

[holy-mountaineering]

This Tarot Spread is for @d33pstat3​ Thank you as always!

Here’s the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do and here you are. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole. You know the routine.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map. Maybe as a person, the Qabalistic Adam Kadmon.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have the 3 of Disks, Work, Works, or Working. In this case, we’ll call it, Working.

Using the simplest formula we enter a new dimension and can accomplish what must be done in the material world.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of  your hometown is the Ace of Cups, or the Root Powers of Emotion, Intuition, and connectedness to life.

This is the annual Nile flood, wiping away everything not secured to the ground and replenishing the top soil so that the crops might grow amazingly well. This flood of emotions is hard as hell to keep at bay, to instead, clear a wide path and reap the rewards.

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is the 7 of Disks (the fear of) Failure.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch but also don’t assume your calves will all be still born. Deal with life as it happens, not as you might suspect it will.

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is the Ace of Swords or the Root Powers of the Mind, Intelligence, Communication, and Language.

Freedom is a two-edged sword, heavy, sharp, dangerous and useful, at times necessary. A sharp blade can harvest wheat or kill an enemy. It’s your choice how you use your tools at this time. But this fucker just came back from the Knife Sharpening Store and if you’re not careful, you might cut off an important limb and leave yourself disabled and at a disadvantage. 

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is Prince of Disks, the Airy part of Earth or what you think about what IS.

Like the 2 Aces across the Tree, you have the Prince chasing the 7 of Disks. And Like the previous card, don’t let your tools make the decisions. If you find yourself being drawn to the “worst case scenario” every time, take apart that tool and see if maybe the wheels aren’t fucked up and leaning a certain direction due to wear and tear. Rotate your wheels, grease your bearings, and control your tools, because there is so little we CAN control, we might as well take advantage of what we can and leave the rest to the Fates or Furies.

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is 0 The Fool, speaking of the illusion of control.

The Air here is exhaled with the Logos that spake life into being. Say it and it is so. Your direction could go any which way, it is again, up to you to speak that into existence. 

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is the Princess of Wands, or the Earthy part of Fire, the fuel for the fire, the food that nourishes your actions. 

You don’t have to be burning alive to be progressing. Don’t burn yourself out/up because you feel like that is what being “active” or “successful” looks/feels like. You just end up a toasty, crispy husk of your former self and while that IS one way to advance in life, I do not personally find it worth the burning. 

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is the Knight of Cups, the Fiery part of Water or Acting Upon Moving Feelings and Connections. The MFing Graal Seeker and Graal Bearer seeks union with his God through physical contact. Making the Esoteric Real.

Seek, with all your heart that which connects you to Life and the Living. That which motivates you to Beauty and Love. It is all that can save any of us from the Death of the Soul, which the Black Lodge has a vested interest in seeing us be devoured by.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is alot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is 10 of Cups Satiety.

This is that very same Nile flood, but with your technology advanced enough to direct the life giving Waters to useful areas reducing the destructive aspects and enhancing the beneficial parts. Surround yourself with folks who feel strongly but not unwantonly.

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is the 7 of Wands Valour.

The current Order has become ill-ordered and could use a bit of shaking up. Throw a little fire on that which only serves the past. Nostalgia, false or real, only serves yesterday, never tomorrow. We’ll never be back at yesterday, but with a bit of luck and planning tomorrow is always approaching. 

IN SHORT, Do the simple thing that Works, without attachment to result or to influence people in one way or another, because that will all come out in the wash anyway. And don’t decide that “all” is lost before even “some” has reported its progress. Make your choices with a fresh mind or you might have your choices made for you with a flayed mind. Self driving cars are the future, but sadly here in the present, that isn’t a self-driving car, it’s just an out of control  vehicle that could hurt you and others if not controlled.

Speaking of control, don’t use yourself as a torch because you think it might be inconvenient to ask for a light. We can find more flashlights, there’s only one of you. And that one of you that sometimes might want to let go of the wheel and let shit sort itself out, try to remold that fucker into someone who instead only drives to places they want to go and that makes them feel more like themselves.

Surround yourself with people that fill you with Love and Life, because you’re hemorrhaging the stuff and   you’ll need that later. You will indeed need that later for the War or revolution inside of yourself where you start fragging the old generals who would keep you making the same old choices that no longer serve your emerging purposes.

Ta Da! Hit me up with any questions, you know the routine!

[mommy-and-leader]

How Henrietta Lacks’ Story Taught Me How to be a More Compassionate Leader in Healthcare

The story of Henrietta Lacks is both a story of miracles and of tragedy. The history of the HeLa cell is truly the stuff of scientific miracles. However, the story of Henrietta Lacks, the patient who unwittingly donated the cells, and whose family has suffered as a result, is heartbreaking. In reading Rebecca Skloot’s best-selling book, I admit that I read the story through the eyes of a leader in healthcare. I was ready to defend my field and my peers in the field. However, as I read both the personal story of Henrietta Lacks and the Lacks family, as well as the story of the HeLa cell, I was astonished at the amount of betrayal I felt as a warrior of science. Many criticize Skloot’s book as reminiscent of a novel, and problematic in the way that she reports it like she sees it- from sexually transmitted diseases, child abuse, abusive marriage, child molestation- Rebecca leaves no stone unturned in her ten-year mission to learn about Henrietta Lacks and her contribution to science.

Christoph Lengauer, the first scientist that was willing to speak with the Lacks children, said it best by stating, “Whenever we read books about science, it’s always HeLa this and HeLa that. Some people know those are the initials of a person, but they don’t know who that person is. That’s important history” (Skloot, 2011, p. 266). Rebecca Skloot’s book was successful in uniting the person, Henrietta, with the cells. The cells were not the only important discovery in science. The story of the person was important for healthcare and could teach us a lesson about being a compassionate caregiver in healthcare.

Critics state there are problematic elements in Skloot’s portrayal

In a poetic analysis of the book, Lantos (2016) reinforces the idea that Skloot’s book further exploits the Lacks family in its overshare of private details of their lives, namely Deborah’s abusive marriage and divorce, the imprisonment of her children and details of the crimes, and even the amount of Deborah’s social security check. Daniel Podgorski, a literature reviewer for the Gemsbok, comments on Skloot’s exploitative position relative to the Lacks family, stating that she, however, tells an important and even story (Podgorski, 2016). Podgorski (2016) states:

Skloot adopts a neutral tone throughout her book and presents the facts of the cases and lives involved evenly, and, in doing so apolitically, manages to expose the inextricable story of racial segregation operating above and with scientific progress in the twentieth century without sacrificing journalistic integrity…she presents all people in her book as part of this one grand narrative of humanity, each a character as in a novel, susceptible to moral and critical judgments by the reader, and a human being, and so representative of a faction of reality (Podgorski, 2016).

While most of the Lacks family disagrees, two Lacks men have come forward regarding their feelings of contempt toward Rebecca Skloot, and HBO, who produced the film portrayal of Skloot’s book. Bustle reports that Lawrence and Ron Lacks (Henrietta’s son and grandson) feel exploited by Rebecca in the same way that they felt exploited by Johns Hopkins. “Skloot portrayed the Lacks family as falsely uneducated and poor. ‘She made us stereotypes…people think we’re dirt poor’” (Truffaut-Wong, 2017). Lawrence Lacks even goes on to tell the Bustle reporter, “It’s bad enough Johns Hopkins took advantage of us. Now Oprah, Rebecca, and HBO are doing the same thing. They’re no better than the people they say they hate” (Truffaut-Wong, 2017). However, the article goes on to give a comment by HBO, stating that the film had overwhelming support from many Lacks family members.

In my reading of the book, I found a number of details cringe-worthy in their honest horror, and I admit that they horrified me as a woman and as a mother. First, there was Day’s character as a young husband and father. Early on in the book, in Chapter 1, Day is painted as an adulterer (Skloot, 2011, p 13) and later on, it is explained that the sexually transmitted diseases he passes on to his wife, Henrietta, are the reason why her cervical cancer is so aggressive. Later, in Chapter 15, Deborah’s physical and sexual abuse by her uncle, Galen, is another one of those details that breaks your heart and keeps you up at night. You wonder if you can do without hearing these atrocities suffered by this family. Then you keep reading on and get to the part where Day, her father, did not protect her from this incestuous monster (Skloot, 2011, p. 113) and you want to both kill Day again and embrace Deborah in all her suffering. This rollercoaster of emotion keeps you reading voraciously and really humanizes this family.

While I do agree that these details are of a very private nature, they served their intended purpose in conveying the message that Henrietta was a real person. She is not just a cell. She is a real woman who had a real family- who are still alive today- and still suffering from the aftermath of the notoriety of the HeLa cells, which were taken without Henrietta or her family’s consent, and have changed the face of medicine (and made millions since their theft). What makes a person or a family more human than the reality of their flaws?

How the story helped me in my role as a leader in healthcare

This story is not only an exposé of all of the skeletons in the Lacks family closet, but it was a discussion on racial disparity and medical mistrust in the African American community, and of informed consent, or the lack thereof, for Henrietta and the Lacks family. It was the story of any and all of the above. As an African American woman visiting a public ward in the 1950s, Henrietta had no choice when it came to research, as was the same with all the black patients at Johns’ Hopkins’ public colored ward (Skloot, 2011, p. 29). This was the era of racism, segregation, and Jim Crow laws. Black patients had no choice but to trust the word of their doctors, and not many words came from these doctors. They weren’t informed of many details of the treatment for Henrietta’s cervical cancer, nor were they informed of the cells they took from her in research, nor were they informed of the fruit of those cells- a medical revolution.

These cells crossed the world. In 1952, they were the first living cells shipped via postal mail. They helped develop the polio vaccine, the cervical cancer vaccine, and many drugs. They were the first cells ever cloned and were also the first cells ever hybridized with the cells of an animal- a human-mouse hybrid. The discoveries were endless and are still being made. The fruit of the research of the HeLa cell was ample, and the financial gain was enormous. However, this was all unbeknownst to the Lacks family. In fact, they were unaware of the existence of these cells until 1973- more than 20 years later! It wasn’t until 1975 that the Lacks family knew of the immense contribution to science and the commercialization of the cells after a reporter for Rolling Stone interviewed them and published a story about Henrietta Lacks. Their mother’s cells now had a name, and a family, and her medical history was out for the world to read about.

This is what pulled on my heartstrings. As a medical professional, I am a bleeding heart. I regularly encounter some of the most vulnerable sick people who just need someone to take care of them and often to advocate for them. Here was this woman- a poor and educated minority who just wanted to trust her caregivers- who died at the age of 31. She left behind a family of many small children, one of whom was disabled. That family defined struggle. They were uneducated, poor, and struggled into adulthood. Henrietta needed a caregiver, an advocate. Her children needed this, too. When they learned of their mother’s cells and notoriety, they felt deceived and rightfully so. Here they were struggling from health issues of their own and could barely get medical insurance- yet their mother’s cells created much of what we think of when we think of modern-day healthcare. Where were the Lacks’ caregivers? Why did no one in the medical field feel that they needed to be taken care of, in their vulnerability?

 With this lesson of bioethics and medical mistrust: How do we prevent this from happening again?

Though Henrietta’s contribution to science was immense, it was done without her consent or the consent of her family. When Henrietta was identified and her family was made aware of the enormity of this situation, the Lacks family was still kept in the dark. The scientific and medical community continued to take advantage of the Lacks’ by deceiving them into giving blood to further their research into Henrietta’s genome and disguised this as “cancer testing” (Skloot, 2001, pp. 183-189). There were so many opportunities for the medical community to make this right, but no one stepped up to bat.

So how do we make sure that this never happens again? First, we need to remember why we went into this field- to help others, to save lives. Some of those that I have worked with in healthcare are caregivers in every sense of the word- they are bleeding hearts and some of the most moral and ethical people that I have ever met. Physicians down to nurse’s aides, almost everyone I have worked with have come into this field to make this world a better place by helping those that we can. As a leader in the field, this is an important trait that I look for in all members and prospective members of my team. In order to prevent this from ever happening again, we must convey a culture of ethics and compassion. By selecting and hiring ethical employees and fostering ethical decisions by acting ethically and helping your employees act ethically, you instill a compassionate and compliant environment (“How Managers”, nd). Talking through decision-making and being seen as a moral authority are important to convey an ethical and compliant culture in your organization.

As a caregiver in healthcare, it is always important to put yourself into the patient’s shoes. What if this were you? What if this were your mother? Always treat the patient as you would like for your family to be treated- or like you would like to be treated, yourself. Always be an advocate- just because you understand doesn’t mean they do. Informed consent was a big deal in this book, and it is a big part of the mistake that we do not want to be duplicated. It is important to talk through every diagnosis, every treatment, every procedure, until they understand. It is good practice to make sure that they can reiterate and explain it back to you. Informed consent is not only a form to be signed- it is peace of mind for both the caregiver and the patient.

Conclusion

In The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Rebecca Skloot goes into detail regarding Henrietta and her family’s life in order to tell a story apart from the story that was currently understood as conveyed by science- the story of the HeLa cell. By separating the story of the HeLa cell from the story of the Lacks family, Skloot effectively conveys the ramifications of the HeLa cells’ scientific contributions and commercialization on the Lacks family. Rebecca Skloot’s portrayal of Henrietta Lacks and her family may have been intense, but that intensity was key in conveying the central idea of the abhorrent treatment of the Lacks family by the medical and scientific community. This book was meant as a lesson, and I hope that the whole field hears it loud and clear.

    References

How Managers Can Encourage Ethical Behavior. (nd). Lumen Learning: Principles of Management. Retrieved March 8, 2020 from: https://courses.lumenlearning.com/wm-principlesofmanagement/chapter/how-managers-can-encourage-ethical-behavior/

Lantos, J. D. (2016). Thirteen Ways of Looking at Henrietta Lacks. Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, 59(2), 228-233. Retrieved from https://search-proquest-com.contentproxy.phoenix.edu/docview/1876059666?accountid=35812

Podgorski, D. (2016). Creative Journalism: American Race Politics, Perspective, and Shifting Culture in The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. The Gemsbok. Retrieved from: https://thegemsbok.com/art-reviews-and-articles/tuesday-tome-immortal-life-henrietta-lacks-rebecca-skloot/

Skloot, R (2011.) The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. New York, NY: Broadway Books

Truffaut-Wong, O. (2017). What Does the Lacks Family Think Of 'The Immortal Life Of Henrietta Lacks'? The Movie Portrays Their Heartbreaking Story. Bustle. Retrieved from: https://www.bustle.com/p/what-does-the-lacks-family-think-of-the-immortal-life-of-henrietta-lacks-the-movie-portrays-their-heartbreaking-story-51712

[pineaberry]

What a Difference Ten Months Makes

Or as @sunsetofdoom called it: HIGH-QUALITY HAND PORN.

This was inspired by the fact that I’ve rolled a new Jedi Consular and we finally reached Balmorra. The entire time I was on that planet I felt so bad for killing all these Imps and essentially blowing up Sobrik. The Consular storyline takes place about ten months after Quinn left Balmorra, so my precious bae is safe but STILL! I FEEL SO GUILTY!

Tagging @a-mustache-named-doc or she’ll never let me live it down!

Anywhoodles, here’s some hand porn.

Captain Malavai Quinn, Second Grade serving under… no strike that. Serving directly under newly appointed Lord of the Sith, Tremas Cidran, informs the Imperial Military and Intelligence Services that one Republic General Karastace Gonn has been executed along with his republic collaborators. Addendum: Imperial Agent Fawste was deemed …

Quinn paused as he thought about how to properly word the interaction. The holonet news droned in the background as he worked, he found that it was the easiest way to absorb knowledge subconsciously. He stared at his report as the announcer provided a step by step breakdown of the Rakghoul plague ravaging Hutta. It was nothing he didn’t already know, but no doubt the slug overlords would be complaining loudly to anyone willing to listen.

“... all Imperial transports to Hutta have been suspended. Any vessel departing Hutta’s moon, Nar Shaddaa are currently being scanned and monitored. Imperial Customs reports recently locating and dismantling a criminal ring smuggling runaway slaves, but have found no sign of the Rakghoul virus within Imperial spaceports. The stolen property has been quarantined for their own protection and will be returned to their rightful owners...”

Well that had been idiotic. Smuggling slaves through a customs port already on high alert demonstrated a lack of foresight that bordered on the idiotic. He made a mental note to research alternatives to cross-faction holdings where a truce was in place. It was always good to have options. He’d heard rumors about a new planet called Voss...

Quinn shook his head and focused his thoughts back to the events of the previous days. Following the direction of Darth Baras, Lord Tremas had arrived on Nar Shaddaa to head off a double agent in their midst. By all rights the Chiss was a traitor, he had threatened countless lives in the Empire, yet Lord Tremas had shown him mercy and spared his life along with his co-conspirators. Quinn’s eyes narrowed in contempt.

The Ascendancy joining the Republic. Preposterous. As though the Republic would have any sort of appreciation for Chiss hierarchy and protocol.

His fingertips tapped the edge of his datapad as he mentally ran a few scenarios. All the while the Holonet rambled on about the strategic value of Corellia and its devolution into a war of attrition.

The Chiss would have a revolution within the month and it would serve them right for introducing Republic ideals to the uninformed.

“...a terrorist Jedi sect calling themselves the Green Jedi have embedded themselves within Corellia causing heavy casualties and interfering with the Empire’s planetary peacekeeping efforts. Sith assassins were deployed this past month and effectively eliminated the threat. Twenty-five of the terrorists were apprehended alive during a raid on their training grounds. They have since been delivered to Dromund Kaas for trial and questioning.

“The Republic issued a statement earlier this week demanding the unconditional release of the criminals claiming they were underage. Jedi are notorious for their use of child soldiers on the field. Teenage Jedi have been reported decimating Imperial troops on the front lines. However, a spokesperson for Darth Vowrawn reports all twenty-five of the prisoners have since repented and offered valuable information in exchange for a opportunity to study on Korriban. I’m told we have holovideo of the reformed criminals renouncing their Republic citizenship and requesting asylum within the Empire...”

The Chiss traitors’ lives were forfeit. They’d proven to be untrustworthy agents meaning they were less than worthless. The entire unit was a liability, whatever use the Empire could squeeze out of them would have to be in the form of indentured servitude to Darth Baras.

Quinn’s lips twitched in a wry smile. He wasn’t sure if such a fate was indeed more merciful than death.

...Fawste has been deemed a critical asset for Lord Tremas’ ongoing mission. He and his men have been reassigned to classified positions under her Lordship’s service. Attached are Sith Personnel Transfer Forms 2556-A and notice of access revocation to their personnel files. Please note that the transfer forms and subsequent notice of revocation file are provided only as a courtesy to local command and not subject to appeal.

He gave the missive a cursory glance before sending it out to the appropriate channels. Another job well done. He allowed himself to stretch and lean back looking every bit like a smug manka cat draped over the central command chair. The bridge was quiet save for the holonet’s droning, and the stars sparkled just beyond the Fury’s viewport giving the enclosed bridge a sense of wide open space. It took him a moment to realize the light, airy emotion he was feeling was contentment. He caught his reflection on his datapad and noticed the dark circles under his eyes were gone, his face had filled out making him look less gaunt and half-starved than before. He realized the worry lines around his face had smoothed and he appeared- well he physically looked happy.

He glanced at the date. Ten months. Had it really been less than a year since he had left Balmorra? It felt like a lifetime ago. It was as though that entire decade had been a terrible nightmare that had ensnared him in a darkness that threatened to consume him.

Until she came into his life.

Her presence had been like a breath of fresh air within a tomb. Thoughts of Lord Tremas always filled him with strange emotions. Any other soldier would be thrilled to receive her attentions but he couldn’t help but feel unworthy. Whatever sordid affairs all the other imperials prided themselves in, Quinn felt that acting on his baser impulses to be conduct unbecoming an officer.

And yet, she always seemed to find a way to slip past his personal boundaries. From the very beginning she hadn’t been what he expected. On the field she was considerate to his limitations even going as far as to reprimand him when he pushed himself too far. She never punished him when things went wrong. She never indulged in the thrill of having him cower or cringed in fear of her. More often than naught, she asked for his opinion.

She was kind, and understanding, and loyal, and brilliant and... He would dare to say they were friends if it didn’t sound so incredibly ridiculous and pretentious of him to assume such a thing. He was her tactician, her strategist, her navigator and pilot… He had so many skills, so much to offer, and she provided him the opportunity to impress her with all of them. She could be the greatest Sith who ever lived...

And yet, she cooked for her crew. She shared her wealth and rewards with them. She never gave in to irrational bursts of violence. She sat up late at night and watched ridiculous melodramatic holos with Vette and now Jaesa. She listened patiently whenever his thoughts turned grim and never once betrayed him to the others…

Lord Tremas was a contradiction.

His fawning thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a last minute bulletin blaring from the holonet.

“We interrupt this report for a breaking news update. Preliminary reports from planet Balmorra indicate that Republic Jedi assassins working in collaboration with local terrorist cells have murdered the legitimate government causing planet-wide chaos and anarchy. Terrorist attacks on all Imperial holdings including the Balmorran Arms Factory have caused commanders to issue a planetary evacuation of all Imperial personnel. Currently, all infantry forces are regrouping in the capital city of Bin Prime for immediate extraction.

The first verified reports of heavy casualties have come in from the Imperial city of Sobrik, where Republic Terrorists deployed suicide bombers to disable the city’s artillery shield. Republic forces indiscriminately bombed Sobrik including the city’s spaceport, crippling any evacuation attempts. Sources on the ground report that as of 0900 local time, Republic terrorists and a cabal of local alien anarchists have begun executing innocent civilian survivors in the city square…”

Quinn stared transfixed as security footage of Sobrik filled the screen. The protective shield overhead was gone and buildings lay torn apart by carpet bombers. The streets were littered with the remnants of barricades and bodies of Imperials and Sith were strewn about. The same streets he had traversed for a decade were now gouged with burning craters. The image flickered and showed his old quarters torn asunder as though it were made of flimsiplast, its contents were charred and partially spilled onto the street like gutted entrails. As the holonet reporter spun the news into familiar propaganda, he caught a glimpse of a corpse he thought he recognized.

“…It is unknown if any personnel stationed in Sobrik survived the attack. A spokesman for Darth Marr could not be reached for comment but Imperial Military Communications has informed us the Empire has no plans to evacuate Balmorra airspace. The Imperial fleet will no doubt begin coordination for a counter-strike against the Republic Terrorists in retaliation for their illegal campaign-”

Malavai turned off the holo unwilling to hear any more. The display once again showed a passive map of the known galaxy, but his face was pale as he stared out at the stars without actually seeing them.

Sobrik had fallen. It shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t important. Imperial Cities fell and were reclaimed all the time, it was a part of war. For Emperor’s sake, he didn't even LIKE Sobrik. The city had been little more than a cage, or an experiment in cruelty designed to drive him insane. He’d moved past it, he had been lifted away from such a pedantic fate.

Memories rose unbidden as he recalled his torturous existence. Devoid of meaning, of purpose, he had trudged along through the years. More than once he had seriously considered the possibility of just ending it either by swallowing a blaster bolt or walking into a firefight with no intention of walking out. Denied the smallest shred of hope, Quinn had all but given up trying to reach for anything better. His mind had clawed for anything to stall the inevitable decay that surrounded him. In an attempt to fight off the stagnation he had memorized every step of the city. Every hidden corner, every shadow, every flicker of the shield above; he knew it all by heart. His memories of the oversized cage became laced with the grainy images of the city destroyed.

He got to his feet and put distance between himself and the holoterminal as though that would somehow save him from the crippling what-ifs tormenting him. He needed… something. A bottle of alcohol, a stim or five, at this point he was desperate enough for spice, anything to dull the pounding in his head.

Would he have been obliterated in the initial carpet bombing? After everything the universe had put him through, would it have granted him a quick, painless death or would he have had to die on the barricades? Would he have had to hold the line as smoke, ash and blood filled his lungs? Would he have died by an enemy’s blaster shot, or at the tip of a Jedi’s lightsaber or merely wounded and crippled? Would he have died on his feet? Or would he have suffered the indignity of having his his half-dead body dragged and mutilated him in front of an audience?

Nausea filled him at the thought. His entire life would have added up to another crimson smear on the Balmorran dirt.

Had the men he served with escaped, or had they been forced to endure the humiliation of siege and defeat before death? The faces and names of them all echoed around him, he hadn’t realized he memorized them all… Gods, even Jillins…

Guilt assailed him. Was he at fault? He’d been lenient with them, well, one particularly misguided idiot anyway. Had that snowballed into a credible threat? Had his foolish mercy and sentiment clouded his foresight to the Empire’s detriment? If he was not directly responsible, then indirectly. He’d allowed a resistance Doctor to learn Sobrik security protocols. He’d walked almost the entirety of the officer’s compound and then… he’d let him live. All that knowledge had been used against the Empire, he just knew it.

“Captain, are you well?”

He blinked and realized he had walked straight to his Lordship’s quarters. She was sitting at her work table tinkering with her lightsabers but had turned her full attention to him. Quinn stared at her unsure as to why he had made his way to her door and even less certain about how to explain himself. The silence drew on and he cleared his throat hoping it would somehow loosen his tongue.

“I thought… t-to inform you… Balmorra has fallen. Sobrik has been destroyed,” he managed to stammer out. Her piercing dark blue eyes seemed to stare into his very soul and he looked down unable to hold her gaze for long.

“Captain Quinn, are you well?”

She repeated the question slowly as though to get him to focus on what she was asking. All at once he felt a strange, irrational reluctance to answer. Of course he was fine! He was safe, millions of miles away from Balmorra. He was no longer enslaved to the place and for once his life was finally going right. He had a future, a career, a place where he belonged. He had never been in a better situation than this! There was no reason to lose his nerve! No reason to break down in front of the only person in the universe who didn’t think he was a complete and utter failure!

Why had he come here? What ruinous instinct had brought him here to expose the very fabric of his weakness before her?

His ice cold hands clenched to keep them from shaking and the leather of the gloves creaked with the motion. He steeled his resolve and looked up at her as he projected the image of a calm and collected Imperial Officer. He clasped his hands before him as he stood at parade rest, as though completely unfazed by the daily grind of running a war.

“It is a blow to our presence in the system, but I believe… Military command has things well at hand. Sobri- Balmorra is a loss but strategically the Empire can-”

His voice trailed off the moment she touched his hands. Whatever lip service he’d been about to give the military suddenly died in his throat.

She knew.

White-hot shame washed over him. Damn it all, of course she knew. She always knew. Tremas was a Sith, she’d have to be blind and dimwitted not to know.

“Quinn, are you well?”

He shut his eyes as his blood pounded too loudly in his ears. He felt naked and exposed under her perceptive gaze. He braced himself for ridicule or disdain and he simply nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak but she then brought his clenched fists up and began to coax them to open. He felt her warm fingertips on his bare wrists and his trembling fingers unlocked.

“Malavai, are you well?”

Delicate touches from calloused fingertips ghosted over his skin and his shaking hands instinctively clung to hers. Why was she asking? Why did it matter? Why wouldn’t she just dismiss him so he could have a nice quiet breakdown in private? His mind continued to resist, but deep down he knew the answer to all those questions. She asked because he mattered to her. Tremas asked because she cared about him. It was an impossible thought that he could not reconcile with the realities of the Empire’s hierarchy.

“No, my lord. I… I don’t think I am,” he finally confessed barely above a whisper. A lifetime of discipline forced him to brace himself awaiting punishment for his admission. It was a punishment that would never come.

In slow motions, she removed one of his gloves a finger at a time. Her warm hands cradled his ice-cold skin, slowly encouraging his circulation to flow. She held his trembling hand without judgement or scorn and his composure threatened to crack under the strain of his emotions.

He felt himself being led further into her quarters as the door closed behind him. Ironically the moment he was alone with her, a weight lifted from him. Lord Tremas was Sith, she should inspire fear and awe from mere humans like himself. But here alone with her, all he could feel was safe. It would have been pointless to compare himself to her. Of course she was stronger, faster, smarter, better than him. In her presence, he was allowed to be weak and irrational and foolish and…

“You’re brave.” Her voice silenced his insolent thoughts as she lifted his other gloved hand and carefully peeled back the soft leather so she could hold his hand. Her skin was so warm against his, it penetrated and thawed the ice that had settled in his bones. “You’re brilliant. You’re strong.”

“All things I feel I’m currently lacking, my lord,” he demurred but Quinn couldn’t deny her words had a settling effect on his emotions. The chaotic storm was growing ever more distant as his attention was focused on the Sith Lord gently kneading warmth back into his fingertips.

“You feel as though you could have been one of those soldiers,” she murmured and Quinn took a ragged breath.

“There was nothing- There is nothing special about me, my Lord. It has never been lost on me that my chrono ran out over ten years ago. I live, I continue to live due to your kindness and mercy,” he said as he focused on how good it felt to he have her hands around his. At his words Tremas’ face lit up with a gentle smile. A pleasant haze filled his thoughts and he wondered why he had ever believed Tremas would mock him.

“You always think so poorly of yourself, but you were wasted on that post,” she reassured him as she reached out to touch his face. He took it as a sign that the usual protocol between them was temporarily suspended. His hazy blue eyes blinked slowly as the worries continued to melt away. By now he realized she was actively settling his apprehension.

“You always think so highly of me, my lord… I strive to… strive to...” Quinn wavered as his eyes closed and he slumped forward into her arms. He sighed as he hugged her weakly and buried his nose in her hair. Distantly he felt as she rubbed his back and soothed away the remains of his panic attack.

“You're incapable of disappointing me, Malavai.”

A shuddering sigh spilled from his lips.

“I’m sorry… It shouldn’t matter... It doesn't matter… but I should have done… more… and I cannot shake the feeling...”

“You are not to blame for Sobrik’s fall. You matter Malavai. Stay tonight, I’ll prove it to you.”

[ghost-chance]

Blocked : Hair

Ghost is gone. Cold's gone. There's supposed to be no one else in the Thomas-Chance house now except for Donnie...but the gruesome discovery in the parlor makes him worry he's not alone, but trapped with a sick killer.

         Hey there, Ladies and Gents! Ghost here with a special announcement. "Blocked" now has an official playlist! You can find it on Spotify by way of the link here; in between chapters of the story, you can get your fix by listening to music related to this crack-tastic story, and you can also find other story-related playlists on the same profile. Hope to see y'all soon, and hope y'all're havin' a great March!      

                 The official "Blocked" playlist on Spotify    

                    Hair

It came out of nowhere. At least, Donnie felt, he was sure he never saw it coming. Something in the small house in the suburbs was different and he wasn't sure what it was, or what it meant. All he knew for certain were a few seemingly unrelated things.

Fact: Cold left for his manufacturing job early, intent on getting his taxes done beforehand. Fact: Ghost endured a repetitive headache-bordering-on-migraine every single day for the last two-and-a-half weeks which no medication or rest improved. Fact: Ghost stormed out without fanfare that morning, hair bound into a single meticulously woven braid, with only a rather cantankerous note stating "I'll be back later, don't blow anything up." Finally, the final fact: there was a stranger in the house—a very heavyset stranger with short, wavy brown hair cut neatly just above her shoulders—a stranger who reeked of some overly expensive salon chemicals and putrid cigar smoke and seemed intent on raiding Ghost's tea stash.

Worried, confused, and increasingly alarmed, Donnie edged nearer to the kitchen in hopes of catching a glimpse of the stranger's face. As she snatched the whistling tea kettle off the stove and poured boiling water over her choice teabag—by the scent of it, an expensive brand of oolong Ghost saved for special occasions and major SHTF moments—the mutant crept past the kitchen to the living room. It hadn't escaped his notice that the stranger brought something with her, a familiar bottle of fine Scotch whisky. Fresh and unopened, the bottle waited on the kitchen counter still cluttered from Cold's rushed pre-work lunch-making.

In the dark, silent parlor, Ghost's cellphone waited helpfully on the scuffed coffee table amidst Missouri Conservationist magazines and junk-mail, probably forgotten…and it wasn't alone. Something sat beside it—something small and dark, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. The bag drew Donnie, an ominous prickle creeping along the tender scales at the back of his neck. Repeatedly glancing back to the kitchen and the stranger savoring his host's fanciest tea, he reached out for the bag. His lungs refused to cooperate as he carefully untied the fastened handles, unwrapping the contents slowly so as to avoid detection.

Ghost sighed wearily, staring down into the Celadon hued tea filling her favorite teacup. Normally she saved the Revolution Blackberry Jasmine Oolong—and the vintage china cup decked with blooming herbs—for special occasions or moments when she was in dire need of a mental vacation, but after that afternoon, she absolutely needed the moment. After all, no matter how psychotic her father became in public, the commercials lie—spouting "Calgon, take me away!" never accomplished anything more than earning her strange looks.

Her father…as if it could ever be anything else. This time, he hadn't thrown any punches or toddler-tantrums…instead he proceeded to make some really off-color remarks about the young man who waited their table—a rather attractive black gentleman with unusual bright blue eyes. Normally, even her father wouldn't bat an eye over the server but the blue eyes completely disabled his brain-to-mouth filter and tore him away from shooting scowls at the lesbian couple a table away.

Ghost shook her head, scowling down at the memory. Honestly, there was enough unrest in the country as it was without her father being a bigoted cad. Sane and civilized men didn't bitch in public about someone's eyes being 'freakier than a rug-munching ninny,' much less at full volume. Years before, he wouldn't have said anything like it either…alas, ever since the knock on his noggin, her father was increasingly prone to bigotry, judgmental behavior, and thoughtless, cringe-worthy rants. Fortunately, Ghost's parents raised her correctly before her father became a cad…and because of that, she excused herself to the ladies' on the way out, sought out the server then the lesbian couple, apologized for her father's off-color remarks, and personally paid for the ladies' meals and added to the meager tip the elder left for his own meal…all that, and they hadn't even heard him.

Now, frustrated and stinking of her father's cheap cigars but finally free of the weight on her shoulders, she stood in her small, cluttered kitchen, hopeful for at least a short break from reality—just a few minutes to commune with her tea and become more human again before she wound up biting some poor sucker's head off! Apparently, someone up there found this want completely unreasonable and interfered: a blood-curdling shriek rang out in the supposedly empty parlor. She nearly dropped the tea cup in her hurry to arm herself for what she nightmare might find.

The bag lay open, the macabre trophy inside half-spilled onto the table. Paralyzed with fear and dread, Donnie cowered in the corner, too afraid to even take his eyes off of it. Without warning the stranger appeared in the doorway, bespectacled blue-green eyes wild, one hand clutching a lit lighter and the other a can of bug spray. Primed to fry the supposed home invader with her improvised flamethrower, she froze in the doorway and searched the parlor to no avail. The moment she registered Donnie and followed his gaze to the bag on the table, everything became clear.

"What the flyin' fuck, Donnie?" she spouted in a surprisingly familiar voice and accent. "Ya had me thinkin' someone was gettin' murdered!" Hazel eyes fixed on her, their owner forcing a noisy swallow and glancing around frantically for something he could use as a weapon.

"Who are you?!" he demanded shrilly. "What've you done with Ghost?! Why do you have her hair?!" The woman blinked in surprise, tilted her head in confusion, then, clearly coming to the conclusion that he was serious, she set down her cargo and strode over to the table. Without a single word, she gathered her hair into a stumpy bundle with one hand and held the severed foot-and-a-half braid up to her neck with the other, visibly waiting for him to connect the dots. Sure enough, blinking and staring, he did just that. "Wha…Ghost? That's you? What—what happened?"

"Nothin' out'a the ordinary," Ghost explained with a shrug and passed him a folded up sheet of paper from the bag the braid came out of. "I've got really thick hair—when it gets too long, I get headaches from it, so when I had a headache for a week straight I knew it was time to get it all lopped off again." Donnie looked over the paper in silent bemusement. "Here," Ghost smirked tossing the braid into his lap. "Have a dead animal." To her disappointment, he didn't even notice much less jump and squeal.

"Locks…of Love?" he read aloud slowly then met her eyes. "You grow your hair out...so you can donate it?"

"Every time," she admitted awkwardly, embarrassed by the discussion. She wasn't normally one to toot her own horn—she believed when you tell others of your good deeds, it lessens the impact of that good deed. Donnie, however, wanted answers, and there was no point in hiding what was obvious. "They make wigs for kids who lose their hair from cancer, an' what they can't use, they sell to raise money for donation. I'm lazy 'bout getting' my hair cut, an' it's not like that hair's doin' any good goin' in the rubbish, right?"

It had absolutely nothing to do with losing relatives to cancer, nothing to do with Uncle Bob's ongoing losing battle with cancer, and even more nothing to do with a certain childhood classmate who died of leukemia. No, it had nothing to do with any of those sob-stories, or at least, so she told herself. After all, she couldn't focus on the reason behind the habit—the reason she continually grew out her hair, struggled and fought to keep it long and healthy, cursed it in one moment and coddled it the next, all to hack it all off and pay postage to have it shipped away. She couldn't focus on the painful truths or she'd go mad from hurt. How could she appreciate a well-executed side-braid while recalling the bald heads of those she lost to cancer? Denial wasn't a healthy reaction to anything, but it certainly could improve one's sense of humor.

"I…guess not," Donnie mumbled, wincing as he finally noticed the braid draped over one crossed thigh. His snout a little crinkled from awkward disgust, he lifted the braid to pass it back to her only to startle. In visible disbelief he hefted the braided length calculating its weight. "Holy heck—this thing must weigh two-point-fifty-seven pounds!"

"Try three," Ghost countered with a shrug, pretending she wasn't inwardly girly-squealing over his nerdy proclamation. Damn, that turtle was tempting. "Stylist weighed it. I have stupid-thick hair. Used to be worse, too—used to be I had to have my hair thinned out regularly. Now I'm gettin' old an' it's gettin' thinner but the weight's still enough to give me headaches. Just leave the rodent on the table, I'll mail it later."

Without another backward glance, she strode back into the kitchen; sure enough, another pair of feet softly padded after her, bringing a dorky grin to her face. No, she reminded herself firmly, no touchie! He's taken and so're you! She tried to physically shake off the unwelcome thoughts—and urges, unfortunately—and as so often before, wound up reaching for the only thing that made sense in those moments.

Donnie watched silently as Ghost drained the last of her tea, rinsed her cup, and cracked open the brand new bottle of Scotch to pour herself a couple fingers' worth. Although the change startled him, he was glad for it—in moments like this, savoring her whisky with an almost serene smile that was out of place on her face, she looked so much like Amber it hurt. At least with her hair short she couldn't keep it braided…at least without the braids, she might not resemble Amber so closely and it mightn't hurt so much to see her.

Monday morning—the most irritating of all weekdays, and for Donnie, the day he had to endure the most bitching from Cold about having to work. Honestly, the mutant thought with tight lips, he'd love to be able to work—to contribute to this odd little family who let him stay with them without question. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim…it was either do home repairs for the blind elderly lady next door and risk getting seen by the rest of the neighborhood or assist Ghost with their online sales. At least with him managing the card sales she could somewhat focus on her novel…and getting him home. So far, neither was getting anywhere.

An ominous creaking noise echoed down the dark hallway; a bolt of white and ginger followed—Woozle taking off like a bat out of hell with panic in his copper orange eyes. "Lil' Trai'er," a sleep-graveled voice reprimanded the spastic feline then paused for a loud yawn. "Keep pushin' it, yer stanky ass's due fer a bath." Out of the corner of his eye, Donnie caught sight of something out of his worst nightmares.

Donnie's startled yelp drew a dirty glare from Ghost—a glare that seemed unusually poisonous peeking through the sleep-mussed hair sticking out in every direction. "Short hair don't care," she grumbled at the frozen mutant and shuffled over to the coffee pot. "Suck it."

     WORDS:  

So're - So are

Trai'er - sleep-slurred 'Traitor'

Yer stanky ass's due fer a bath! - Your smelly ass is due for a bath! Yes, we bathe our cats a few times yearly - they're both indoor-only but they're incredibly lazy about grooming and Woozle gets dandruff if he's not regularly conditioned. They're both due for a dip but we're waiting for warmer weather...currently we've hit the middle of the Spring rainy season and we're too busy drowning to bathe the butts.

     Notes       

So. Let's just get this out of the way: Yes, I ended up hacking off almost all my hair recently because it was heavy enough to give me headaches again ALREADY. I endured a constant headache that lasted over a week - actually about a week-and-a-half - and decided the haircut just couldn’t wait any longer. Usually I have it in two braids when it get it cut off - last time they were both over a foot long - but this time it was about a foot in a single braid. For those not accustomed to long hair, dual-braids tend to be longer than single braids, sometimes almost twice as long, because they’re thinner. For that reason, while the single braid was only about a foot long, in twin braids, my hair was past my waist...and it was HEAVY.

Also, yes, the home-invasion bit IS fiction imitating reality...we actually live in an apartment complex and keeping firearms in the home wouldn't be safe. Therefore, anytime I start feeling like someone unwelcome has made it inside I go lighter-and-aerosol to torch their asses. Fortunately it's usually just Woozle being a creeper. ;D

[tanoraqui]

Pre-(Me Reading) Oathbringer Speculation

So…Oarhbringer theories…I’ve been playing spoilers chicken but I think I’ve remained mostly clean, so this is based almost entirely on just WoK and WoR, +Edgedancer. Also I may have looked at who gets POV chapters.

Character Stuff

Dalinar is presently leader of the new would-be Knights Radiant, but based on the attributes associated with their Orders/heralds, that job should be Kaladin’s, with Dalinar more…advising? Which works for both their character arcs:

Kaladin needs to get his head out of his ass, not just ease up on his hatred of lighteyes but also start seeing the larger picture BEFORE he fucks it up, not after (see: swerving with bridge, challenging Amaram.) also, Windrunnere are known for protecting and leadership - so I bet his next vow will be about that. Good opportunity for it as he heads to Kholin, where the darkeyes’ revolution of his dreams seems to be starting. After Elhokar in WoR, he won’t just throw in with the uprising, but you know he’ll want to.

I’ve also seen a spoiler that he may end up, at least briefly, with the Parshendi who fled rather than take Stormform? Pls be kind to them, Kaladin. They need it.

Dalinar, meanwhile, needs to figure out how to let go of power. Shallan (I think it was Shallan) was right: he’s here to gather the new Radiants, not lead them. Not forever, at least. Between the book flap and some stronger spoilers, I know the politics are going international now, as Dalinar tries to rally the whole world, and fucks it up a little - good. I wonder if the second vow of the Bondsmiths is something like, “I will unite people, even if I am not in the lead”? “Even at cost to myself"?

P.S. Gonna find out about Dalinar's wife this book! Gonna find out what deal he made with the Nightwatcher (who is definitely Cultivation-based)! Should learn more about the Old Magic with that, and Cultivation, who frankly I suspect is behind the very warm feeling from that last, golden dream Dalinar had at the end of WoR!

The book flap says Dalinar must “confront the past” and the back says he “seeks the past. That which was abandoned. That which he must not learn. For those secrets will crush him as they did the Knights who came before.” + Amaram’s obsession with Talenal and my mild spoilers-given knowledge that we’re getting a bit more about the Heralds this book, I bet Dalinar isn’t just confronting his own past re: his forgotten wife, but also

a) the fact that 9/10 Heralds, now held as idols, just walked away from their sworn duty

b) the realization of this on the part of the Knights Radiant was the reason for the Recreance. “If the best can’t/won’t do it, why should we?” sort of thing. And so our heroes will have to choose for themselves...

[hint: “Someone has to start...We have to be better than them.”]

Shallan…Her brothers will arrive, which will require her to confront how much she’s changed since she left home, but I think her story this tome will be relatively character development-light, plot/worldbuilding-solving-heavy.

Adolin: The first time I read these books, I said Adolin is poised for an interesting 3rd book, and I stand by that. He CAN'T tell his father what he did; it would put Dalinar and his rule-following honor in an impossible position. But the guilt will stew, and he'll have to deal with the consequences, and incidentally, this is probably the first time in Adolin's life that he's so overshadowed? Not just his cousin the king and his father the Blackthorn, but his father - and fiancée, and ex-bodyguard, and even his baby brother the Knights Radiant? I'd like to see him struggle with that.

I'd also like to see him remain NOT a Knight Radiant, not yet at least, but maybe pick up Talenel'a Honorblade and join in the fun that way. That's probably the best Order For him anyway, the resolute, dependable fighters.

(A part of me is terrified of an endgame where Adolin is Odium's Champion. Foreshadowed by his dueling prowess, and his...periodic tendency towards rashness and rage.)

Less Main Characters:

Szeth!! I'm gonna be honest: all I want out of this book is for some Szeth POV where he's talking with Nightblood and it has the vibe of a buddy cop comedy. All I want. Also, I guess he's going to go judge Shinovar [that sounds so pretentious; good grief, Nale], and I hope for his own sake that he's merciful about it. I think he will be. He doesn't want to kill, even if they were in denial and it resulted in years of torment for him and the world.

Renarin will hopefully get a little more attention, but I think still no POV? So not much attention. (I WANNA MEET REN’S SPREN SO BAD.) Hopefully he can get a little confidence. 

I suspect his seizures are actually due to his Truthwatcher abiliies somehow - maybe because he’s been resisting them? Or they just always go hand in hand, but will get more manageable? Which pisses me off tbh, bc it’s been so great having Kaladin’s depression and Shallan’s inclination to cope with trauma by wildly disassociating be mostly unrelated to their powers, just part of who they are as people (more related in Shallan, but still it’s like...who she is? And that was a perfectly natural reaction to trauma, and treated as such.) 

But the fact that Lopen’s arm started growing back, and Renarin stopped needing his glasses, says Stormlight heals major, old, and chronic illnesses/injuries/physical problems, which means imo that Sanderson is not treating physical disability with the same grace he gave mental. Maybe the seizures will continue with the visions they probably accompany, and it’s just something Truthwatchers have to deal with - that could be okay. Maybe it’s chronic, and if he loses access to Stormlight, they’ll return? Kaladin’s depression acts a bit like that, which makes sense because that IS due to real physical cause i.e. chemical imbalance, which maybe the Stormlight is fixing temporarily but these kids’ bodies are still set up just a bit wrong, and that’s not something that can be “fixed”...that’d be nice...

(This got away from character-related theories, sorry.)

While I’m on the subject of Representation in Fiction: GIVE SHALLAN SOME FEMALE FRIENDS. ALSO MORE RECURRING FEMALE POV CHARACTERS, CONSIDERING...JUST LOOK AT THAT LIST UP THERE. 1 WOMAN, 3 MEN. C’mooonnn 

Speaking of which: My Wife If Only She'd Have Me, Jasnah Motherfucking Kholin had better come tell her actual mother that she's alive tbh, or at least send word, because Navani being forlorn to the point of illogic is, um, devastating. But also I will gladly die for the snark-filled adventures of Jasnah and Wit, so...

I know she has at least one POV chapter and I'm so excited. Only in one section, though, so alas we won't get much

Let Jasnah Have A Full Character Arc 2k18

Tentative guess that the wall she's soulcasting up on the cover is in Kholinar? Though also, who the hell knows, she and Wit could go anywhere. I ship it, y’all.

Taravangian has a recurring POV this book, which I assume is true recurring and not just, like, one chapter per section. Probably his arc will involve a growing uncertainty, as reality diverges further from the Diagram and unifying the world is harder than he thought, particularly with Dalinar as competition. (Note: Dalinar does need to learn to surrender power, but...not to this guy. He’s doing a LOT of wrong things for right reasons, and a) I disagree with that personally, and more importantly b) the morals of this series disagree with that.)

He believes his intelligence is the Nightmother’s boon and his compassion is the curse, and I bet either he’s got that backwards or they’re BOTH the curse and his desired “capacity” will manifest as, like, being at the right place in the right moment, five books from now.

Venli is worth mentioning, because she has a POV every or nearly every Interlude and I thus expect she’s the Traitor named by archetype on the back of the book. I don’t know how she took stormform before telling Eshonai about it, without anyone else noticing, but she clearly did. And the effect clearly sticks, even once a Listener changes back to another form...

Worldbuilding/Plot Theories:

Quick rundown of assorted factions/secret societies, as I understand:

Galivar: Started receiving same Honor Dream Voicemails as Dalinr, believed ‘em. 

Goals: Return the Listeners’ gods (did he KNOW that meant Odium? I’m guessing not, bc he told Taravangian they needed to save the world.

Resources: 1 trapped Voidspren, acquired ?????

The Diagram: Tipped off to nigh Desolation by Galivar, asked Nightmother for “capacity” to stop it, got seesawing intelligence/empathy.

Goals: Unify world under his rule, with violence and trickery if necessary, to brace against Desolation

Resources: Diagram, Death Rattles, widespread, free-ish agents in unknown locations. Significant members: Taravangian (head), Moash (confused).

Sons of Honor: Worship Heralds?

Goals: Sought return of Voidbringers in order to prompt return of Radiants and more importantly Heralds, who will return and...restore honor and piety and all that jazz?

Resources: Mostly unknown, but some scholarship. Significant members: Restares (head, not yet met), Amaram, currently in custody of Talenal but not his Blade

Ghostbloods: What do these people even want?

Goals: Urithiru; knowledge there probably. Didn’t want Jasnah spreading knowledge of Voidbringers? Or just didn’t want her to beat them to the city?

Resources: Substantial. Significant members: Thaidakar (head, not yet met), Mraize, Masked Woman [Parshendi?], Shallan, Halaran (possibly not fully.) Davars owe them money.

Envisigiants: Nice, useless cult or bigger than Teft knew? Don’t SEEM related to any of the above in goals.

In conclusion: man, fuck if I know. 

Um. I actually feel very lacking in plot or worldbuilding theories right now. I think most of them slipped into the character stuff anyway.

Either “Zahel” LOST his talking murdersword (whom I love), or he GAVE IT AWAY, and either way, honestly, what a dipshit and also where hte fuck is Vivenna and how did they get here?? Worldhopping obviously but there was no sign anyone in Warbreaker (aside from Hoid ofc) knew about that, so...???

I think the Aimians, with their mild shapeshifting, must be related to the Parshendi as well (I did look up the Horneaters.) And the...whatever sort of person Lift met in Edgedancer. I literally am not sure whether it’s spoilers or just background Cosmere lore that humans re not native to this planet, though they’ve been here for millennia, but I bet all the shapeshifting species are native. 

Obvious but worth saying: the Nightmother is to Cultivation as the Stormfather is to Honor, probably? More or less?

Big point of confusion, actually: Honor is dead, but I don’t think Cultivation is? Yet she’s in the same vicinity as Odium, and has been for millennia. Hiding? Hiding really well? Maybe voluntarily mostly broke herself up into spren?

Note: the Nightmother’s boons and curses appear to be mostly cerebral, matters of perception or ability, though sometimes something like a bolt of cloth. This is presumably because she’s operating in mostly the Cognitive Realm. (Lift’s boon, of course, is explicitly a...blending of Realms.) (Or possibly Lift’s Curse? You know, the whole Boon/Curse dichotomy is almost certainly a failure of human perception.)

In WoK, it sounded like Elhokar was being followed by the same sort of pattern-headed Cryptics as Shallan, but then they didn’t like being around Kaladin and that worries me, especially with Amaram (sketchy) being followed by shadows at the end of WoR. I can see Cryptics simply not liking Windrunners tbh, but...there are darker spren around, now.

The reason this Desolation seems to be starting differently than previous ones is probably a combination of the particularly long wait between them +...is it cruel of me to hope it really IS partly Wit’s fault. In interfering. I’m sure he’ll help, but you know he’s going to break something eventually.

No, it’s probably that the Oathpact is weak, on account of just one true Herald left, and Odium is preparing to blow this popstand.

The first 5 books will end with the Desolation REALLY starting, and the gap will cover the new Knights Radiant orders settling into their new roles, people dying all over but it still could be worse, etc.

Series Endgame things: I think both that we’re going to need 10 new Heralds, one per Order, AND that Odium is going o be released back into the greater Cosmere, and I’m not sure how both those things will happen but I swear they will.  

If I know absolutely anything about Brandon Sanderson’s writing habits, someday a man matching Spook’s description is going to appear in a Stormlight Archive book, inevitably speaking Eastern Empire street slang, and let me tell you, I am going to scream aloud. I think we’ll get Spook before Kelsier, though they might arrive together.

Worst comes to worst, I would watch an entire film of everyone else being dead but Odium furiously chasing Kelsier around the universe, playing whack-a-mole because this single asshole just will not stay dead. 

[rockofeye]

Unmasking

I asked my mother what the spirits think of current events in the US. I asked her this in her kitchen, while she cooked and hovered over a variety of pans bubbling at full capacity on the stove. The act of creating and sustaining through every day process is part of her gifts in this life, and she lifts us up through this quiet, backstage work.

“I don’t know,” she says with a wooden spoon in her hand. “I haven’t asked them.” 

I haven’t either, at least not directly. I have sat with them and asked ‘why’ over and over, though. Why are people like this? Why has this country prospered for so long on a foundation of genocide, enslavement, torture, and systemic inequality and racism? Why don’t they do something?

They are quiet in response, in the same way that they were quiet around the miscarriage of an election in November 2017. In the aftermath of the delivery of fascism to the highest seat in government, I took as big a step back from my utter rage and disappointment and asked the spirits why they were quiet. I spent a lot of time meditating on this and trying to see the larger picture for all the piles of stinking bullshit in the frame.

In the end, I think that this is not their problem to solve. It is not a situation that they have created--we are responsible for this in a myriad of ways and, while they grieve our suffering and the loss of lives associated with the addressing of a broken and unjust framework, we made this mess and we must clean it up. We bear responsibility and we must carry it. That is not to say that they are not with us in this--they are--but the solutions must come from our hands.

The history of vodou reflects this expectation of responsibility. It only takes a glance at Bwa Kayiman to see this particular truth. That rite and that beginning was not about the spirits swooping in to save their people, but was the people crying out that they could not take any more and that something had to change. It was only then that the spirits came to the table and offered a solution--do all these things and we will assure your success. An agreement was made and, after thirteen years (a not insignificant number) of bloody struggle, the people and the spirits were successful in liberating the island and ejecting the imperalist colonizers.

I don’t know that White America is at that point. Too many white people are surprised by the sudden exposure of the racist foundation of the United States and the systems that have both nurtured white supremacy, white nationalism, and fascism, and allowed those things to flourish in ways that white folks have refused to look at for a very long time. White folks have been comfortable with these systems and situations because we benefit from them each and every day, in every possible way. Even vodou reflects that--people finding out that I am involved in vodou will often be regarded as quaint or edgy or as me taking a walk on the wild side, whereas a Haitian or other person of color will be regarded as threatening or evil or not to be trusted.

As a priest, I can’t sit and ask my spirits what to do. That’s not what I was made for. Instead, I have to suit up and show up and know that they will have my back. That means a literal putting on of the boots and heading into the fray. When the Nazis arrive in my city this weekend for their masturbatory endeavor aimed at terrorizing people of color, Jewish folks, followers of Islam, LGBTQ+ folks, people with disabilities, women, and anyone who does not fit their perfect Aryan spankbank material, under the guise of ‘free speech’, I will be there as a visible reminder that this white person rejects any ideology that elevates whiteness by crushing and terrorizing others and that this systems of inequality in the US must be dismantled at any cost. I will support the immediate consequences to delivering hate messages and physical intimidation, and, if given the chance, I will punch a Nazi in the fucking face.

At the same time, I will pray protection on all those who show up to stand against fascism, white nationalism, and white supremacy, and especially for people of color who will be targeted above all. I will pray that the spirits of war, of revolution, of blood spilled, of a ravening thirst for destruction will deliver the righteous justice of the people upon the heads of those who seek to oppress, terrorize, and silence. I won’t pray for peace and will instead pray for a revolution that shakes the foundations of white supremacy until they crack and crumble to dust. I cannot do anything less.

In all of this, I continually return to my mother, a quiet and dignified woman who came to this country carrying the hope for a different life for her then-child and children to come. She left Haiti just after the Duvalier regime ended, having lived through state-sponsored terrorism and gaslighting. She immigrated at tremendous personal cause, leaving behind family and friends, some of whom will still not speak to her because of her departure. Once here, she began to work immediately and has not stopped since. She became fluent in her third language, earned three college degrees, raised three children on her own, and created the sort of community that draws people from all over the world to her door. She didn’t come here for any of this bullshit.

I have watched her instruct her natural daughter on how to behave if a Trump supporter should confront her. I have witnessed her tears after the election, and the fear of her daughter who has classmates who come to school in Make America Great Again hats. I have seen her worry about her son and what will happen to him out in a world where cops murder Black men and Nazis march in the streets. I love her, so how can I do anything but act?

I thank the spirits for the blessing of the unmasking of white supremacy in the United States in ways that cannot be ignored or dismissed by those who benefit from systems of inequality. I pray strength and protection upon the hands and heads of those who will not let white terrorism, supremacy, and nationalism go unanswered, and I pray as much safety as is possible for those who are targeted by these white terrorists, especially people of color. May your spirits and divinities feed you, nourish you, and hold you close as this war is fought, and may you find blessings of prosperity and hope among the bullshit and bloodshed.

Talk minus action equals zero. --D.O.A.

[jonboudposts]

A Christmas Carol in a Time of Moral Bankruptcy

2018 marked the 175th year since the publication of A Christmas Carol. 2019 sees among other things a new BBC television adaptation and stage version at The Old Vic. Even if you have never read the book, chances are you are familiar with Charles Dickens’ story, or at least parts of it. The storytelling and the moral core are woven into the culture in Britain and America; the story of a man who lives to make money and dominate others finding out, during the course of one Christmas Eve, that his eternal soul will be damned if he does not changed his ways.

There are literally more versions than I can (be bothered) to count. From TV adaptations to classic films to stage productions to school plays; modern-day updates and cartoons; Alistair Sim, Albert Finney, Jim Carrey, Patrick Stewart and Scrooge McDuck have all played Ebenezer Scrooge.

But the reason I am writing this is to discuss the love and hate that this story brings out in me every year; there is nothing I am saying that as not been said before. Yet I feel compelled to say it still.

The story itself is easy to admire, built like so many stories by great writers on simple yet deep story-telling traits and character arcs. It is inventive, with the use of fantasy to push real life struggles into sharper contrast, promoting sympathy; empathy and sadness.

We have our favourite versions; I love the Muppets with Michael Cane giving genuinely I think one of his best performances (singing aside) and the TV version with Patrick Stewart; an underrated one that dials down the schmaltz and shows the hardness of poverty, with a tough performance by Stewart to match. His is a genuine transformation from vicious capitalist to caring human and a very physical one; as he goes from looking like a piece of flint to slowly softening his features as he grows into a better man.

Such performances are celebrated and cherished, making many of those lazy pointless lists every year of favourite past cultural thing you relive because we are incapable of making anything new.

But all of this is perhaps part of the problem I have with the story too. The way we can watch, cry even, at how someone can change their ways and then fail to do anything ourselves for the very people that Dickens wishes us to care about. The story was inspired when Dickens read an 1843 report describing terrible living and working conditions in the Industrial Revolution in Britain. He could read the same thing today and find a callous population sifting through piles of shit to find the pile that does not smell as bad, so they feel superior to each other.

In this world, we can clearly see real Scrooges, except unlike their fictional counterparts, they never learn nor change. They do not need to. Our society and the way culture is organised worships the rich and punish the poor for their perceived failure.

The rich are in fact totally cut off from humanity.

So why should these greedy bastards change? We are never going to make them. The real Scrooges utterly destroy our lives all year long; then expect every Christmas to put that aside and wish each other meaningless platitudes of good will.

The biggest enemy in the story is the carelessness fundamental to ignorance and the damaging power of want. It makes the most vulnerable what they are; victims.

While I do not think the original story of A Christmas Carol is meaningless sentimentality, I think too many experience it exactly that way; feeling elated at the goodwill at Christmastime vibe and stepping over the people in the street on your way out the theatre or cinema. In London for instance, you could attend a performance at a theatre like the King’s Head (formally in Islington) and step out to a modern London as lacking in human warmth as Dickens dreamt of. Up the road is the Union Chapel church, who run a winter shelter, providing food and shelter for those in need. Every year the church has a screening of that other hope-filled story for the season, It’s a Wonderful Life.

Modern Britain still likes to present A Christmas Carol every year despite it teaching us less and less and the years roll by. The world this story is now told in looks like this:

One and a half million people use foodbanks each year

More foodbanks across Britain than MacDonalds

1-in-3 children in poverty; that is 14 million Britons living in relative poverty

Growing benefit claimants in work

Reduction in life expectancy for the poorest

120,000 deaths of people thrown off benefits, including the disabled

The richest 1000 families resident in Britain, which includes bankers and financiers, have doubled their net worth during the austerity era.

Non-British children being charged for citizenship (since defeated in the court, no thanks to the British people).

To top it all, this information being widely known before the 2019 General Election and still the population gave the Conservatives a majority despite them causing all this misery.

Councils in some parts of the UK have embarked on clean up (or you might argue cleansing) campaigns targeting the homelessness in town centres with Public Space Protection Orders (PSPO); homeless people are routinely fined hundreds of pounds and in some cases sent to prison for the ‘repeat offence’ of asking for money. Local authorities in England and Wales have issued hundreds of fixed-penalty notices and pursued criminal convictions for “begging”, “persistent and aggressive begging” and “loitering” since gaining strengthened powers to combat antisocial behaviour in 2014, by Theresa May when she was Home Secretary. Rough sleepers are harassed and landlords (as Mr Scrooge was) have gained far greater powers to evict tenants sooner and with less reason.

Charities and solidarity organisations give the option to buy a coat or hat or gloves for a refugee or homeless person; they however are in no doubt this is a sticking plaster; the purchasers I am not so sure about. It reminds me of something Naomi Klein said about the present order insisting on finding some way to buy our way out of the problem; be it poverty or climate change or a bunch of other shit.

The party that our present Prime Minister leads contains MPs who openly admire the Victorian era and all the social wankery of top-hatted toffs passing the peasantry in the streets. Plus we have sociopathic self-haters like Priti Patel hovering over the Human Rights Act with a metaphorical knife.

Refugees are another group not afforded decency; we deny people their rights, violate those we pretend to give them; punish them for the crime of crossing a boarder and even threaten communities that protect them. The Conservative Party manifesto for 2019 targeted traveller communities with attacks on their rights, including increased powers to take their property.

A child will become homeless 'every eight minutes' in the UK (Shelter, Dec 2019) or suffer insecure accommodation; meanwhile schools have an average of five homeless children.

Ignorance for sure; want for the same people as ever; dire need for change not answered.

Our societies do not embrace those less fortunate than us; we blame them for their own predicament and indulge in poor hate. There seems no bracket of people we can rely on, as even children's writers like JH Rowling indulge in one of modern society's most vile vices, trans-hate.

The empathetic are a dying breed.

Around Christmas people will often give more to charity, commonly Crisis as they run their huge shelters over the festive period in various cities to feed and shelter the increasing numbers of homeless people across Britain. Keeping up with the state of poverty in general and homelessness in particular is no easy task. One reason is we forget about the needs of people the rest of the year and only the magic of Christmas makes them give a shit for a week. This is just liberal conscience-wash if you do not back it up with demands for change in the system, which the British public have just shown they are unwilling to do.

Yet the system – capitalism in the only form it really exists – is embodied by Ebenezer Scrooge. The end of the story is pretty clear; Scrooge stops being cold and heartless; he will no longer allow the market to run without interference. He rejects capitalism for something wholly more humane.

Much of the problem in A Christmas Carol, like It’s a Wonderful Life later on, is the dehumanising effects of capitalism. The individual change required in Ebenezer Scrooge is a rejection of his hardcore individualism and embracing the needs of others, to the point of saving the life of Tiny Tim; his banker counterpart Mr Potter must be defeated by George Bailey and his supporters (although like in the real world, Potter is never jailed). At the beginning of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge is a miserable man beset by loneliness and isolation. His nephew refuses to give up on him though, always inviting him from Christmas in his warm, happy home despite constant rejection by his uncle.

The rampant free market gave us Ebenezer Scrooge as an everyday occurrence, year round with no ghosts to haunt them into decency. In the real world, Ebenezer Scrooge does not change his character no matter what happens. He is Philip Green, who dodges taxes, sells off a business knowing it will collapse soon, tries to abandon paying staff their pensions and pours scorn on the elected officials trying to hold him to account for the way they look at him. Green in particular managed the near-impossible in 2018 of seeming even more repulsive, with revelations of abuse accusations from many former BHS staff; from bulling to sexual harassment along with homophobia and a general staggering lack of respect for his staff. He is scum and will never reform.

In the 1980s we had Scrooged, a non-traditional adaptation starring Bill Murray as Frank Cross, a ruthless TV executive whose every cruelty was rather too enjoyable, along with his abusive Ghost of Christmas Present giving him much-needed kicking.

At the end of the film, Cross invades the set of the live adaptation of A Christmas Carol that his over-worked staff are producing, proclaiming that the meaning or power of Christmas is how for one night a year ‘we become the people we always hoped we would be’; that is, we smile more and are nicer to each other. This sums up the 1980s very well and why progressive and socially just forces lost that particular war so badly. This piss-weak response to be a little nicer to each other is why people die in the street. The film is also an example of the age; doing all this good for one night a year (how 1980s).

In Michael Moore’s first film Roger and Me, we witness the General Motors chairman of the title Roger Smith at the GM Christmas party, giving a speech that includes extracts from A Christmas Carol. This is inter-cut with footage from Flint Michigan, the town devastated by GM when they outsourced their workforce to cheaper parts of the world. While this pompous twit quotes Dickens and the wonder of Christmas, a mother and her children are evicted. That scene says more about our culture than any other I can think of in any film.

It is well told but worth remembering that in 2008, when the perfect economic system crashed, the people were responsible were bailed out and did it all over again, with the consequences being completely directed toward the least responsible yet again. The horror this unleashed has never relented.

From a consumer perspective, Christmas never ends. As a postman, I deliver to people massive amounts every day and it is never enough. They answer the door, perfectly politely, take the packet(s) and discard them as they sign and/or shut the door. These wonderful items are given that much thought; just the latest play thing or dress up. Literally discarded before opening because this in one of many deliveries probably that day. I am nothing to them; just a cypher to bring their life a meaning it never gains; I used to like being part of a public service, keeping people connected and possibly educated; now I just feed an addiction. This hyper-consumption will bring the system down again and whose fault will it be this time?

A Christmas Carol’s message is one that every Christmas we seem to get further away from. It is used to stroke the egos of the guilty and make them think nothing else needs to be done. Just be a bit nicer to the people you ignore the rest of the year, maybe even slip them a fiver (although not your postman or other service provider anymore it seems). You do not challenge poverty and homelessness by simply not liking it or giving a bit of pocket change, just like you cannot challenge racism and sexism simply by existing in a certain position socially or economically. However you feel, someone is still sleeping on the concrete tonight.

A Christmas Carol is less a morality tale and more a fantasy; but for the consumer not the writer. In the Britain of 2019, we have no moral right to tell this story. No version should be staged; no adaptation on TV; no school play. It should not entertain, nor pander to the desires of selfish consumer-obsessed grown-babies to make them feel a little better. This country has just voted to make the poor suffer more; to keep the status of 1-in-3 children suffering poverty – which will grow – and destroy the National Health Service. Tiny Tim is just a failure and when he dies, we just move on.

You have no right to a Merry Christmas, nor to discuss god as anything other than a punchline. The fix is in and no one cares. Misery for all is the name of the game today and if you want better, you are a fantasist.

Britain is a horrible little shithole of a country. Mean and worthless, in love with a horrific dream of decrepit empire in a world becoming dangerously hot.

Merry Christmas? Fuck you and your family.

[mikiebikiefan-blog]

Blog #4

01082017

I sat down to write a blog and this is what pops out! It sounds like I'm trying to write a new bible, for christ's sake.

This is still what I called it, though, the end of my education; the conclusion to a long line of questions. What are people and where did they come from? These are not small questions and I have not found answers as much as I found a path for new questions.

A path for the questions of science to follow, from a pattern I see in the great big information thing that exists because of us; I perceive new information as a wave front and I'm a surfer. It's become a thing now, our information living inside our machines, a reflection of ourselves. I found patterns that best explain to me the how and what about the mind.

How a tree ape became a ground ape, challenged with a new environment different from it's previous Environment of Evolutionary Adaption (EEA) of the trees. The challenges changed and what survived changed. They nested on the ground but nests don't become fossils so we can never prove this except for the ear. Why do we have a vestigial lower ear lobe? Did it evolve for social signaling? I don't think so.

Our teeth tell a story, as well. These hold answers that have been literally in front of our faces all along, what happened to our canines and what happened to our ears? A path for questions to follow, that's what I have. Can I sell this to someone, who would buy and what are they buying?

So I practice this, this writing, this creating content for the interwebs with the hope that someone will understand and value what I have. I value it. I believe in it; if I don't believe, then how can I claim to have anything? It is, after all, a thing of the mind that I have. A different and sharper understanding based on a lifetime of study. Disability took away my work with the children but I took away what I learned, and mixed it with a bunch of study; I read a textbook of Neuroscience, among many other books. Most of what I know was organized by that.

The Limbic Brain is the heart of thinking because that's where all the wires go, Sensory Brain to Limbic Brain. It's in that book; they have studied, dissected the dead brain, and studied the living until they know where the wires go. We still don't understand how the brain works it's configurational logic but when we learn something new, we change the physical structure of the universe as it exists inside our brains.

This is real. I didn't make it up, it's out there in the information thing. Children die in cars saying, “Ntn u”; why do they have this urge to communicate, even if it has nothing to say, they say something and foolishly die for it? That's a sign of something powerful about the way human's evolved in groups. Never alone, being apart from the group always equaled dead.

And evolution doesn't care if food thinks.

Why are there no natural mechanisms for healing brain injury? Because even mild brain injury never survived so we don't have it. I didn't make that up, it's just a part of the whole but it's a path for thinking. That's what I got from my education, that's what I learned from watching children, that's what I learned when I studied after a disease took away my ability to work as a pediatrician.

My idea of a new kind of city comes from all that. When people wake up to help the others in the community, we will be harnessing something that did successfully survive in all of our ancestors and consestors; altruism. It's what firemen and firewomen feel when they go to work. I felt it as a pediatrician. It's the magic power behind religion, what captures young people with their feelings about being associated with a group that believes to love others as you want to be loved is the way to live. Powerful words that strike at a thing that lives in a balance in human affairs:

Selfishness versus Altruism.

The miracle of evolution was convincing the selfish self that group cooperation is in the best interest of the selfish self. That shit took time, it took failure and death, it took doing the right thing even when you died. The group survived and that's all that mattered as far as our evolution is concerned. This is a law that all human cultures have to face or die never learning it's power to save us.

Nobody is coming to save us, if we are to be saved as a species, we will have to do it ourselves.

Global Capitalism rewarding thievery is an example of how selfishness can win by dominating the discussion but it will ultimately extinguish us as a species. If selfishness wins, our species dies. Nobody but us can save us. We need a new plan, a new revolution made of altruism. If you want to accomplish something and it requires violence against another human being, I don't believe that what you are trying to accomplish is worth the effort. You help our enemy win when you use violence and all our enemy wants is our destruction.

I don't know if this will work or if something else will lead to change in the way we order our lives, but America steadfastly refuses to notice the suffering and violence behind our wealth. This, too, is an example of how the dynamic balance of selfishness versus altruism in human group associations is laced in power.

Or is it even possible for people to understand what I'm trying to say, does it all sound like a big hunk of craziness?

It's hard to feel alone with something that feels important, a person just wants some company on this crazy train to who knows where...

mikiebikie