#the way people talk about the cows and John sometimes kind of reminds me of what I mear about the Hunger Games movies

[mayasaura]

Guys. The cows were about how if people don't like you or don't want to listen to you, they'll decontextualise your actions and use them to discredit you in any situation. How doing one (1) memorable bad thing can be held against you forever. The cows are about looking a council of world leaders in the eyes, telling them we're all being robbed of our futures by megacorporations, showing them the receipts and numbers and photographic evidence, and being told none of your arguments matter actually because you're The Cow Guy.

The cows are about how people don't forgive, not really.

[unmaskedagain]

Ladybug in Smallville

           You can’t fix a broken heart, her grandmother told when Marinette was young and had ask why the older woman why she never remarried.

“You can forgive here,” Gina Dupain had pointed to her head. “And you can tell yourself every day that you forgive him, that all is well. And maybe you do. Maybe not right away, like you tell people but eventually… you do. You move on. You find some kind of peace. But that doesn’t mean your heart’s forgotten. Especially during the worst of it, when it’ll remind you every day just how much you’re still hurting.”

           The silver haired woman had look so dejected, so cynical compared to her usual chipper, charming self that it left the little girl stunned.

“Until one day, it doesn’t,” Gina continued. “And yet, your heart’s not the same. You’re not the same. No matter what you tell yourself. Sometimes, you’d swear it’s just a giant scar on your heart. Because at least that means it’s healed; beaten up, bruised, and permanently disfigured but healed.  Other days when you think too hard about it, and you are walking through memory lane; you can just barely admit the truth. That you can still feel every jagged edge, sharp angle still there from a shattered heart. And once on a very blue moon, you admit to yourself the truth; you can’t fix a broken heart. It’ll always be broken. Love has consequences.”

           She looked Marinette deep in the eyes, “The trick is learning to live with it. Learning that a broken heart doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”

“Broken… but still good,” Marinette quoted Lilo and Stitch.

           Her grandmother beamed, “One of the hardest things is the world, sweetie, is to not let that broken heart stop you. You can cry. You can be angry. You can vengeance on the entire world. As long as you never let it stop you from living.”

“And loving?” Marinette asked. “You learned to love again.”

           There was a pause. A thoughtful look. And then a sigh, as Gina finally answered, “No, I never fell in love again. I could never trust the same as I did before. Never managed to figure out how to love with all of my heart like I used to when I was young. And it always felt wrong not you; but that’s just me. I learned to love myself, though. And that is the greatest thing you can ever learn. Love yourself.”

           Marinette had been nine-years-old at the time and hadn’t quite understood what her grandmother had been talking about. But she never forgot, the cold look on her grandmother’s face and the sorrow in her eyes.

           It was only years later, when the biggest liar to ever walk the planet proved that not all villains are easily defeated, when her friends had all turned their backs on her, when the boy who she swore she was going to marry someday was more of a cowardly frog than a prince, when even her parents bought the fabrication of Marinette being a bully, a thief, a jealous liar that Marinette finally understood. Because not only had her heart been broken, but it had been shattered.

           Marinette couldn’t even go to Fu as the man had used the last of his power in a fight against Hawkmoth because Chat Noir never showed up and Fu refused to give out Miraculous to people Marinette didn’t trust so the turtle had to fight. They had won but Marinette swore she’d never forgive Chat Noir for not showing up and costing a good man his life, and Marinette her mentor.

           Master Fu’s last act had to strip Chat Noir of his ring and name Marinette the new guardian. Before he faded, he warned Marinette that some people weren’t worth fighting for. Sometimes, a hero’s first priority has to be to save themselves.

           However, even then, Marinette had refused to give up. She kept trying to get her friends to listen, even when they made it clear they weren’t her friends anymore. Most didn’t reply to the texts anymore. And the ones that did, Alya mostly, ridiculed her; scorned Marinette’s very existence.

She tried to get Adrien to stand up and help her like he’d promised, only for him to ignore her calls, texts, and have Nathalie tell her that he didn’t want to be involved.

Despite the furious silent treatment from her mother and her father’s disappointed looks, Marinette still tried to convince them of her innocence. She had begged for them to listen to her, to trust that they raised her right, to believe her.  It was only after two weeks into her expulsion, when Marinette found luggage waiting by the door that Marinette understood. Nothing would change their minds.

They explained quickly that Marinette was going to be sent to live with her father’s godmother, one of his mother’s best friends. A good woman who promised to set Marinette straight. Or at least keep her out of trouble.

Marinette was on a plane an two hours later to a little old Kansas and then to a small town rightly called Smallville.

A kindly older blond man name Jonathan Kent had met her at the airport. Marinette had given him a polite, quiet, greeting and when mute for the rest of the ride to their farm. She hadn’t known what to expect. Feared the worst. Feared that they thought she was the bully her.

As soon as they arrived at the farm, a rather pretty greying redheaded woman walked out of her house with a mixing bowl in one hand and a sturdy wooden spoon in the other. Marinette steeled herself as she got out of the car. She raised her head up, “Bonjour, Madam.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest little thing,” The woman had greeted. “And I swear, you look just like your grandmother. It’s that spark in your eyes. Every time I saw it, I knew there was going to be trouble. Particularly, for the fools that messed with her. That’s how my cheating ex boyfriend’s dorm accidently caught on fire.”

           Marinette blinked once. Then twice. What?

“Accidently, Martha?” Jonathan chuckled as he got Marinette’s bags out of the car.

           Martha shot him a smile, “They could never prove otherwise.” She looked Marinette over, “Gina said your parents have their heads in a place sun just can’t seem to reach. Wanted to me to look after you. Get you away from all that drama. Get you with family. And the lord knows, that woman doesn’t know how to sit her butt anywhere long enough to leave an imprint. So come on inside, let’s get you unpacked and some food inside you.”

           Aunt Martha, as Marinette had been instructed to call her, had led her to an empty room that was just a bit bigger than the one she used to have and had a desk by a large window, a twin bed covered in a plaid blanket, and a few other standard amenities. Plus an old sewing machine on the desk. Marinette’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.

“Your grandma told me you like to design,” Aunt Martha smiled kindly. “I don’t use old Bertha myself anymore but I’d thought you’d like her. You can decorate your room anyway you’d like. Let me know if you need any help.”

           Marinette nodded and couldn’t stop herself from hugging the woman. She hadn’t been able to take much with her (Clothes, phone, laptop, a stuffed animal or two, the guardian box) but she made sure to bring all her sketch books and had just barely enough time and money to drop off a few boxes of her designing equipment and supplies at the local mail service carrier to be shipped to the farm in the upcoming weeks. The fear had been weighing on her of what ifs. What if it all got lost in the mail? What if Marinette couldn’t design anymore?

           Martha simply hugged her back, no probing questions. When Marinette let go, Martha said, “Now Kara and Conner’s rooms are either side of you. Conner’s mostly here on the weekends. Kara visits enough to still have room. They can be a… little nosy. But ignore it. My son, Clark, is visiting next week. They just can’t wait to meet you. I wouldn’t be surprised be any of them suddenly drops in.” She laughed, and it sounded a little like jingle bells.

           Then suddenly, Martha straightened up and gave Marinette a soft look, “You let me know if you need to talk or… Anything really.”

           Marinette felt her throat close up a bit and nodded stiffly.

���Dinner will be on the table soon.”

“May I help, Madam?” Marinette asked.

           Martha looked her over, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can go ahead and get settled in.”

           Marinette blinked again. No one ever turned down her offer to help before. “I want to.” And so she did.

           Cooking with Aunting Martha was different that with her parents. While, she knew her parents loved to bake. It always felt like a job with them. One more responsibility Marinette had. Cooking with Aunt Martha was relaxing. They shared stories with each other and Marinette got more insight of her grandmother’s past than she ever had before. And even when it got silent, Marinette didn’t feel the need to fill it for once. And neither did Martha. It was nice.

           Eating dinner had been the same. Enjoyable and lovely with promises of teaching Marinette all about the farm. Uncle John laughing at wide-eyed Marinette reaction to idea of her milking a cow. It was a relief not to deal with her mother’s stony silence and her father’s blatant disapproval.

           Marinette knew from just one night that the Kents were good people and if she let herself, she could enjoy her time there. That didn’t stop Marinette from crying herself to sleep for a few nights.

           During her first week, Marinette didn’t hear a word from her parents. Or the second. Marinette knew they were more than likely waiting for her to make the first move like she always did.

           But unfortunately for them, Marinette was done. She was done with fake friends and disappointing crushes. She was done with being made out to be the bad guy. She was done always being the one to fix everything. Save everyone. Because she knew, without a doubt, that this time. Her first priority had to be save herself. Marinette had to fix herself. (Of course, Marinette still had to use the horse miraculous to go save Paris nearly every day but innocents needed her help.)

           So Marinette let herself be immersed in the smallville way of life. She helped out of the farm. She competed with Aunt Martha over who had the best pie recipe. Blinked in confusion when Martha wrapped a plate of Marinette’s special double chocolate salt caramel cookies to be delivered and muttered something about “Alfred finally getting his” and the Kent family reigning victorious. Marinette had just been happy to be considered family.

           Speaking of family, Marinette had become rather fond of her new “Cousins”. Jon was the youngest and reminded Marinette of a very hyperactive puppy. He constantly dragged Marinette away to play games and pretend. Connor was a bit sullen but had turned out to be a giant teddy bear once he opened up. He loved to talk about his friends; particularly someone named Tim. The beautiful blond Kara loved girl talk and arm wrestling Connor. She raved about Marinette’s designs and over her pictures with Jagged Stone. Clark, the oldest of her cousin, was a sweetheart; a geeky reporter who was married to a man named Bruce, worked mainly out of Metropolis, and had somewhere between five to seven kids. There was a lot of names and nicknames that left Marinette’s head spinning.

           None of them had taken kindly to Marinette’s story of how she ended up on the Kent farm. Wondering who could bully such a sweet angel?

           Though Marinette decided he wasn’t ever going to be her favorite after the blueberry scone incident.

           Over the next few months, Marinette learned what her grandmother had meant about letting herself be angry and getting some vengeance. Because was allowed to be angry. And she was allowed to get payback.

           After a rather nasty Akuma, Ladybug had taken the time to do an interview with Nadja. She had confirmed that Chat Noir was never returning, that the Ladyblog and its journalist had lost her trust forever after Ladybug had learned about the lies the blog was posting.

“What lies,” Nadja had asked, glad to finally stick it to the girl, Alya, who had been so mean to her honorary niece.

“Well for example, who the hell is Lila Rossi?” Ladybug asked when Nadja pulled up the website on the blue screen behind them. They scrolled through the website pointing out lies and inaccuracies. “That girl is not my best friend. I saved her from her own akuma save five times now. That’s it. I don’t know the girl. I don’t like the girl. What was written would only serve to put Lila in danger. And what’s this about Lila saving Jagged Stone’s cat? From a plane? Which airline was this? Who could be so careless?”

           Nadja nodded and looked quite stunned herself at what was on the blog. “I highly doubt Clara Nightingale stole Lila’s dance moves. Or strictly guarded Prince Ali invites random girls, even Ambassador’s daughter, to discuss his country go green intuitive. Or that she came up with the entire plan herself. This is just ridiculous! And what this about you curing Tinnitus?”

           Ladybug quickly shook her head, “That’s not possible. And it gives people false hope.”

“So Lila’s lying,” Nadja had to fight to keep the smugness out of her voice. She had told Sabine she was wrong. Had been absolutely furious that Marinette had been sent away. Some journalist should really learn Check Her Sources.” She said the last part with a smirk. “And what’s this about Gordon Ramsey?”

           It went on from there, with brief intervals so Marinette could recharge. Ladybug had blasted her former school, its’ principle, and her old teacher Bustier to shreds. For allowing bullying of students, victim blaming, and sheer negligence. Reciting how many times Ladybug had to deal with akuma from that school, particularly from Bustier’s class.

“I heard one poor girl even got expelled,” Ladybug shook her head. “From what I’ve heard, there was no investigation, just word of mouth, easily planted evidence, and then expulsion. I’m surprised I didn’t have to deal with her Akuma.” Ladybug’s sad tone was clear to hear. “I looked into the incident a bit. A rather brilliant Robot name Markov had been recording the room at the time.” Marinette nodded to the screen. “I had them blur the students faces for security reasons. The girl with the short hair is the victim in question.”

           The video played. And it was clear that a long haired girl had stolen the answer and planted them.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t fix the issue,” Ladybug sighed. “By the time, I heard of it girl was been sent away by her parents. Not even they believed her.”

“I know the girl you’re speaking about,” Nadja frowned. “She’s stronger than she looks. Still, she deserved better. I swear to you that I’ll be leading the charge in investigating the wrongful expulsion.”

           Ladybug smiled.

           It took less than an hour after the interview to air for Marinette’s phone to start blowing up. Her ex-friends, her old classmates texted up a storm of apologies.

           The call from her parents had come in no longer after. Her father had full of apologies and swore to make it up to her. Her mother had been in tears.

           They were met with silence from Marinette. A forgive didn’t come. Marinette made it clear she still loved them but she was staying with the Kents. She would not be returning to Paris. It was her father’s turn to cry.

           Marinette would forgive them in time. But that wasn’t her priority was herself at the moment.

           While the Kents, Marinette was free to just be Marinette. Not anyone’s “Everyday Ladybug”. And was finding that she liked who she was.

           She liked designing clothes for Kara and dresses for Aunt Martha. Doing everything possible to get Clark out of plain. (She would be victorious!) She liked hanging out around town with Connor and being someone’s little sister, as he called her. Though she wouldn’t mind if he lost the overprotective streak. She wasn’t some damsel in destress. There was no more panic attacks. No more dealing with pushing best friends. No more waste time on crush on a blond loser.

           The only near heart attack she had was the blueberry scone incident. Marinette had gotten an akuma alert. She had yelled to Aunt Martha that she was going on a walk, hid behind the farm, transformed and portal’d away.

           Unfortunately, Uncle Clark had heard that Marinette had made her famous scones and had been FLYING overhead to the house at the time and had saw her.

           Uncle Clark had been waiting for her when she got back, with crossed arms and a stern look on his face. Before Marinette could open up her mouth to give a multitude of excuses, Clark held up one hand to silence her. Then he spun around faster than she’d ever seen anyone do before. And then Superman was standing in front of her.

           Marinette’s heart had stopped, she’d swear.

           After that they both de-transformed. Uncle Clark had led her inside where the entire Kent family was waiting.

           Turns out Uncle Clark was a tattletale. And he was never going to be her favorite.

“Snitch,” She told him simply before anyone could say anything.

           Clark blushed a little but shrugged.

           After that everyone introduced themselves. Or rather their superhero identities. Each taking turns to tell their story. Marinette had shed a few tears about the loss of Krypton. Marinette had introduce the Kwamis’ to the Kents. Jon had let out a squeal of joy at the sight flying creatures.

           Aunt Martha had only laughed when Plagg flew up to her face and said, “Cheese.”

           Marinette told her story from when she first got Tikki to then. There was no happy faces in the room.”

“You’re a superhero?” Kara was the first to burst out. “Ladybug the Parisian hero.”

“You work an entire city?” Connor asked. “I’m now even allowed to do that yet.” He shot quick glare at Clark. “Even the Teen Titans has league supervision.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, “The Justice League doesn’t usually tread on other heroes’ territory. Ladybug had always managed well.” He then gave her a look. “However, we were unaware that Ladybug was a teenager. I think its time we took a closer look at Paris.

[thiswasinevitableid]

9 danbrey? (nsfw or sfw!)

9 was “Meditation.” I went SFW, hope you like it! Dani’s coloration is inspired by a Green and Gold Cory

Dani likes watching the humans, especially the ones her age, from a tangle of kelp near the shore. Human children are always running up and down the seashore, shrieking and splashing. She’s asked if she can play with them, but her parents keep reminding her that humans don’t generally react calmly to merfolk. 

This child, however, is just sitting there, legs crossed and eyes shut, hands on her knees (Dani’s pretty sure that’s what they’re called). Her hair is dark, springing about in the wind, and Dani swims closer. The girl doesn’t react, even when Dani is as far as she can go in the water. Cautiously, she wiggles up on onto the beach, tail still firmly in the surf.

“Hi.” She says with a smile. The girl doesn’t open her eyes. 

Dani tries again, thinking she didn’t hear her, “Hi.”

The girl furrows her brow and purses her lips. A little annoyed at her rudeness, Dani splashes her with her tail.

“HEY!” The girl wipes water from her eyes, glaring. Then she notices the tail. “WOW, are you are you mermaid?”

“Yes.” Dani nods proudly. 

“Woooow” the girl crawls forward to get a better look at her tail. 

“How come you were just sitting here?”

“I’m meditating. My teacher says it’s good for me to practice focusing and letting the things I think come into my head and then go.”

“Why?”

“I have problems paying attention to things sometimes.”

“Ohhh” Dani nods, trying to show she understands this could be a problem but isn’t sure why. When the other girl doesn’t say more, she adds, “do you want to see a hermit crab?

“Yeah!”

Dani shows her hermit crabs and small fish until a voice calls, “Aubrey, time for dinner firebug!”

“Oops, that’s my mom. Gotta go, see you later!” 

As she runs up the beach, Dani calls, “Bye Aubrey!” before slipping back into the waves.

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

To Dani’s excitement, Aubrey’s family has just bought a house up on a hill by the beach, near the cove where Dani likes to swim. Which means the other girl comes down to see her almost every day. They tell stories about their families, Aubrey explaining what human school is like and Dani telling her what school is like under the sea. 

Dani weaves her necklaces out of kelp and Aubrey brings her crowns made of small flowers she calls dandelions. Dani keeps them in a small stone box until all the petals float away. 

The only thing Aubrey won’t do is swim with her, saying her mom and dad have forbidden her from going into the water without an adult. No matter how much Dani demonstrates her strength as a swimmer, or offers to bring her older brother to watch them, Aubrey stays on shore.

Today, a year and a half since they first met, Aubrey is sitting glumly beside the sea when Dani surfaces on the beach.

“What’s wrong?”

“Today’s Valentines Day. Um, a day when you celebrate love. My mom says it’s just a day to sell cards and candy. But, well, it’s also a day when you tell people you like them. In fifth grade, you just gave everyone in class a valentine. A card where you, like, tell them you like them or just say hi.” she draws a heart shape in the sand, “But this year you just give them to people you like-like. I gave them to John and Lilly. I didn’t get any though.” She draws a frowny face into the surf, then drags a piece of driftwood through it, muttering, “Emily Ross got stuff from four different people.”

Dani is both upset on her friend’s behalf and completely baffled. How could there be anyone at the school more deserving of gifts and attention than Aubrey? Aubrey is funny and lively and is learning how to do magic tricks, and her nose crinkles in a really cute way when she laughs, and she’s just the best person Dani can imagine.

“Wait here.” Dani splashes back into the waves, swimming to one of the spots she knows holds oysters. 

A few minutes later she reappears, triumphant.

“Here. Oh wait.” She drags her finger through the sand to make a heart, then places her gift in it.

“Holy cow is that a pearl?” 

“Uh huh. I asked the oysters politely if any of them had one.”

“But that’s, like, a really fancy thing! It’s a gem.”

Dani shakes water from her blonde hair, “So? You deserve it.”

Aubrey gives her a funny look, then scoots forward. Her lips are chilly when they press against Dani’s cheek, but her chest heats up all the same.

“There,” Aubrey says softly, “now it’s really a valentine gift, cause I kissed you  for giving it.”

“Okay.” Dani blushes at the silly response, but before she can say anything else a familiar voice calls and Aubrey heads up the hill towards home.

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

“Gah, it’s so pretty!” Dani spins, admiring her new golden stripes in her tail. She’s gotten it during her sixteenth summer, just as her brother did. Said brother is watching her proudly. 

“Gonna swim up and show your girlfriend.”

“Shut up, Barclay.” She thwacks his arm with her tail, “she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Uh huh, sure, you only see her everyday and bring her presents and talk about her constantly.”

“Do I need to bring up your writer friend? And the hickey you gave him?”

“I told you, an octopus did that!”

“No, it didn’t.”

“...Yeah, it didn’t.” He grabs her hand, spinning her as she laughs, “just be careful, okay sis? Loving humans is a tricky thing, and I’d hate to see you heartbroken.”

His warning echoes in her mind as she grabs the green swimsuit top she uses for surface visits (merfolk don’t wear clothes, but about three years ago she’d surfaced and Aubrey had turned pink, eyes firmly shut as she stuttered that maybe Dani might want to maybe possibly wear something on her chest. She found a bikini top that had floated free of it’s owner a few days later).

When she surfaces, Aubrey is nowhere in sight. Instead, in the waterproof notebook they keep stashed in a rock crevice, she's written, “busy tonight, will be here tomorrow for sure.”

Oh, right, she said tonight is something called prom, and that an older student had asked her to go. Of course, she should choose to court her own kind, just as Dani could choose the same. She just doesn’t want to.

She puts on a brave face during dinner, brushes off Barclay’s worried questions at moonrise. A late night swim should ease her mind. 

Or cause her to bump her head on a familiar paddle board. One a certain human bought so she and Dani could chat out in open water.

“Aubrey?”

“Mmm? Oh, hey.” Aubrey opens her eyes and uncrosses her legs, “thought you might still be up.”

“Were you...meditating? You haven’t done that in years.”

“I still do it sometimes. Like, if I’m trying to focus or calm myself down for something big.” 

“Is prom something big?”

Aubrey snorts a little laugh, “no. In fact, I told my date I wasn’t going to go.”

“Why?” Dani rests her arms on the edge of the board.

“I think he’s actually super into me. But, like, I’m not really that into him and I don’t wanna get his hopes up. Not when I like someone else.”

Dani’s tail twitches nervously, “Someone else?”

Aubrey cups her face, leans forward hurriedly and kisses her so hard she gasps, throwing her arms around Aubrey’s neck. Emboldened, Aubrey deepens the kiss, tangling her fingers into her hair. 

Then, with a shriek and splash, she leans too far and falls off the board, only to surface in Dani’s embrace.

“Really?” Dani whispers, still not sure it’s all real.

‘“Uh huh. I’m so, like, into you, Dani. I have been for awhile I was just...look there’s not a guidebook for how to confess your deepest feelings to a mermaid okay?”

“I forgive you.” Dani kisses her nose, teases the back of her legs with her tail, “You know, it’s a wonderful night for a swim. Care to stay awhile, cutie?”

Aubrey kisses her slow and happy, wrapping her legs around her waist, “That sounds perfect. Honey.”

[mindwideopen]

Disclaimer: anyone embarrassed of my cleavage, please bypass this post. Thank you. (Again, repeat this disclaimer out loud, and say it like Steve Martin being his insane yet loving character “ruprecht” in “dirty rotten scoundrels”)

Faux Monty python auditions:

Disclaimer 2: NOT based in reality, because the actual members of Monty python are gentlemen, and are kind. No character assassination intended. My intention for writing this is harmless satire because of my admiration for their group. And, the fact that as women, they are prettier than I am.

(Lights up on a very large board room with a very long table. All of the members of Monty python are sitting in a row, facing Kari.)

Kari: hey! Nice to meet you all! (Shakes their hands) you guys are fantastic! I’m so happy to get the opportunity to audition for you, and be considered for your group.

Monty python: nice to make your acquaintance. (Whispers amongst themselves at the long board table they’re sitting at, evaluating Kari) who is she?! A bird. What kind of bird? I don’t know... let’s analyze... pull up her headshot. A “headshot” is a picture for you people who don’t know what a head shot is. We don’t mean an actual gun shot to the head.

(To Kari) Ok. Let’s...

Kari: let’s what?

Monty python: look at your portfolio of character work.

Kari: I write, mostly, but these are silly pictures of me for fun.

Monty python: we love fun. Quite.

Kari: we have that in common then!

Monty python: quite.

Monty python: no. Ok. You are not a bird. This is not you, is it? No, it can’t be. You are a cat woman. Unusual.

Kari: oh, that’s a filter on Snapchat.

Monty python characters: Snapchat? What’s that?

Kari: it’s an app that makes you into different creatures.

Monty python: what’s an app? Our show is based primarily in the 1970s we think, we have to look it up to be reminded, and haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. Well, regardless, let’s all pull up a better picture of you, since you are not really a cat. We’re quite sure, yes, quite, that you are a human being, although not sure, so no. Next slide, please! (We’re British, so we’re polite about our requests...)

Monty python: ok, no. In this one, you are a shocked and lacey, bear creature. Are you a biological man?

Kari: no.

Monty python: one of the criteria of joining our group is that you are a man.

Kari: well, I’m not. See the next slide.

Monty python: please discuss something amongst yourself while we confer about you, in front of you.

Kari: ok. (Kari starts talking about ray rayner, and chelveston the duck to herself...)

Monty python: well, we’re not sure why she’s here if she’s not a man. We play all the women in our sketches. Um, also, we hate to bring this up and look naive, but is she writing us? We don’t know. Some of us aren’t even alive, so it’s hard to determine what’s happening in this case, as we’re all speaking the same words at the same time. If she is writing us this is highly irregular, which is a state that we’re used to being in. The words keep coming. Yes, but she never differentiates the difference between one of us, and all... so we sound like a men’s spoken word chorus. Do those exist? They do now, we are it. Who is this insane woman? God only knows...

God: no, I don’t.

Kari: well, I’m done with my conversation with myself, are you guys done as well?

Monty python characters: yes. Quite. ok, well, next slide pleeeeease.

Monty python: oh my.... yes. Not a man. Ahem. Yes. Clearly. Right. Kari, would you please excuse us again, as we need to confab about you yet again.

Kari: ok. (Kari discusses her love of Kurt Russell and Goldie yawn amongst herself. Both national treasures, both not in the movie, “national treasury, or whatever it’s called...)

Monty python: all in favor of her being in our group, say we! Wait! Before we vote, oh. My... (they Hub hub hub hub peas and carrots. Please say the hub hubs and the peas and carrots like all of the characters in the movie “waiting for guffman”.)

Monty python: Kari, We need a moment to discuss you.

Kari: do you want to discuss me, with me?

Terry Gilliam: yes! Absolutely eventually at some point not now no yes. But we need some privacy at this time.

Kari: ok. I need to take a shit. I’ll be back.

(Monty python all sit and analyze this photo. 4 hours later)

Monty python: yes. Quite. ok! Next slide, please.

John Cleese: um, I’m not done. You all proceed. I’ll hang back a bit, because she looks like she could get rough. I will protect us... because she’s evil... I hope.

The rest of Monty python: very well, next slide, please.

Monty python sans the John Cleese cause he went off to shoot his cameo in the “great muppet caper” 40 years ago...: jooooohhhhnnnnn..... she is evil....

John Cleese: on it! (Mumbling to himself but half to us, the reader, which is me only, cause I write for my own amusement) But not, because she’s married and I think I am but I’m not sure, cause she’s writing this, and unaware of my marital status...) I will call, the only ghostbuster she isn’t pissed at right now because he’s dead... and doesn’t ignore her insane writing because he’s unaware or aware that she writes... oh Egon....

Egon Spangler (as portrayed back in the 80s, by Harold Ramis, or, as Kari lovingly refers to him, Hamis.): yes, this is a classic class F case of a “she be piiiiiiiissed” poltergeist, fairly common around these parts as of late, shouldn’t be an issue. I accept rubies (not to be confused with a ruby gem stone) and zorks currency as payment. Payment due up front.

John Cleese: (yelling) well I don’t have a ruby or a zork on me?!? What do you think I am?! The queen or something?!

Queen the band: definitely not.

John Cleese: (yelling and flailing his arms around like Kermit the frog because he idolizes him, and just worked with him, in the great muppet caper, so he’s heavily influenced by his dynamic personality) see?!?! Now how are we supposed to exercise her?!? She’s the devil! She writes insane things not unlike us, but we’re fine because we’re men that dress like women, and that is socially acceptable, but a woman who acts like a man, is not! And she sometimes acts like a black man, and that is doubly not acceptable, not in a way that cancels itself out, but in a way that emphasizes my point profoundly. She MUST be exercised!

Richard Pryor: have you tried walking her around the block after meals?

John Cleese: (still yelling per the ush) what the hell are you talking about??!? Walk her around the block after meals?! I couldn’t get a harness around her if I tried! She’s writing me flailing around like Kermit the frog! The woman must be stopped!!!!!!

Richard Pryor: just a suggestion. You need to relax, Jack, ok? Cause you’re more than a little uptight.

George Carlin: British.

Richard Pryor: ok. Got it.

Carlin: and isn’t it, exorcised?

Richard Pryor: not as funny.

Carlin: ok. got it.

Eric idle, who stands idle to the fact that his last name is also “idol” when said, and also leaves too many questions like others who suffer with the same affliction have... which idol are we discussing? The sun god, Rah? The sacred cow? American?

Eric idle character: oh god.... scene...

God: I love Kari, I do, because she believes I love everyone, so yes, scene is fine.

John Cleese character: yes! Quite.

Egon Spangler: 70 zorks, please. No personal checks.

Svengoolie (not his son, just him): yes. No.... personal.... checks.....

(Kari walks into an empty conference room)

Kari: um, hey guys? Anyone here? Oh well, I feel better now that I’ve pooped!

(Monty python jump out from underneath the long board table)

Monty python: Boo!

Kari: oh! You startled me! Good thing I just pooped!

Monty python: yes, quite. So, here’s the thing; we’ve reviewed your portfolio and you’re brilliant with the exception of a few things.

Kari: what’s that?

Monty python: well, the first thing is that you’re a woman.

Kari: yes, I am. I saw proof of that in the bathroom.

Monty python: ah, yes. The second thing is that according to Wikipedia, a website we have never heard of at the point in which we were in the first picture, let alone the fact that the internet as we know it was not conceived yet either, and all we had were encyclopedia brittanicas, our show ran from 1969–1983, 1989, 1998–1999, 2002, 2013–2014. All years past. You were born, when?

Kari: 1974.

Monty python: ok, now see? We were in full swing at that point in time. You were a bit too, not available for us, and also too much of a woman for us all, and that’s great! Because you’re way more intelligent than we imagined, we can tell by your pictures, and truth be told, we’re more than a little afraid of you, because you write for us, even though some of us have ceased to exist on this celestial plane. And although we enjoyed our time chatting, we are going to have to take a pass.

Kari: that’s ok! It was nice watching you chat about me a bit while I talked to myself. I’m going to get a soy pumpkin spice latte now from Starbucks. Care to join me?

Monty python: no, thank you. As Starbucks isn’t invented, and neither were pumpkin spice lattes.

Kari: ok! Maybe in 2020 after the Covid shit subsides a bit.

Monty python: yes. Quite.

Scene, scene... (whisper this one) scene.

The aforementioned scene was not real, nor was it endorsed by the real Terry Gilliam, Michael Palin, Eric Idle and John Cleese. But, I think terry jones and graham Chapman (who is a chap, and a man, making him a double man, which is very manly indeed, loves me, Kari Keillor, for who I am. Not egoic, but loves herself enough to write still, even its for her own pleasure, and to herself. ❤️)

[team-science-mega-nerds]

Fictober Prompt #19: “Yes, I admit it, you were right.” 

Fandom: Supergirl

Pairing: Danvarias

Warnings: Minor mentions of drug use

Thirteen miles from a bustling city with a designer landscape, quaint eateries, and a baseball team that nearly became the pride of Ohio is a rural blip on the map that is better left ignored. Duntown, which the residents resentfully call Doomstown, is a place that makes you reckon with reality. Ramshackle churches and hate crimes that people struggle to name, the folks of this city fear everything they do not know. For most that means outsiders. They turn up their noses and yell out the windows of their pick-up trucks. Go back where you came from! For some, their greatest fear is the only thing they’ve ever known - church. They drag themselves to Sunday service, seeking forgiveness for the things they cannot control. 

The two most popular places in Duntown are a local bar that serves stale beer and moonshine - if you know how to ask just right - and a weekly flea market that sets up in the parking lot of the local high school. Tents and tables are propped up around potholes that will never be fixed and people banter and barter their mundane little lives away. 

The biggest plight of the city takes everyone by surprise. It happens so fast that people struggle to make time between work - at a fading steel mill - and Sunday’s services to figure out exactly what’s going on. It’s a funeral of all things that sparks the interest of the collective town. Watching their children play in a field that they will probably never grow out of and eating bologna sandwiches and salad that’s nothing but iceberg lettuce and croutons, Sam’s entire life changes. 

“Went to water my plants this morning. That darn water,” Deborah says shaking her head, “looked like someone done pissed in it.” It’s the way she says it, all bite and resolute, apprehension comes to a head. That’s what catches Sam’s attention. It seems like just another thing to fear, another thorn in her side. Sam’s eyes go to Ruby, she’s laughing and playing tag with her friends. Ruby’s at that age where youth slowly starts to crumble and she’ll become aware of the world around her. 

Sam can see Tuffy and John sitting near a makeshift shrine of Kevin. They drink and drink, saluting their dead friend who perished on a normal workday at the mill. To date, Sam had been to seven funerals of people she’d known from high school. They all died in the same place, all had funerals presided over by the same poverty-stricken mourners, and all had after funeral receptions just like this. Tuffy and John smoked meth behind Mrs. Ainsley’s - Kevin’s mother - car. And all this was normal. All this met Sam’s expectations. 

Water that she had to boil before drinking did not. 

Deborah had made the comment about the drinking water six months ago and now, Sam seemed to be the only one brave enough to do something about it. Her bravery was, in fact, an accident. She’d been weaving in and out of her trailer home, trying to carry all of the groceries that she’d purchased at Costco six towns over. Ruby was supposed to be taking a bath and then going right to bed, Sam didn’t want to argue about it. Not today. 

It’d been a long road, getting where they are now. Borrowing from people she despised, working extra shifts at the grocery store, and relying on nosy neighbors to babysit. Sam, you’re a pretty girl. They’ve got some good men at the mill. She’d got a daily reminder of just how cute she was by handsy men, most of whom would go on to live and die at that very mill. Now that Sam and Ruby had a place of their own, things were starting to look up. “Mom. Mom!” Sam grabs four bags at once and rushes inside. She dumps the bags and throws the bathroom door open. 

“Oh, Rubes,” It’s a rash, tiny and probably inconsequential, but Sam has promised herself to always put Ruby first. Yellow water that has been slowly turning brown for months, and a rash, are enough to get Sam to make a call. 

The call itself goes terribly. She doesn’t know who to ask for or how to ask for what she wants. The secretary on the other end uses big words that feel suffocating. All Sam wants is to be safe. “Do you understand? I need you to send someone who can help us feel safe.” Sam feels like she blew it the moment she hangs up. She deeply considers moving. The cost is far outside of her reach but if she asks the right people and is willing to speak to her mother again, then she can make it happen. 

“Someone sent you an email!” Bernice, who everyone just calls Bezza, yells from where she’s seated in front of her trailer. Rocking and knitting like always. Sam approaches with Ruby at her side. “Remember when you showed me how to use the ‘Gmail’? Well, I guess your account is still up. The noise that email made, scared me to hell and back.”

“Who’s it from?” Sam can’t remember the last time she’d gotten an email that wasn’t about her missing a bill. 

“Some law firm.” Sam nearly trips on herself as she runs into Bezza’s trailer. She pushes past mounds of newspapers and boxes of old junk and finds her desktop computer. Sam bites her nails while she waits for the computer to wake up. She listens to Bezza tell Ruby about all of her fantastic finds at the flea market that week. Sam feels nauseous. 

When she finally manages to get to her email, Sam has to rifle through a bunch of spam and late fee notices to get to an email from Danvers & Danvers Law Offices: 

Dear Ms. Arias, 

I’ve received some initial information about Duntown and I am concerned about the lack of progress being made on behalf of your town. I’d like to come and talk to you sometime within the next few weeks. Please send me a list of dates and times that you are available to meet and we will work something out.

Alex Danvers LL.M. 

Sam rereads the email five times before typing out her response. She’s embarrassed that she’s only free to meet after eight most days, but she leaves room for other suggestions like a phone call. She sends the email and immediately gets a response. They’ll meet at The Tipsy Cow at 8:30 the following day. “Mom, you took like fifty years,” Ruby, who is far too aware and mature for a nine-year-old, says as they walk back to their trailer. “Bezza smells like mothballs.” Ruby hops up the steps one by one and they enter and both go in search of something that will pass for dinner. 

“I had to answer an email,” Sam explains. “Don’t comment on how people smell unless it’s nice.” 

“I like moths.” Ruby finds an apple in the fridge and munches on that while Sam gets to work on Hamburger Helper. “Who emailed? Delany’s mom got a new boyfriend. They went to Chicago for the weekend.” Sam wishes she could tell Ruby that Delany’s mom’s new boyfriend is an alcoholic who has questionable world views. Instead, she remains silent. “Can we go to Chicago?” 

“Someday.”

“There’s a giant bean there!” Ruby gets lost in an old Almanac, Sam starts to think that she’s made a grave mistake. Big corporations don’t take too kindly to meddling women. Sam’s a nobody, she knows that and what kind of lawyer travels all the way from National City just to talk? If Sam had a computer of her own, she’d email this Alex Danvers right now, and tell him to forget it. But dinner and bedtime stories get in the way of those thoughts. 

Sam is hunkered down at work just enough to forget all about it until it’s six-thirty and Ruby is asking why she has to stay at Deborah’s house that night. “I have to meet someone and I don’t know how long it’ll take. You like Deborah.”

“I like you more,” Ruby tells her pouting and sulking the whole walk over. The minute they arrive at the ranch house, Ruby sees Scout, an Australian Shepherd mix, and she forgets all of her misgivings. 

“Everything alright?” Deborah asks as they both watch Ruby, and her oversized backpack, bouncing around the yard. “You finally meeting someone?”

“A lawyer. Just to talk about the water situation.”

Deborah turns very serious. “You be careful now,” She warns, echoing the same tone that Sam’s mother had when she told her about this last night. Sam kisses Ruby goodbye and returns home to change into something more presentable. She settles for a turquoise shift dress and white platform sandals. The bar is close which is good for most people in the trailer community but terrible for Sam. On more than one occasion, there have been fights that have broken out right outside of Sam’s window. For now, she considers it a good thing that she lives so close, otherwise, she might have been late. 

The Tipsy Cow represents all the good and bad of the town. Everyone certainly knows everyone but that means that things often boil over and get heated in these very walls. Sam normally wouldn’t be caught dead alone in this place but it’s 8:30 and she doesn’t think she’ll have to wait long. 

Unless this big city lawyer is late. 

Sam orders a club soda and finds a booth in the back. They’ll need a quiet place to talk and there are too many mill workers crowding the bar and watching some baseball game that Sam could care less about. There’s a little bit of a lull, which Sam hardly notices until one of the mill workers barks - yes, barks - at a woman who’s just entered the bar. That kind of ruckus signals outsider, so Sam lifts her head to see what’s going on. The woman is wearing a grandad collar white button-up, mid-wash blue jeans, and a blazer that could probably pay off Sam’s mortgage. The briefcase is the thing that catches Sam’s attention the most. 

Oh, she sits up properly, Alex Danvers is a woman. 

Alex doesn’t notice Sam just yet. She checks her expensive watch, mutters fuck, and orders something from the bar. When Sam sees the bartender going for the tap, Sam rises to her feet and approaches. “I’d advise against that.” Alex turns looks between Sam and the bartender and taps her head as if to say ‘duh’. 

“Long drive. The brain’s on autopilot.” Alex motions to the bartender. “I’ll take a soda.” 

“We say pop around here,” Sam informs the lawyer. Once Alex has her soda, she follows Sam to the booth, and extends her hand. “So, you’re Alex.”

“Yep. And you’re Sam?”

“Yes.” Sam sits first. Alex slides her briefcase into the seat across from Sam and takes off her blazer before sitting. 

“Am I late?”

“Only by a few minutes.” Sam smiles. “I see you got a good Doomstown welcome,”

“Doomstown?”

“This place. It’s a nickname of sorts.” Alex frowns. 

“Doesn’t look doomed from where I’m sitting.” Sam toys with her straw trying not to get distracted by Alex placing her briefcase on the table. Alex pulls out a few documents and sets them on the table. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Coores & Phillips Company seems to be the main corp involved. They have the proper ordinances to drill in Cook and Favors county, but as you know, they’ve been drilling near the border here.” Alex goes to take a drink of her soda, but Sam reaches forward and grabs the glass first. “What?” 

“Don’t drink that.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“The bartender put moonshine in that.” Sam quickly lets go of the glass when she realizes that their fingers are touching. Alex laughs, uncomfortably, at the very suggestion that she’d get her drink spiked. “I’m serious.” 

“I can handle my liquor.”

“Don’t be...stupid. We’ve got no-joke moonshine out here.” There’s a competitive drive in Alex. Sam imagines that makes for some magic in the courtroom. “Those papers can tell you plenty but not enough. This place isn’t some cute little town that needs big city saving. It’s been six months, soon people are going to start fighting back.” 

“And how would they? Fight back I mean.” 

“You see those guys?” Sam nods toward the men at the bar, cheering for a homerun. “When they’re not working, they’re drinking. And if they’re drinking and on crank, then guns get involved.”

“We’ll need a town hall meeting. Something to show everyone that the problems are being addressed.” Alex takes a sip of her drink and grimaces. “We did a case in Texas two years ago. A nice settlement too.” 

“How much were the lawyer fees?”

Alex shakes her head. “No, no, nothing like that. This is pro-bono-.”

“I’ll pay. We’ll scrape money together. I’m not a charity case.” Alex seems to recognize Sam’s seriousness, so she lets it go in favor of mulling something over in her mind. 

“Show me.” 

“Show you...what?” 

“This town. Show me what I’m missing.” Alex pays for their drinks and manages to polish off the rest of her soda before following Sam out of the bar. They get another bark on their way to Alex’s car, Sam turns sharply. 

“Fuck off!” She warns. She’s seen these guys before. Heard their poor pickup lines. She won’t let them bully what might be their saving grace. 

“Oh, mommy’s pissed,” One of them says as Alex unlocks her car. Alex looks like she might say something, but Sam grabs her arm and continues to pull her along. When they’re in Alex’s SUV, which is a black Porsche Cayenne, Alex looks over at her sympathetically. 

“You have a kid?” 

“A daughter.” Alex will probably ask more but for now, she drives out of the parking lot and down the road. “Nice car.”

“Thanks,” Alex says a slight smile on her face. 

“I was being sarcastic, you can’t drive this thing around.” Sam points to her trailer which is only a block away. “You need to pull over there. You can park by my place.” Alex follows directions well but seems less than eager when they get out of the car and start walking. “Don’t worry.” 

“I’m not worried,” Alex lies. They approach the church. Sam hasn’t stepped foot in there in four years and counting. Alex seems to acknowledge her jitters by slowing near the front door. “This the kind of place for you?”

“Girls like me avoid places like that,” Sam tells her. “Didn’t always. Things change.” The streets are quiet on the weeknights. The further you get from the bar, the easier it is to forget what kind of town this is. Sam glances up at the sky, the pollution from the mill has changed the whole world from Sam’s perspective. She doesn’t want Ruby growing up in a place without stars and with rusty water. “You shouldn’t take this case.”

“Why not?”

“I saw the way you looked at those guys. Like you wanted to say something or fight.” Sam stops Alex before they reach the long pathway that leads to the mill. “But you didn’t.”

“I would’ve. Easily. You don’t know me.” Alex sticks her hands in her pockets. “My mom would say that this is a lost cause. That we’ll get buried under big corporate lawyers, but our firm is solid. We’ll get you paid-.”

“If you think any of this is about money, then you don’t understand.”

“I do understand.” Alex touches the small of Sam’s back. She isn’t certain what to make of the gesture but she’ll remember it in case things take a turn for the worst. “Whoa.” Alex bends over with her hands on her knees. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“That moonshine.”

“Oh,” Sam laughs. “Yeah, it takes a bit to bite you like that.” Sam wraps her arm under Alex’s shoulder and guides her back down the road. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I could just use some water, which...I recognize is a problem.” 

“I have bottled water at home.” Even though they’re strangers, Sam feels comfortable enough with Alex to invite her into her trailer. For one, there’s nothing worth stealing in the place. And two, Alex has just decided to put so much on the line to help out. Sam wishes she’d cleaned up more. Or maybe folded up her couch so it would look like there was more space but Alex seems mainly focused on water, so Sam buries her shame. 

“Thanks,” Alex mumbles as she leans against the counter and downs half the bottle. Sam tries not to stare when Alex untucks her shirt and looks around the modest kitchen. 

“I told you not to drink that shit.”

“Okay, yes, I admit it. You were right.” Alex shrugs it off. Sam sits at the tiny wooden table and starts unlatching her sandals. When she’s finished and looks back up at Alex, she’s struck by the fact that Alex’s eyes are already on her. Like she’d been watching her. “Um...I’ll go. You have your kid and everything-.”

“She’s staying at a friend’s place.” Sam doesn’t know why she jumps in to say that but she does know that everything has a cost. If Alex wasn’t accepting payment from her, then she must want something. Sam takes a chance, a small one, and stands shoulder to shoulder with Alex. She’s been here before, giving recklessly. Never with Ruby around but there were times where desperation took hold. “I could repay you…” Sam has never had to say much to anyone, just show casual interest and they would find a way to take control. 

Alex is different, Sam learns right away, taking a step away and putting her water bottle down. “You’re a good person, Sam. I am too.” Alex lets out a breath. “We can work together, can’t we? Probably better when I’m not this drunk.” 

“I wasn’t…” Sam shakes her head. “In this place, things sometimes get warped.”

“It’s okay,” Alex says sincerely. “And in honor of us understanding each other. Would it be possible for me to sleep here tonight? On the couch, on the floor...whichever.” 

“Of course you can.” By the time Sam has gathered a pillow and blanket from the closet, Alex is already snoring softly on the couch. Sam covers her with a blanket, locks the doors, and goes into her own bedroom. Outside of feeling embarrassed by basically offering sex as payment, Sam is remarkably thrilled with her day. Even in her tiny room that often makes her feel like a child, Sam is floored by the possibilities that the future brings. 

Doomstown might not be doomed quite yet and if the fight that Sam has seen crop up in Alex’s eyes is any indication, they might actually have a chance. Sam doesn’t like to get her hopes up. She kneels at her bedside, crosses herself, and prays for the first time since she was in high school. She wants to be safe and for once, someone understands that. 

When she wakes up, Sam finds Deborah and Ruby in the kitchen. They’re both eating cereal and Deborah is boiling the water for the coffee maker. Neither seems all that phased, especially Ruby who points to the other room with her spoon, “Who’s that in there?”

“That’s Alex, she’s a lawyer.” Deborah arches a brow at Sam. Sam peeks into the room and finds Alex exactly where she left her. 

“What’s she doing here?” Ruby whispers as she looks over the couch at Alex. 

“She’s going to help us get clean water.”

“Really?!” Ruby yells. She bolts to where she can get face to face with Alex whose eyes open slowly. She has to blink a few times to remember where she is but when she does she smiles at Ruby and says ‘hi’. “You’re gonna help us?”

Alex looks to Sam and then sits up a little. “Yeah, I’m gonna help you.” On their way to check to see if Alex’s car got stolen Alex observes the town in the light of day. Bezza is rocking away in her chair. The hazy overcast does nothing to deter Alex’s smile. Even shouting from inside a trailer doesn’t seem to frighten her. “I like it here,” Alex tells Sam.

“Really?”

“I like the people at least.” 

The next time Alex Danvers comes into town, it’s to rent an entire building out for her team. They parade in with their fancy cars and nice suits but they immediately get to work. The drilling ceases for a week and after what seems like a standoff - marked by a lot of yelling in and outside of town hall - Alex takes the Coores & Phillips Company to court. The win comes suddenly, after months and months of proceedings. The big corporation senses the uneasiness and after a few men from the mill, high on meth, blow up a drill, it’s fairly obvious that this is a war they won’t win. Alex knocks at Sam’s door, sweaty from jogging over to this side of town, she is elated and Sam knows that finally, everything is right in their little burden of a town. 

Two weeks later, while Ruby, Deborah, and Bezza are playing cards, Sam announces that she’s going to take a shower. Alex looks up from where she’s seated, after losing in the very first round, and follows Sam into the hallway. “Don’t make me get a restraining order,” Sam jokes. 

“This is actually...about that night.” 

“I’ve known you for about a year. There’s been plenty of nights.” The hallway is barely a hallway. Just a sliver of space that leaves only a few inches between their bodies. 

“The first one.” Alex rolls her eyes, knowing that Sam will wait until she says exactly what she means. “We could’ve, you know. Ended up in bed together.”

“You wouldn’t have been very good. From what I remember you were all valiance and moonshine.” 

“That stuff was so strong, I might still be all moonshine.” Alex puts her hand on Sam’s waist, it’s the most direct she’s ever been with something outside of the courtroom. “I’d like to try again. Properly, I mean.”

“That’s sweet.”

“You aren’t interested?” Alex questions sadly. 

“I am interested. But more so in you joining me for a shower.” Sam holds Alex’s face in her hands and smiles. “Show me you belong in this crazy little town. Show me what you’re made of.” 

“We can hear everything you’re saying!” Deborah yells from the kitchen. Alex and Sam crack up laughing, hustling into the bathroom, and taking off their clothes.

[hwgossiparchive-blog]

Any fave crackships? relationship or platonic?

Grab an extra large bucket of popcorn, Anon. This is going to be a blockbuster and its billion dollar sequel.

Crack!ship

Elsa and Crowley. What could possibly be better to start this off with than the Ice Queen and the King of Hell? I admit I wasn’t expecting Elsa to be the truly evil one out of the two, but she is the Queen after all, so dishonor on my cow for expecting so little from her. Yas, Queen!

Peggy and Jim. I have one thing to say, and it is very important. Sign me up for Agent Starfleet!

Eponine and Cato. I was kind of surprised at this one, myself. The aesthetic of appearance and personality drew me in though when I thought of these two together and now I can’t unthink it. Which is good, because I don’t want to.

Tris and Sam. Dear Chuck above, how much more of their angst is my heart going to be able to handle? There is so much emotion swirling around these two, it’s a miracle the city can even contain it. Whatever they’ve got going on is such a delicious slow burn. I don’t want it to end.

Kit [Snicket] and Justice. This is the only pairing on here that isn’t human/human, but that doesn’t matter at all. Kit and Justice are so mutually consenting, I honestly can’t help feeling like this is the best pairing to come out of all my ships.

Canon!ship

Gert and Chase. I scream about them at least five times a day. I know I said I ship anything that can consent, but sometimes there are those trope ships that are so common, you just want to give up. The jock boy with a brain he actually uses and the girl that can’t be labeled, with an even smarter brain than that I want to be able to telepathically communicate with dinosaurs too! is just too much to ignore. I am forever thirsty.

Scott and Allison. Oh, my heart. My big shipper heart. I still haven’t fully repaired the damage caused by Allison’s declaration and death. Even now that they’re both alive and well, a tear still comes to my eye whenever I remember her saying it doesn’t hurt. I wish it didn’t hurt, Allison, but it does. It hurts so much!

Nancy and Steve. I wasn’t originally going to mention these two, but after recent events came to light, I have to say something. The very idea that there may one day be little Stancy kids running around this city makes me so happy to be alive!!!

Mary and John. They’re like the Ultimate OTP, people! Them getting together is the reason we’re all still alive to be in this place to talk about them being the Ultimate OTP. It’s a perfect circle. I couldn’t not mention them. Also, how dare Mary for not remembering the loml- I mean her life!

Olivia and Jacques. I know, I know. They haven’t interacted yet. I asked myself, “How could you even consider giving this pairing a place in the limelight?” My reply to myself was, “How could I not?” I stopped talking to myself after that. It was starting to get weird. The reason these two are getting a mention is, for right now, solely because they’re one of my OTPs. Their love story was so unexpected, so profoundly beautiful, and so tragically short. If these two let me down now, my wrath will be so much more intense than the tears I wept over their demise.

Simon and Clary. Best friends. Check. Lovers. Check. Immortal in my heart. CHECK.

Jack and Rose. UGH. They’re so iconic. Who doesn’t know their tragic love story and the song that went with it? No, not the French Canadian warbler one, the nice one that the musicians played as the world fell apart around them. That’s the one I associate with Jack and Rose. It suits them better, I think.

Rapunzel and Flynn. This was definitely one of those pairings that made me go WHAAAA? I was not expecting the truth about their relationship to shock me as much as it did. I had to remind myself that in the time they came from it was normal for there to be quite the age gap between life partners. Even with that reminder, it still felt really creepy, until Flynn showed up looking for Rapunzel, that is. The man clearly knows his boundaries with her and that is so attractive.

Kit [Snicket] and Dewey. The man isn’t even in this city, but the way Kit feels about him is not lessened by that fact. I just know when he does show up, because they all do at some point, their love story is gonna blow the roof off this joint.

Austin and Ally. Enough said.

Platonic (crack+canon)

Human!Impala / Human!Sumarbrander / GIR. Could these three be any more adorable? They aren’t even technically human, but that doesn’t matter to them and I am eating it up. Go and be the best platonic!ships I’ll ever have, you beautiful car and sword and robot. I love you.

Dinah and Dean. They started out as a possible trope pairing but then the dynamic changed and I was hooked. I cannot get enough of these two when they’re in each other’s presence, and even when they’re not. I see you, Dinah, protecting your friend from harm. Beautiful. So beautiful.

Sansa and Kit [Charming]. Talk about unexpected. They seem to like-like each other, and it’s cute, but no. There’s just something off about those two ever being more than friends.

Castiel and Jimmy. I literally spent two hours trying to decide where they fit in these categories. For now, it’ll be here, but don’t be surprised if they get moved up to the top of the Canon!ship list.

[johnhardinsawyer]

What is Acceptable

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

3 / 7 / 21 – Third Sunday in Lent

Psalm 19

John 2:13-22

“What is Acceptable”

(God’s Zeal of Approval – Again and Again)

Living in a house with a three-year-old has made us very aware of the things we say.  I mean, it’s not like my wife and I were cussing like sailors before we had a child, but it is like we live with a little sponge who soaks up every word we say, and then has the ability to repeat any of it at any time, whether we are expecting it or not.  “Where did he hear that?” we sometimes wonder when our son says something surprising.  “Well, he probably heard it from us.”  So, we try – we really do – to only use “acceptable” language around our house – the kind of language that – I hope – my grandmother would find acceptable.

The last verse of today’s reading from the Book of Psalms – talks about using words that are acceptable to God, but also about having thoughts and feelings that are acceptable to God.  In the original language, the Psalmist is hoping that any “speech,”[1] any words that are uttered by the mouth and any inner “musing” of the “mind and heart and human will”[2]will receive the “goodwill, favor, and acceptance”[3] of God.  Another possible way of translating these words that I find beautiful, is that the Psalmist is praying that the “music which resounds”[4] within us will be acceptable – almost like praying that our inner soundtrack will be suitable for God to listen to. . .  perhaps when God is working out, or on a long drive, or just listening in on what we are thinking and feeling.

Now, there are likely plenty of moments when our inner soundtrack – perhaps, our inner monologue – is playing just what God wants to hear – thoughts and feelings that are loving and helpful and selfless and all of those good things.  But I know, from personal experience, that there are plenty of moments when my inner soundtrack is playing exactly what God does not want to hear.  All of us think and say the wrong things – the things that reveal who we really are:  fallen and sinful people who are just about helpless when it comes to thinking and saying the right things.

Jesus knew this side of human beings all-too-well.  In the Gospel of Mark, he says “. . . it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.” (Mark 7:15, 21)  All of these evil intentions do make it hard to say and think the acceptable things.  

But, just in case you’re wanting to try to do and say the acceptable things, and are wondering how we are supposed to know what is acceptable to God, Psalm 19 gives us some guidance by talking about a deep awareness of God and a humble respect for God’s teachings.  As the psalm begins, we are given a vision of the heavens and are reminded of just how glorious and miraculous God’s creation is.  It is good to be aware, the Psalmist seems to be saying, of just how great God is and how signs of God’s power are all around for us to see.  And then the Psalmist gives us a description of what God teaches – God’s law, which is perfect, and sure, and right, and clear, and pure, and true.  

As Jesus teaches, the whole law can be summed up in two great commandments:  “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength” (Mark 12:30) and, “. . . love your neighbor as [you love] yourself.” (12:31)  Love God.  Love neighbor.  These two commandments are the very definition of what is acceptable to God.

Now, Psalm 19 reminds us that even when we are aware of God’s greatness and the sweetness of God’s law because of the great benefits to doing what is right, there are also great challenges.  “Clear me from hidden faults,” the Psalmist writes, “because I know they’re in there – resounding within me.  Keep me free from proud thoughts, O God, because, Lord knows, I have them.” (Psalm 19:12-13)[5]  As Eugene Peterson translates this passage:

God’s Word warns us of danger

and directs us to hidden treasure.

Otherwise how will we find our way?

Or know when we play the fool?

Clean the slate, God, so we can start the day fresh!

Keep me from stupid sins,

from thinking I can take over your work;

Then I can start this day sun-washed,

scrubbed clean of the grime of sin.[6]

In today’s first reading, Jesus is trying to do just that – scrub the grime of sin out of the Temple in Jerusalem.  You know, there is something that has always struck me as a bit wild about this story of Jesus cleansing the Temple.  Here is Jesus – the sweet and gentle Jesus who welcomes children and feeds the hungry – grabbing a piece of rope and whipping people and animals into a frenzy, pouring out coins and flipping tables over.  Just what is going on, here?  And. . . is it acceptable?

There are a few things you need to know about this story.  First, it takes place during the celebration of the Passover – when the entire city of Jerusalem is filled with people from all over who have come to celebrate the festival.  Second, they have traveled from up and down the country to see family (remember what that was like), to take in the big city, and to make a sacrificial offering at the Temple.  And, third, in order to make the traditional offering of a cow (if you could afford it), a sheep (if you couldn’t afford a cow), or a dove (if you couldn’t afford either)[7] the people have either brought one of these animals with them or, they are prepared to purchase one when they arrive.  The ancient laws say that the animals brought for sacrifice need to be without blemish.  I would imagine, though, that traveling for several days from the far reaches of Judea or Galilee with an unblemished animal increases the chances of it becoming a bit blemished in transit.  So, over the years, ingenuity and capitalism have found a way to corner the previously untapped market on unblemished animals in Jerusalem and have built it into the thriving marketplace that greets Jesus when he arrives at the Temple – the Temple that has been under construction for forty-six years.[8]

There is a problem, though, because the people selling animals and exchanging one kind of currency for another – a practice that props up the institution of the Temple, (and keeps the Capital Campaign going, if you will) – is taking advantage of the pilgrims who have simply come to worship and make an offering.  This is, in part, what makes Jesus so mad.  He is angry at a practice that seems to put up a barrier between God and God’s people.[9]  And so, Jesus causes a scene and turns the tables over.

It seems strange to ask the question if Jesus is doing something acceptable – because, I mean, it’s Jesus and we love Jesus, so, of course it’s acceptable.  But, would we accept it?  Because, on reflection, I admit that Jesus’ actions here are a bit uncomfortable for people like me.  I mean, at a distance, I am cheering Jesus on, but I could also imagine Jesus coming into our own sanctuary all hot and bothered about how much of a processing fee the credit card company charges for online giving and seeking to shut down the website.  For the record, the church does pay a processing fee, and it is low, but still. . .

“Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”  Jesus shouts angrily.  His disciples remember the words of Psalm 69 – a Psalm about being persecuted – in which we read, “. . . zeal for your house has consumed me.”  (Psalm 69:9)  This zeal – this passionate devotion to God – has filled Jesus to overflowing and it spills over onto the moneychangers and those who will end up persecuting and killing Jesus, because of what he starts in the Temple.  The zeal of Jesus begets the zealotry of those who will eventually kill him.  Anger begets anger. . .

Is anger acceptable?  Anger is definitely human and Jesus was human.  Anger is natural and there are times when it can be quite constructive, but we oftentimes use anger in destructive ways.  The angry meditations and feelings that resound in our hearts about the pandemic or partisanship or poverty or power are only natural.  But, what is the line between righteous zealous anger, like Jesus, and unrighteous zealotry?  One kind calls people to greater faithfulness and a deeper awareness of God and respect for God’s law of love, but the other kind kills people in the name of God or burns crosses on front lawns, or storms supposedly sacred spaces with idolatrous ideologies and deadly results.

When Jesus cleansed the Temple, he revealed the things that anger God – a disregard for true and humble devotion, a disrespect for the poor, a dishonoring of the sacred space within the human heart and on God’s holy mountain.  But the only person to die from what Jesus did in the Temple was Jesus, himself.

Jesus has a way of turning the tables on us – of showing us what a passion for the poor and downtrodden, the oppressed, the blind, the lame, the prisoner, and the sinner can do. . . even sinners like you and me.  You see, Jesus is quite capable of flipping tables, but the good news is that he is always more willing to set a Table than he is to flip them.  The One who is always telling us “this is my body, broken for you” is the same one whose words and meditations got him killed by people like us.  The Temple of his own body was broken. . .  but God raised him up again on the third day.

As I said a moment ago, it is good to be aware, of just how great God is and how signs of God’s power are all around for us to see – even in the cross and the empty tomb.  It is good to be aware of what God teaches – God’s law, which is perfect, and sure, and right, and clear, and pure, and true – revealed in the loving person of Jesus Christ.

And so, in the words of today’s psalm, “Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable to you, O Lord, our strength and my redeemer.”  (Psalm 19:14)  Our words and our thoughts matter to God – words and meditations that are centered not just around the greatness of God – because a lot of people think God is great – but firmly anchored in God’s ultimate law of love:  love of God, love of neighbor.  This is what sets Jesus and his table-turning tirade apart from what you and I – and so many angry people – usually do.  Jesus shows us that there is a difference between righteous anger and being angry because we think we are right.  We are not as great as God.  We need God’s help to love one another.  We need God’s help to channel our righteous anger in ways that are truly loving and helpful.

This is what is acceptable.  May it be so, with God’s help.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

------

[1] F. Brown, S. Driver, and C. Briggs, The Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon (Peabody:  Hendrickson Publishers, Inc., 1997) 57.

[2] Brown, Driver, and Briggs, 523.

[3] Brown, Driver, and Briggs, 953.

[4] Brown, Driver, and Briggs, 212.

[5] Paraphrased, JHS.

[6] Eugene Peterson, The Message – Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs:  NAV Press, 2002) 703.  Psalm 19:11-14.

[7] See Genesis 15:8 and Leviticus 1.

[8] See John 2:20.

[9] And, perhaps he is seeking to fulfill some ancient words of the prophet, Zechariah, who spoke of a day when no one will be trading goods in the house of the Lord.  See Zechariah 14:21.

[thekillerssluts]

Arcade Fire talk employment, American Dream, 'Everything Now'

Art-rockers Arcade Fire are trying to make us think. They've always tried to push their audience toward social responsibility and awareness. But with their 2017 release Everything Now, they're pressing even further, overinflating their lyrics and live shows with hot-air messages of consumerism, hoping their fans will once again wake up and pop the balloon.

In light of that prevalent issue, I wondered, what's their perspective on opportunity in the U.S.? Do they feel they have too much stuff themselves? How do they avoid working too much to fund their own lifestyles?

Ready to dig deep into all that and more, multi-instrumentalist Will Butler and bassist/guitarist Tim Kingsbury sat down to talk with me before the show.

Cecilia Johnson: Hey, thanks for talking with me. Between "Everything Now" and "Creature Comfort," you guys have been focusing on possession and overabundance on the new album. What's something in your life that you have but could do without?

Kingsbury: I just got rid of a lot of stuff. I moved houses, so it was a big purge. It felt good. Still feel like I need to get rid of more stuff. I could do without CDs at this point in my life.

I also think about consumerism and overworking as really linked -- more money to buy more stuff. How do you avoid working too much, or how successful are you at that?

Butler: We've always worked how we've wanted. Luckily, we've had success from the get-go. I mean, obviously, we've worked really hard. But from the moment Funeral came out, we haven't had to have day jobs. Which has been affirming of the work. It's like, "Oh, that worked, so just keep working as you are."

I mean, toward the end of a touring cycle, you start to feel a little crazy physically, and emotionally, and spiritually.

Kingsbury: Yeah.

Butler: But it's also [that] playing for people and putting on a show is quite meaningful. Like, nothing we do is a money grab. But we've definitely become more of a business. We're literally 70 [people] on the road, so there's six of us, and then the rest of the people are technically our employees. We're employing 64 people to go around the world, and build this crazy stage, and cook for us and cook for the crew. In addition to the local crew. Which is a funny feeling if you think about it.

Kingsbury: I do find that sometimes, further into a tour -- as I get a little more existential about what I'm doing -- I think, "Whoa. All this production. This is crazy." But then that goes away, and I'm like, "There's nothing better than playing these songs to people that want to hear them." It feels very good.

Do you try to keep in mind anything in particular about being a boss? Knowing that these 64 people are your employees, how do you take care of people?

Kingsbury: I just try to talk to everybody, partly. Stay tuned in.

I mean, we have a great tour manager, and our production manager's amazing. I think [it helps to] have a team that you know is communicating well together.

Butler: Yeah, a lot of the crew are rigging stuff at 6 in the morning, and then they rig down after, from midnight to 4 in the morning. We're on utterly opposite schedules.

But we're really intimate with the stage crew. The keyboard tech, Don Lee, has become our studio manager. He's been with us for...ten years?

Kingsbury: Since Neon Bible.

Really? I didn't know that. Do the same guidelines play into how you work with each other as a band?

Kingsbury: It's very different. It doesn't feel like an employee/employer relationship at all; it's more of a partnership. We're not hired to be here. So it's more challenging balancing it with the rest of our lives. Having families and doing all that stuff. It doesn't get easier to balance that stuff, I don't think. It's a constant negotiation.

I thought one of the coolest parts of Everything Now was the way it's sequenced: how it starts with "Everything_Now (continued)," goes right into "Everything Now," and ends with "Everything Now (continued)." Why did you guys want to play with chronology and sequencing like that?

Will Butler: I think we've always made records. We've never had a hit song; we've only had records, and we've technically had three number-one records now. [laughs] They've only lasted a week or so. But albums are the art we make. So we've always deeply thought and sequencing, and pace, and flow, and naming. All of those things really matter.

Tim Kingsbury: I don't know if you noticed, but at the end of the record, it loops straight back into the beginning. We get very nerdy and excited about that kind of stuff. [We like to] pay attention to the whole record as an entity.

Do you each have a favorite song off Everything Now? I know you think of the album as a thing first and foremost, so if that's the answer, that's cool.

Butler: No, it changes as you play them live. Currently, "Put Your Money On Me" is a technical challenge for me that I really enjoy. I have to twiddle a lot of knobs at the start of it, and it still feels a little panicky, and that's a good thing.

That's funny -- I saw your tweets a few days ago about messing up, and they were cool. It is genuinely cool to see someone working for what they're playing, even if they slip up once in a while.

So "Peter Pan" talks about a "dead-eyed American Dream," and there's "the white lie of American prosperity on "Creature Comfort." Do you think the American Dream ever existed? If so, where's it at now?

Kingsbury: Well, I'm a Canadian, so I don't know if I can answer this question.

Butler: What do you think of the Canadian Dream?

Kingsbury: The Canadian Dream is basically to not be America. [laughs] It was like, "Let's stay British. Britain doesn't want us? Oh. Okay, let's not be American." [all laugh]

Will, what about you?

Butler: I think you can have a complex and accurate relationship with American history -- the first Butlers came to Boston in 1630, and they've kind of fulfilled the John Adams idea, where it's like, "We're going to war so that our children can be mathematicians so that their children can be teachers so their children can be artists." That's very much been the arc of my life's path.

My great-grandfather on my mom's side was Mormon, and their family was literally driven from America by shotguns and pitchforks, and they went to Utah because of their religious belief. And then my grandmother grew up in a traveling band. Like, poverty wages. Pre-Great Depression. They would go camping in the summers. They're like, "Remember when we used to go camping and we brought the cow?" And then one of them would be like, "You know we were homeless, right? We weren't camping. We were homeless."

But then they provided for my mom who provided for us. So for us, [the American Dream] has been true. But I think you can also have a really keen eye as to how that has not existed for numbers of people. I think you can be of both minds -- it's a lot easier to be of both minds when you're a rich white person, like myself. But I have heard enough passionate defenses of [the American Dream] from people throughout history that I know there's some truth to it.

Yeah, how do you stay in the present? When you talked about your grandmother being homeless, it reminded me of how we like to romanticize the past. You can do that as a band; fans of the band can do that to your career, too. How do you stay in the now?

Kingsbury: In terms of the band, it's just 'cause I don't want to keep playing the same old songs over and over. It's compelling to explore new ideas. Do you mean in general, or just in the band?

Either or. I guess as a band.

Kingsbury: It's a little bit challenging, because not all of us live in the same city anymore. It takes more of a concerted effort to get together and be like, "Okay, we're gonna do something." When we started, Will was gone for part of it, but we basically all lived in the same place and could just get together.

Butler: On tour, playing the music, you can retreat into the music. It is actually creating stuff in the moment, and people are responding to it. It's rare to be in a line of work where you can actually do that. So there is a very distinct nowness to making music -- almost more than other arts. You're literally just shaking the air between you and someone else.

Kingbury: Mm.

Butler: It doesn't always happen. Sometimes you're just like, "I am doing a job." [sings and mimes punching synthesizer] "I'm doing a job. I'm doing a job." But I find you can retreat into the music whenever it gets dark.

The last thing I wanted to ask was whether Will, you had a favorite song on Tim's new Sam Patch album. Have you had a chance to listen?

Butler: Yeah, it's great. I actually really loved the opening and closing synth swoop of "Must Have Been an Oversight." To me, that's classic. It's like an archetypal sound of the world. That's so cool.

Now that I'm thinking of solo projects, I'm wondering: have you two ever been to Eaux Claires [Festival]? I knew Richard [Reed Parry] and Sarah [Neufeld] have played there.

Butler: No, we're interested. We'd love to do it someday.

Kingsbury: Yeah, it'd be fun. We talk about it.

Thanks for taking the time.

[nancygduarteus]

Transplantees Find Catharsis in Holding Their Old Hearts

Kamisha Hendrix’s heart lay on the table between us. Seventy days ago, this heart had been beating inside of her, back behind the dark scar that plunged into the neckline of her blouse.

“No—my heart didn’t beat,” Hendrix clarified. “It trembled.”

The chemo used to treat her non-Hodgkin's lymphoma had damaged her cardiac muscle irreparably, reducing its strength to 15 percent. She regularly lapsed in and out of consciousness. “I felt like I was moving through mud,” she recalled.

Hendrix looked at the heart on the table, the organ she had carried for 44 years, and spoke in its imaginary voice. “You wanna live?” She gave the heart a whimpering intonation. “Okay, I'll give you another beat.”

She switched back to her own voice, “Thank you, heart. Thanks a lot, friend.”

Three months ago, Hendrix’s mother, Carolyn Woods, had already written her obituary and tucked it away in a drawer. The theme, Woods explained, was For Whom the Bell Tolls. “It was about everyone coming to pay their last respects—and the people are the bell. All that crying and wailing would be the people tolling for her.”

Ultimately, the story of Hendrix’s heart did end in a funeral. Somewhere, on a clear May morning, an organ donor died. Within hours, Hendrix received a new heart.

The transplant saved Hendrix’s life, and yet—it would also be technically true to say that in the process, a part of her had died. We were in Dallas, Texas, at the Baylor Heart and Vascular Center to reunite Hendrix with her native heart and reflect on what it means to live without it.

The idea for this kind of encounter originated with William Roberts, Baylor’s chief cardiac pathologist. In 2014, Roberts began the Heart-to-Heart program, inviting cardiac transplant patients to see and hold their former organs. The primary objective was education. Roberts delivers a health lecture with the patient’s own heart as Exhibit A.

For transplantees, compliance with doctors’ lifestyle instructions is critical to recovery and longevity. One recent study found that in the domains of diet, exercise, medication, and tobacco avoidance, noncompliance ranged from 18 to 37 percent. Furthermore, compliance was observed to decrease over time.

While Hendrix’s heart failure was primarily due to another cause, her condition was exacerbated by unhealthy lifestyle choices—a factor that impacts nearly all heart-transplant patients. With Heart-to-Heart, Roberts has found a way to clearly demonstrate the effect of these choices on the heart itself. According to a study co-authored by the cardiologist, 75 percent of program participants reported that the experience has changed their health-related behaviors “to a great degree.”

James Murtha's heart (Roc Morin)

Roberts begins each session with raw statistics.

“In the United States, there are 6 million people living with heart failure,” he lectures in a honeyed Georgian accent. “Every year, only about 2,200 of those people receive heart transplants. So, you are very, very special. You’ve been given a second chance.”

Unceremoniously lifting the surgical cloth that covers the heart, Roberts describes what he sees. The history of the heart is there, incontrovertibly embedded in the organ. Most are cocooned in hard yellow fat.

“If you dropped this in the Mississippi,” Roberts opines, “it would float all the way to the Gulf.”

“Oh my god!” Hendrix gasped. “Look at all that fat! I guess those chips have gotta go.”

“That’s right,” Roberts replied. “And those cows, chickens, and pigs on your plate.”

In addition to education, the reunion also provides an opportunity for closure—a benefit that Roberts didn’t initially expect. After facing death—what transplantee John Bell prefers to call “the abyss”—survivors are frequently left traumatized. That reality is apparent in the standard warlike medical rhetoric, with doctors and patients alike speaking the language of soldiers. Together they fight their battles, target the enemy, eradicate and annihilate. With the focus on winning, dedicated opportunities to stop and reflect are rare.

Tina Sample’s ordeal began with a massive heart attack that was misdiagnosed as a gastrointestinal issue. After days of breathless agony, she was finally correctly diagnosed at a different hospital. “I had what they call ‘the widowmaker,’” she recounted, “100 percent blockage. I had a massive amount of blood clots throughout my heart. The doctor had never seen anything like it in his 24 years of practicing medicine. He called me a miracle.”

In the months that followed, Sample lived in constant fear of death. “I was just so scared every night,” she confessed. “I had this terror that this could be my last night on earth, so I’d try to keep myself awake. I would keep myself awake until 4 or 5 a.m. I wanted to see my son graduate college. I wanted to know my grandkids. There were so many things I wanted to see.”

James Murtha had been healthy his entire life. “I’ve never broke a bone in my body,” he insisted. “I’ve never really been sick at all, except for the flu once and chicken pox when I was a kid. So this—when it hit, it hit hard.”

Murtha had been driving home from work when he began to shiver and sweat. It was a heart attack. Later, he recalled being in a hospital bed, on life support, his liver and kidneys failing. He says he had a vision of his mother, lying in a similar bed half a century earlier. It was one of his earliest memories.

“I basically went back in time,” he began. “I was five. They brought us all in, the night she passed away. I remember her telling me, ‘You’re gonna be good for your dad now, aren't you?’ There were five of us kids, and she made my dad promise that he'd keep us all together.” She died in that bed, at the age of 25, from a rare cancer.

As Murtha lay suspended between life and death, the visions continued. His wife grasped his hand as he described what he called an out-of-body experience: “I was in this place looking for my older brother Mike. We had been talking about getting together. He was a dreamer. Oh, it had been over 30, 40 years since we’d played together. And then he died. But, I was in this place, like a green forest, meadows, and there were these bright figures all around. And, there was this one figure, I couldn’t—it was just really bright, and he was in a robe like Jesus. And, he told me, ‘Your brother is home, you need to go find yourself.’”

Murtha awoke in an intensive care unit, with a new heart bounding in his chest. His old heart went first to the pathology lab for an autopsy. At that point, Roberts claims, “99.5 percent of hospitals throw the hearts away. They just don’t have the space to keep them.” Baylor is different, however. Their lab contains thousands of hearts in permanent storage, making it one of the most extensive cardiac research facilities in the world. The availability of these organs creates a unique opportunity for a program like Heart-to-Heart. Each transplant patient at Baylor is routinely informed about the option, which is promoted as an educational opportunity.

On the day of a viewing session, clinical coordinator Saba Ilyas carefully retrieves and prepares each organ. The patients come in, sometimes alone, sometimes with their families, all eyeing the tray with the bulging surgical towel.

Hendrix had expected to see something “black and shriveled, probably three times the normal size, and just jello-like.”

Bell had expected a big red ideograph, “like when you open a Valentine’s card.”

“It wasn’t like that at all though,” he continued. “What it reminded me of, was a piece of roast beef.”

Under the glaring examination lights of the Baylor pathology lab, the visceral reality of what had actually happened to these people was an abstraction. I was there, holding a lump of raw meat in my hands, trying to feel the life that had once pulsated through it. Across culture and time, the heart has been a metaphor for love, for valor, for the soul itself—for everything we can sense but never touch. Here too, at the viewing, it was evident, by the gentle reverence it inspired, by the tender way in which it was held—the meaning of this organ transcended its mere function and form. Each transplantee was left to interpret the significance of this experience for themselves.

James Murtha holds his own heart. (Roc Morin)

“The whole time you’re holding your heart,” Bell described, “your brain wants to have a little conversation with you—like you shouldn’t really be doing this. This is not normal. And, you’re like—well, but here it is. I have my heart right here in my hands, and it’s normal to me.” Bell later recalled opening his eyes for the first time after his operation. “In a very poignant moment, I told my new heart that I’d take care of it as best I could for as long as I could.”

Hendrix speculated about the identity of her donor. Based on the frenetic surge of energy she reports experiencing since the transplant, she mused that “it feels like a tennis player.” Afterwards, she spoke again about the borrowed life source she carries inside of her. “It’s like the donor, in some way, is still alive. I think, if the donor was a happy person, they’re still a happy person, it just manifests itself through me.”

For Sample, the heart in her chest feels palpably foreign. She has dreamed about her unknown donor—envisioning him kneeling before her, offering up his heart with his own two hands. She has stopped using the common phrase “my heart” to describe her feelings. She has replaced it, sometimes haltingly, with “my mind.”

Bell held his former heart in front of his chest, with hands that shook from the drugs he must take for the rest of his life to keep his body from rejecting his new organ. The survivor found himself unexpectedly smiling. “To see my native heart, this thing that had caused so much pain and heartache, and to be able to walk away [from it]—I felt victorious.”

Hendrix thought of God, and of all her mother’s fervent prayers. “It made me feel how truly blessed I am to be here.”

Sample’s emotions overwhelmed her. “When something is gone that’s been a part of you—the thing that gives you life—there’s a sense of loss. There’s a grieving process that you have to go through. It’s crazy, but it’s like a person. It’s dead. My heart is dead, and there it is, lying on the table right there. If your mind goes to that place, then you can’t help but feel that loss. I told my heart ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t take care of you better.’ It brought tears to my eyes, truly. I needed to say goodbye.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/08/heart-to-heart-transplants-therapy/537504/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

Transplantees Find Catharsis in Holding Their Old Hearts

Kamisha Hendrix’s heart lay on the table between us. Seventy days ago, this heart had been beating inside of her, back behind the dark scar that plunged into the neckline of her blouse.

“No—my heart didn’t beat,” Hendrix clarified. “It trembled.”

The chemo used to treat her non-Hodgkin's lymphoma had damaged her cardiac muscle irreparably, reducing its strength to 15 percent. She regularly lapsed in and out of consciousness. “I felt like I was moving through mud,” she recalled.

Hendrix looked at the heart on the table, the organ she had carried for 44 years, and spoke in its imaginary voice. “You wanna live?” She gave the heart a whimpering intonation. “Okay, I'll give you another beat.”

She switched back to her own voice, “Thank you, heart. Thanks a lot, friend.”

Three months ago, Hendrix’s mother, Carolyn Woods, had already written her obituary and tucked it away in a drawer. The theme, Woods explained, was For Whom the Bell Tolls. “It was about everyone coming to pay their last respects—and the people are the bell. All that crying and wailing would be the people tolling for her.”

Ultimately, the story of Hendrix’s heart did end in a funeral. Somewhere, on a clear May morning, an organ donor died. Within hours, Hendrix received a new heart.

The transplant saved Hendrix’s life, and yet—it would also be technically true to say that in the process, a part of her had died. We were in Dallas, Texas, at the Baylor Heart and Vascular Center to reunite Hendrix with her native heart and reflect on what it means to live without it.

The idea for this kind of encounter originated with William Roberts, Baylor’s chief cardiac pathologist. In 2014, Roberts began the Heart-to-Heart program, inviting cardiac transplant patients to see and hold their former organs. The primary objective was education. Roberts delivers a health lecture with the patient’s own heart as Exhibit A.

For transplantees, compliance with doctors’ lifestyle instructions is critical to recovery and longevity. One recent study found that in the domains of diet, exercise, medication, and tobacco avoidance, noncompliance ranged from 18 to 37 percent. Furthermore, compliance was observed to decrease over time.

While Hendrix’s heart failure was primarily due to another cause, her condition was exacerbated by unhealthy lifestyle choices—a factor that impacts nearly all heart-transplant patients. With Heart-to-Heart, Roberts has found a way to clearly demonstrate the effect of these choices on the heart itself. According to a study co-authored by the cardiologist, 75 percent of program participants reported that the experience has changed their health-related behaviors “to a great degree.”

James Murtha's heart (Roc Morin)

Roberts begins each session with raw statistics.

“In the United States, there are 6 million people living with heart failure,” he lectures in a honeyed Georgian accent. “Every year, only about 2,200 of those people receive heart transplants. So, you are very, very special. You’ve been given a second chance.”

Unceremoniously lifting the surgical cloth that covers the heart, Roberts describes what he sees. The history of the heart is there, incontrovertibly embedded in the organ. Most are cocooned in hard yellow fat.

“If you dropped this in the Mississippi,” Roberts opines, “it would float all the way to the Gulf.”

“Oh my god!” Hendrix gasped. “Look at all that fat! I guess those chips have gotta go.”

“That’s right,” Roberts replied. “And those cows, chickens, and pigs on your plate.”

In addition to education, the reunion also provides an opportunity for closure—a benefit that Roberts didn’t initially expect. After facing death—what transplantee John Bell prefers to call “the abyss”—survivors are frequently left traumatized. That reality is apparent in the standard warlike medical rhetoric, with doctors and patients alike speaking the language of soldiers. Together they fight their battles, target the enemy, eradicate and annihilate. With the focus on winning, dedicated opportunities to stop and reflect are rare.

Tina Sample’s ordeal began with a massive heart attack that was misdiagnosed as a gastrointestinal issue. After days of breathless agony, she was finally correctly diagnosed at a different hospital. “I had what they call ‘the widowmaker,’” she recounted, “100 percent blockage. I had a massive amount of blood clots throughout my heart. The doctor had never seen anything like it in his 24 years of practicing medicine. He called me a miracle.”

In the months that followed, Sample lived in constant fear of death. “I was just so scared every night,” she confessed. “I had this terror that this could be my last night on earth, so I’d try to keep myself awake. I would keep myself awake until 4 or 5 a.m. I wanted to see my son graduate college. I wanted to know my grandkids. There were so many things I wanted to see.”

James Murtha had been healthy his entire life. “I’ve never broke a bone in my body,” he insisted. “I’ve never really been sick at all, except for the flu once and chicken pox when I was a kid. So this—when it hit, it hit hard.”

Murtha had been driving home from work when he began to shiver and sweat. It was a heart attack. Later, he recalled being in a hospital bed, on life support, his liver and kidneys failing. He says he had a vision of his mother, lying in a similar bed half a century earlier. It was one of his earliest memories.

“I basically went back in time,” he began. “I was five. They brought us all in, the night she passed away. I remember her telling me, ‘You’re gonna be good for your dad now, aren't you?’ There were five of us kids, and she made my dad promise that he'd keep us all together.” She died in that bed, at the age of 25, from a rare cancer.

As Murtha lay suspended between life and death, the visions continued. His wife grasped his hand as he described what he called an out-of-body experience: “I was in this place looking for my older brother Mike. We had been talking about getting together. He was a dreamer. Oh, it had been over 30, 40 years since we’d played together. And then he died. But, I was in this place, like a green forest, meadows, and there were these bright figures all around. And, there was this one figure, I couldn’t—it was just really bright, and he was in a robe like Jesus. And, he told me, ‘Your brother is home, you need to go find yourself.’”

Murtha awoke in an intensive care unit, with a new heart bounding in his chest. His old heart went first to the pathology lab for an autopsy. At that point, Roberts claims, “99.5 percent of hospitals throw the hearts away. They just don’t have the space to keep them.” Baylor is different, however. Their lab contains thousands of hearts in permanent storage, making it one of the most extensive cardiac research facilities in the world. The availability of these organs creates a unique opportunity for a program like Heart-to-Heart. Each transplant patient at Baylor is routinely informed about the option, which is promoted as an educational opportunity.

On the day of a viewing session, clinical coordinator Saba Ilyas carefully retrieves and prepares each organ. The patients come in, sometimes alone, sometimes with their families, all eyeing the tray with the bulging surgical towel.

Hendrix had expected to see something “black and shriveled, probably three times the normal size, and just jello-like.”

Bell had expected a big red ideograph, “like when you open a Valentine’s card.”

“It wasn’t like that at all though,” he continued. “What it reminded me of, was a piece of roast beef.”

Under the glaring examination lights of the Baylor pathology lab, the visceral reality of what had actually happened to these people was an abstraction. I was there, holding a lump of raw meat in my hands, trying to feel the life that had once pulsated through it. Across culture and time, the heart has been a metaphor for love, for valor, for the soul itself—for everything we can sense but never touch. Here too, at the viewing, it was evident, by the gentle reverence it inspired, by the tender way in which it was held—the meaning of this organ transcended its mere function and form. Each transplantee was left to interpret the significance of this experience for themselves.

James Murtha holds his own heart. (Roc Morin)

“The whole time you’re holding your heart,” Bell described, “your brain wants to have a little conversation with you—like you shouldn’t really be doing this. This is not normal. And, you’re like—well, but here it is. I have my heart right here in my hands, and it’s normal to me.” Bell later recalled opening his eyes for the first time after his operation. “In a very poignant moment, I told my new heart that I’d take care of it as best I could for as long as I could.”

Hendrix speculated about the identity of her donor. Based on the frenetic surge of energy she reports experiencing since the transplant, she mused that “it feels like a tennis player.” Afterwards, she spoke again about the borrowed life source she carries inside of her. “It’s like the donor, in some way, is still alive. I think, if the donor was a happy person, they’re still a happy person, it just manifests itself through me.”

For Sample, the heart in her chest feels palpably foreign. She has dreamed about her unknown donor—envisioning him kneeling before her, offering up his heart with his own two hands. She has stopped using the common phrase “my heart” to describe her feelings. She has replaced it, sometimes haltingly, with “my mind.”

Bell held his former heart in front of his chest, with hands that shook from the drugs he must take for the rest of his life to keep his body from rejecting his new organ. The survivor found himself unexpectedly smiling. “To see my native heart, this thing that had caused so much pain and heartache, and to be able to walk away [from it]—I felt victorious.”

Hendrix thought of God, and of all her mother’s fervent prayers. “It made me feel how truly blessed I am to be here.”

Sample’s emotions overwhelmed her. “When something is gone that’s been a part of you—the thing that gives you life—there’s a sense of loss. There’s a grieving process that you have to go through. It’s crazy, but it’s like a person. It’s dead. My heart is dead, and there it is, lying on the table right there. If your mind goes to that place, then you can’t help but feel that loss. I told my heart ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t take care of you better.’ It brought tears to my eyes, truly. I needed to say goodbye.”

Article source here:The Atlantic